A Brief View from the Coastal Suite Page 6

  THE OTHER THING ABOUT working here is that the shop is entirely women. Kate was committed to that model. She had gone to all-girls private schools, and said that women did better work without guys around. It’s also managed, theoretically, at least, on a collaborative model. Everybody gets input on decisions. There are votes. There are dividends.

  Cleo’s husband, Trent, who’s an accountant, had said that companies that have a collaborative model always fail. They spend all of their time having meetings and power struggles, and make bad decisions that are compromises, that try to please too many people, or they can’t agree, and always default to the status quo.

  It’s true that they have a lot of meetings. Cleo, as a part-timer, can opt not to attend most of them, though that means she doesn’t get to vote, doesn’t get a say. But she’d figured out soon enough that they aren’t really a cooperative. Kate, the principal, makes the major decisions. She’s just very good at making it look like everyone’s ideas have been considered. It was Kate who had decided to move into the new premises in downtown Vancouver, though that meant a long commute for most of them, who couldn’t afford to live in the city. It was Kate who decided to exchange their local furniture and cabinetry suppliers for a Danish company that did mass production of cheap (but sustainable, Kate said) laminated wood product. It is Kate who makes the hiring decisions.

  Cleo doesn’t really mind. Cleo had been trained in a male-dominated, hierarchical industry, as an engineer. She doesn’t mind being at the bottom. She doesn’t see that the creatives, the designers who work under Kate, and who complain about her high-handedness, would make better decisions than Kate does. She has not hung out in the washroom exchanging bitter wisecracks when Kate made her pronouncements, over the years. She’s seen where that went. Nope; Cleo knows which side her bread is buttered on.

  And Cleo has been retained and given a schedule that works for her, while some of the more talented, glamorous, and ambitious people have been let go. This has been surprising not only to some of the women above her, but also to Cleo herself, because she had been so junior, so marginal, so expendable, to start with.

  She thinks that her best asset is that she doesn’t underestimate her own expendability.

  And then Kate’s unexpected summons of her today.

  Cleo had brushed her hair and teeth, put on fresh lip gloss, checked her black jeans and sweater for lint before going. In her office, Kate with her straight chin-length bob, her makeup-less face, the distressed jeans and T-shirt that proclaimed her privilege. The new handbag, very smooth leather in a shade of green Cleo had not seen in stores yet, on the shelf that had been built for the sole purpose of holding Kate’s handbag.

  Cleo had admired the bag. It had taken her a few years to learn the proper way to admire Kate’s bags, but she’s got it now, she thinks. A slight widening of the eyes to indicate that she’s impressed, even slightly envious. Then a tilt of the head as if to check the label. Which used to be Gucci or Coach or something recognizable from magazine ads, but lately has become some obscure Scandinavian or Germanic word, with an umlaut, stamped on some industrial-looking aluminum label. Then listening to Kate’s story about the bag’s provenance, and the finale: Cleo’s “May I?” either verbalized or indicated with another head inclination, a lift of her eyebrows, and the slight caress, as of the cheek of a new baby, and the exhalation.

  She had admired the new green bag properly, not without a real tinge of envy that she hadn’t suppressed, only muted slightly, and then sat back, but upright, in her chair to wait for Kate’s news.

  The scuttlebutt had been that there would be a merger, which worried a lot of people, but nothing official had been said, and so Cleo had to go into the meeting pretending ignorance, but ready to catch on to Kate’s hints, if it seemed that’s what Kate wanted.

  That sunnily conspiratorial smile. Cleo had waited.

  How are things? Kate had asked.

  Because she has been working here for over seven years, Cleo knew the correct answer is not a rummage through her personal life, a report on her kids’ achievements, but a smartly positive soundbite.

  Fantastic, Cleo had said. The new software is starting to show it has legs.

  Kate had narrowed her eyes at Cleo. Starting?

  Cleo had to tread carefully. There had been some major, major problems with it, at first. It was not a software program that she would have chosen. It was particularly hard to navigate between apps that were frequently used together — about seven windows had to be opened to get from framing to HVAC, for example — and it didn’t communicate well with their old software, so she and the other techs have had to upload hundreds of files manually. Cleo had done much of this on her own time, and she’d had to persuade Kate to buy her a third monitor. But the software purchase had been Kate’s decision.

  On the other hand, Kate isn’t stupid. She had certainly heard the complaints. And if Cleo were too positive, and it turned out the software was a complete dud, and Kate decided to toss it, Cleo must not have seemed to have been a fan of it.

  Oh, adaptive bugs, Cleo had said. There were always adaptive bugs. But in the long run. . . . She had made a little gesture with her hands. She wasn’t sure that her gesture had conveyed anything. Maybe it had looked too indeterminate? Cleo hasn’t been good with body language.

  But Kate had smiled.

  Cleo, Cleo, she had said. You’ve certainly come a long way, since you started working here!

  That was as much a criticism as a compliment, but Cleo had smiled back. A small smile.

  You’ve probably heard that we’re going to be making some changes, Kate had said.

  Cleo had inclined her jaw slightly. In the past, she would have given a little shrug, but she had learned — the hard way — that Kate hated shrugging, that she read it as apathy.

  In fact, it’s very exciting, Kate had said. Completely confidential, still, of course! But we’re going to be expanding.

  Yes, a merger, then. Or acquisition?

  We’ll be getting some new clients, Kate had said. And some new colleagues.

  Cleo’s heart had lurched down her thoracic region. She could see, suddenly, where this might be going. There were certain disadvantages to being a technician in a drafting pool, and to having an engineering, rather than a design school background. Cleo had never felt that she had quite fit in. And although Kate had been a benefactor, a benevolent dictator, if the company were to acquire partners. . . . Well. It would be hard for Cleo to find an employer that suited her quite as well.

  But she had maintained her small smile, and nodded.

  It’ll mean some reorganization, Kate had said. But that’s a good opportunity to revisit our vision of ourselves, and our structures. It’s never good to be too entrenched. Stasis is especially unhealthy in a creative industry.

  Cleo had nodded again.

  Kate had paused. She had gazed at Cleo. Cleo had tried not to look like a deer in headlights, a rat in front of a boa constrictor. Breathe, breathe.

  Kate had looked quite serious.

  YOUR CONTRIBUTIONS haven’t been unnoticed, she had said. She had leaned back in her chair, smiling. You are really productive, Cleo. Your billing hours are outstanding, and you’re becoming more and more the person that the designers go to with their more difficult projects. I’m thinking that there is going to be a more significant role for you in the new structure.

  Of course, Kate had said, we’ll require a lot more of your time. You’ll have to think about that, Cleo. But Sam and Olivia are, what? Ten and thirteen? And Trent is still an associate, not a partner? So you should have some flexibility there.

  Of course, you don’t have to make a decision now, Kate had said. Talk it over with whoever you need to. Maintaining confidentiality, of course! But I hope you’ll consider it.

  Thank you! Cleo had managed to say, finally. Thank you for considering me!

  It was a big compliment. And a reprieve. That’s all that she could think of, for a moment
. A reprieve. She had not realized until that moment how much she did not want to go looking for another job.

  But it was a big deal to have this affirmation of her achievements, too. She had worked for Kate for nearly eight years — since Sam was a toddler. She had worked part-time, in the drafting pool, not doing terribly interesting things, to be honest, but interesting enough. Drafting building designs — she was good at it; she might even be very good. Her role was to draft up plans for Kate and her designers, and not only to draft but to redraft them, to present them for review and make corrections, over and over, and also to catch possible flaws, but not criticize them or correct them on her own — just to make them magically apparent to the designers — and then to magically fix them. To interpret the designers’ dreams, to make concrete their intentions, to erase their mistakes, while being invisible herself.

  She was very good at that.

  And she has been very productive — she could see that she gets through a lot more work in a week than any of the other technicians. Everyone knew it. You’re a machine, Cleo, the others often said.

  NOW, DRIVING HOME, she feels that glow still, but her head is clearing.

  Does she want this? She hadn’t really thought about working full-time — and full-time in this industry means seventy- or eighty-hour weeks, at times. She’s used to having the flex time, the extra hours in the week, to go to the gym, to take the kids to their appointments, to do all of the errands and shopping that make a household really run smoothly. She likes having a home in which there are always clean, folded clothes in the drawers, appealing, nutritious meals on the table at the same time every day, bills and permission forms dealt with promptly, tidy rooms and matching towels and library books and healthy houseplants. It’s important. It’s stable and calm, which is important for the kids, and it’s decent and — well, just proper. It’s civilized. And it makes her feel happy, to live in a clean, functional, aesthetically appealing space.

  And it takes a lot of work.

  But the salary increase. That could do a lot. That could improve things. It’s not that they don’t have enough to live on, but more money could mean having some of the extras. They’ve never gone on a big trip. She’s always wanted to go to Hawaii or Mexico for Christmas, and they never have gone. Trent says it’s too expensive, and she can see it is really expensive, thousands of dollars. And they really need a new kitchen. She has done a lot of redecorating of their house. She’s repainted and fixed up the bathrooms, but there are still those eighties kitchen cabinets, melamine with the oak strip at the top. They could have a new kitchen. Even a bigger, more functional kitchen.

  She’s going to need a new vehicle soon, too.

  She has forgotten to ask how much more she would make. Or what her position would be. Trent’s going to be impatient with her for not having asked.

  She’ll just say Kate didn’t tell her.

  What’s the catch, though? And why her? Have Pam or Lindsay or Nancy, the other technicians, been approached? She hasn’t noticed them being brought in to Kate’s office — but it could have happened when Cleo wasn’t around. One of them would likely have said something, though. They all watched her go to her meeting with Kate. She had not noticed any knowing looks. None of them had said anything.

  She’ll really have to think about it, though. Not make a decision too hastily.

  She doesn’t even know what she’d be doing. Though she can guess, maybe, if she thinks about it. Not creative. They’re not going to move her up to creative. Likely, she’ll be given some sort of senior technician position. There hasn’t been one, but if the pool increases. . . .

  Of course, if they are acquiring or merging with another design company, there is going to be another pool of technicians. And usually, a larger company needs fewer technicians, proportionally. She’s noticed that.

  So if she doesn’t take this, will she be kept on?

  All speculation, she reminds herself. (But why hadn’t she thought to ask more questions? Stupid, stupid.)

  So, she’ll just tell Trent that it was very vague, that there weren’t specifics. And the possibility of a salary increase, if nothing else, will impress Trent.

  A bigger salary could be the answer to quite a few of their problems.

  She turns from the arterial thoroughfare onto her own street, and now the moon and its pendant swing before her once more, lustrous, resplendent, just out of reach.

  She’s going to want a substantial chain.

  DUANE SAYS: It’s not like you work, it’s not like you’d even have to commute. And the malls there have everything you’d want. Whole Foods. Montessori. You’d be in a new place, with more energy-efficient heating and appliances.

  Mandalay can hear that he’s on the car phone, the Bluetooth or whatever it’s called. She can hear the traffic, the muffling of his words at times.

  She says: I work. I have a job. And I don’t want to live out there. In Tsawwassen or Delta.

  You have a part-time job in a bakery. You could do that anywhere. Surrey, then. Or Ladner. Maybe Richmond, if you want, though there you’re getting more expensive.

  I don’t want to live so far out.

  Far out from what? Why do you want to be in the city?

  I like it here.

  You’re just used to it. You could be in a modern place. Cleaner, too. It would be good for the boys’ asthma; you’re always complaining about that. Also, you could get them into a better school.

  Their school is fine. They’re in a good school.

  Trust-fund hippies and multigenerational welfare families. That’s who lives here. That’s who the boys are going to school with.

  She wants to say that it isn’t true; that this area of the city is being bought up by professionals with young families, but she doesn’t want to appear to buy into his class hierarchies. The argument is devolving into an old one: Duane has long wanted the twins to be at a private school. She has long refused, on the basis that she doesn’t want the boys to grow up with the kinds of kids who go to private school. She realizes her argument isn’t really logical, but she knows what she means. It’s a deep, intuitive thing. Duane gets speechless with anger about it. Your idiosyncrasies are going to impact them for their whole lives, Duane says. Do you realize that? Your selfish and outdated and baseless prejudices are going to hold the boys back. Why not give them the best of everything?

  She knows what she feels. She knows, deep within, even if she can’t articulate it, what is best for her children, the children of her body.

  You don’t even know any of the people whose kids are in private school, Duane says now, picking up the threads of that old discussion. They’re people who want really good quality for their kids. They’re not evil because they have good incomes. They’re people with passion, creative people. People who have good incomes because they work hard and they’re good at what they do. They’re the people who support the arts and environmental issues, NGO work — all that shit you say you value.

  I don’t want my children bullied by over-privileged kids.

  You have outmoded and inaccurate ideas. So, it’s okay if they’re bullied by underprivileged ones?

  They’ve been through the pattern of this argument so many times. And Duane doesn’t fight fair. She refuses to answer. She won’t perpetuate it. She says, instead: There’s a feeling, when you live downtown. There’s an energy. You choose to live downtown, too.

  I live in False Creek. You choose to live in a disadvantaged neighbourhood.

  There’s more going on. It’s culturally rich.

  And if by that you mean ethnic gang crime, I’ll give you that.

  She thinks now that the gang crime is actually happening in the suburbs — isn’t it? — she does hear the news, sometimes, sees headlines on the front pages of newspapers as she goes by. But she must not let herself be drawn into his sort of argument. She can’t win.

  She says: More ethnic mix. More individuality, variety, authenticity.

  Y
ou can’t be authentic in a new townhouse in a decent neighbourhood?

  I like where I am, she says. The boys are happy. We’re fine.

  But you aren’t, he says. You’ve just called me to ask me for more help.

  Damn him; he just twists whatever she says to his own advantage.

  I asked you if I could have a little more space, she says. For myself and the boys. That’s not really asking for help.

  Mandalay. We have an agreement. We have a legal agreement. You have part of the house to live in, and the rental space is supposed to be income for me.

  The rental didn’t really work out. How can she explain it to him? How can she get across the indignity of the situation? The woman in the rental suite drove her crazy. She could feel the tension coming through the walls sometimes. And they really do need more space. The boys need a playroom. And she wants them to start using the downstairs bathroom more. She never gets to have a bath without one of the boys coming in to pee.

  She says: Duane. I’ve really thought long and hard about this. We absolutely need the space. The boys are getting bigger. You have as much space as we do, and you’re on your own.

  There’s a moment of silence, and she thinks she’s lost connection, but then he speaks again. Mandalay. We have a legal agreement. If you want more money. . . .

  It’s not about money, she says. It’s just about more space. About the quality of our lives.

  How do you not see it is about money? he says then, and his voice is a nasty sneer.

  Okay, maybe it does come down to money. But Duane has lots. He makes lots. And spends lots. And she is very frugal. She just wishes he wouldn’t use sarcasm. It’s the harshest, most disrespectful form of communication. It just puts up walls between them.

  I’m ending this call now, he says. I have a meeting.

  She gets no help from him at all. It’s incredible.

  DUANE LINGERS after dropping the boys off one Sunday, and then says: You remember Maxwell Gibbons is a client of mine?