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“The time has come, Rhett. I’m not going to be around forever.”
“Oh sure,” I say. “You know what? That sounds great. I’d love more power around here.” A lie. “So whaddya want me to do? Buddy up with some of those old ballsacks you get drinks with at the Huntmore? I think your business partners will find me charming.”
Mother grimaces at the idea of me negotiating with her contacts in the finance world. She’s always told me that I can be incredibly off-putting at social events, almost like I’m trying to make people dislike me. Which, bingo. I don’t want those people to like me. Validation leads to acceptance which leads to me being one of those ass-kissing jerks in thirty years. Count me out. But hey, if she wants to send me in I’ll do it with pleasure. I love to see people’s faces scrunch up in confusion as they try to figure out if I’m for real.
I’m sitting in one of the two chairs she has in front of her desk, and I splay my feet out like a child, something I know drives her crazy. “So yeah, send me in.”
“That’s not what I had in mind,” Mother says.
I cock an eyebrow. “Oh, so you want me to make internal decisions then? Well then my first decree is that you should not hire that woman out in the lobby. She’s not quite Westing Bank material.”
Mother’s face changes. I’ve long considered myself a professional interpretor of Mother’s various conniving expressions, but this one throws me. It’s truly unreadable, and that makes me nervous for the first time since I’ve come in.
“What are you talking about?” she asks lightly.
“That woman you have waiting out there. Something Slate? Yeah, she’s kinda an asshole.”
“Elizabeth Slate is not here to interview,” Mother says, each word lacquered with patience. “I hired her weeks ago. She’s our newest client liaison, taking over for Harrison Jacobson.”
“Hairy Jacob quit?” I ask, surprised. The man had worked for the Westing Bank since its founding and was one of Mother’s most trusted employees.
“He retired. Two months ago,” she snaps. “And you’d know this if you even pretended to have a stake in this bank. I mean, what do you even do here, Rhett?”
A whole lot of nothing. Instead of saying that, I ignore the question and ask, “So his office is empty then?” I’m kicking myself for not being on top of this. Ol’ Hairy had a corner office on the west side of the floor, overlooking the Hudson. I’ve had my eye on it forever.
“No,” Mother says flatly.
“Come on,” I complain. “I called dibs. Like, years ago.”
“Well I don’t recognize ‘dibs’.”
“Don’t tell me it went to Carla. You know she’ll make the entire place smell like creamed corn. It’ll never get out of the carpets.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mother says. “Of course I’d never give that office to Creamed Carla. It went to Ms. Slate.”
That’s enough to make me sit straight, my mouth hanging open. “You gave that office to a new hire? To that, that—” I can’t finish for my shock. What the hell? This girl waltzes into Mother’s bank, insults me to my face with sneering condescension, and then swoops up my office.
“That ‘what’ exactly, Rhett?” Mother asks with an expression that says it’d be better if I just shut up.
I don’t finish my insult, but I definitely don’t shut up. “How is she going to do Hairy’s job?” I demand. “She’s horrible. No filter. Aren’t recruiters supposed to be charming?”
“They are and she is,” Mother says. She’s looking way too pleased about how this girl is getting to me. “Elizabeth Slate is very good at her job. I’m not sure what you did to put her off, but I already can say that I don’t blame her.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be on my side?” I say grouchily.
“I am on your side, Rhett. I’m on the side of seeing you do something with your life. Something not,” she adds quickly as I start to speak, “having to do with the Marines. Or destroying other people’s property.”
Before I can protest, Mother continues: “I suppose this is as good a segue as any into my decision.” She presses the intercom and speaks to that haughty beanpole, Wallace. “Wallace? Please send Ms. Slate in.”
I stand quickly, suddenly intensely distrustful. Is this going to be my new role? Sitting in on Mother’s meetings with employees? If I have to sit here in this boring, sterile office for hours every day with only Mother for company, listening to people drone on about numbers, I may jump out the window.
Wallace holds the door for Liz and she enters on a cloud. Her sharp, intelligent face is painted with an engaging smile. If she’s worried about me telling Mother to fire her, she doesn’t show it. It’s as if she knows my opinion doesn’t carry any weight around here.
She goes to Mother first, shaking her hand with words of greeting. As she passes in front of me, an intriguing scent of vanilla and coffee emanates from her soft-looking hair. Her business suit leaves almost everything but her ass to the imagination. My eyes are tempted to stray, but even I won’t blatantly check out an employee with my mother staring me down.
Then Liz turns to me, her back is to Mother and the slightest of shifts in her expression says that she has not forgotten our conversation in the lobby. My own expression doesn’t make a single attempt to hide the fact that I’m not pleased either.
“Mr. Westing,” she says, offering a hand.
