“Why me?”
“Because I don’t trust anyone else to dress her.”
She gasps. “Her?”
People say Lizochka’s difficult to understand or get to know because she’s always wearing a gracious mask, but that’s because they’re blind idiots. She’s more transparent than the vodka glass I just washed.
“Not a girlfriend,” I say flatly.
“Mm-hmm. And who’s paying for this shopping?”
“I am, but only because she’s my responsibility.” I don’t want somebody else dressing my little fawn. Lizochka’s only there to help her select the right outfit. If it were left up to me, I’d pick up underwear and some tops and skirts. But of course women need more than that.
“I’m totally free tomorrow to help your lady friend,” Lizochka says.
“Excellent. To thank you, I’ll buy you a new pair of shoes or something.” She loves shoes. She has only two feet, but enough shoes for a millipede.
“No, no, I’ll just use Dominic’s card if I see something I like.” Dominic’s her husband. They’ve been together for five years. It’s still my firm belief that he doesn’t deserve her. I only tolerate him because she loves him and he seems to make her happy. Otherwise, I would’ve had him die in some sort of idiotic accident only a half-wit would get into. I wouldn’t want to engineer some tragic accident because then he might linger in her mind for too long. People tend to overlook flaws in the dead, especially the tragically dead. And Lizochka is tender-hearted enough to do exactly that.
“Good. And there’s one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“For the internship position for this year. I know we haven’t filled it yet.”
“No. I’m having trouble picking someone. The résumés look okay…but they’re just okay. They all understand our mission intellectually, but I don’t think they know, in their hearts, why what we do is important.” And Lizochka wants nothing less than a candidate who is extraordinary. Inspiring. Nobody’s quite sure what she’s looking for because she can be whimsical in her HR decisions, but she’s never hired the wrong people.
“I have a candidate in mind,” I say. “It would mean a great deal if you could hire her if nobody’s already caught your attention.”
“Is this the lady whose shopping you’re paying for?”
“Yes.” No point in denying it. She’ll find out soon enough anyway.
“Well, have her submit a résumé, and I’ll need to interview her. If she doesn’t meet the minimum requirement, I can’t hire her for a paid position, not even for you. And the foundation has never had unpaid interns. I don’t want to set a precedent or we’ll have dozens of kids in here.”
I tap the counter, thinking. This is unexpected. If the little fawn can’t intern at the foundation, it complicates things. She isn’t going to quit working.
On the other hand, Lizochka takes running the Pryce Family Foundation quite seriously, which is one of many reasons I hold her in high regard. Clearly, this is my mistake. I should’ve anticipated this kind of a response.
“But if I can’t hire her as an intern after the interview, I could take her on as my personal assistant and train her,” Lizochka offers. “That way, the money would come out of my own personal funds, and the foundation can still do its mission within its budget.”
She’s trying to help, but if the fawn becomes Lizochka’s PA, she’ll be following Lizochka around everywhere, even to her mansion, to run errands and so on. Which means our schedules will become complicated, and I might not be able to watch her all the time.
I’m not making the same mistake I made with Lizochka’s safety five years ago. It almost got her killed. But I have a better idea.
“Actually, if you can’t make her an intern after the interview, hire her to be my assistant at the foundation.” If I have my own PA, it’s going to look odd. But nobody will bat an eye if Lizochka hires her to be my helper. “And I’ll pay her salary.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here,” Lizochka says. “I haven’t said I’m not hiring her. She might just impress me. One step at a time. Let’s get her dressed first.”
The little fawn might knock Lizochka off her feet. On top of that, Lizochka has never met somebody whose suffering she doesn’t want to do something about. She will definitely feel strongly about Angelika’s situation, especially given the drama she had with her own creepy stalker. “I’ll be at your place at ten.”
“You’re coming with us?” she says.
Yes. “No. Just dropping her off at your place. Unless you prefer that I take her to the mall.”
“No, no, no, bring her to me. And we’ll have the most fabulous time shopping. With your credit card.”
Chapter Twelve
Angelika
Tolyan didn’t just put my clothes in the bathroom. They’re freshly laundered and neatly folded. I can’t decide exactly what I think about Tolyan touching and folding my underwear. My bra and panties are the super-plain white cotton variety, bought on sale. And the elastic on the bra is a bit loose from being so old. God, this is as embarrassing as going on a date without shaving your legs or armpits.
I breathe in slowly. It isn’t like he and I are dating. And it isn’t like I want to be, like, seductive or sexy. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with white cotton. Tolyan seeing them… Well, it’s a minor thing to get over. Like a paper cut.
That’s right, girl. I gave you a non-rotten lemon this time, a voice that sounds entirely too smug says.
Yeah, but you owe me more than one non-rotten lemon for all that you’ve put me through.
The bathroom doesn’t have a dryer, so I pat-dry my hair with a towel as well as I can. When I slip back out, the kitchen and the dining room are spotless. The dishwasher’s running, but the sound is so quiet we can watch TV without any problem.
Tolyan’s back in the living room, reading something on his tablet, a tumbler in his hand. At this point I know better than to think it’s water he’s drinking.
He lifts his head. “Feeling better?”
“Much,” I say. Not only do I feel clean, but I’m actually full. It isn’t something I’ve felt in a long time. And for that, I’m very grateful to Tolyan.
The dogs come over and smell my fingers, like they’re curious what I’ve been doing in the bathroom and what soap I used.
“Sit.” He gestures.
I do.
“Do you have a computer?” he asks.
“No. I basically do everything on my phone,” I say. I don’t want to admit to being too poor to buy myself a laptop.
“You need to write a résumé, and you can’t do that on a phone.”
“Why do I need a résumé? I already have two jobs.” I’m not working three. I need at least six hours of sleep if I want to stay alert.
“Yes. You’ll have to quit those.”
What? He never said anything about me quitting my job! He said I could continue to work! I open my mouth to argue.