Page 12 of Old Money
“Jamie, honestly, it’s not an issue. I just haven’t been here in a while.”
Blood tickles inside my left nostril and I hold my breath, stifling a sneeze.
“And it’s really hot,” I finish, squeakily.
Jamie gazes at the desk, considering. This part is new—thiscontained, professional Jamie Burger. I’ve never heard him go this long without talking.
“I get it,” he says finally. “It’s not that. I’m just sort of stunned that you’re here.”
“What do you mean?” I fire back. This part I’m prepared for. “I applied for the job. You called me.”
“Yes,” he says evenly. “I thought you’d explain.”
“Explain what? You’re hiring a summer assistant. I am acareerassistant, and I need a summer gig.”
“And you couldn’t find one in the entire city of New York,” Jamie says, almost laughing. “You had to apply for a minimum-wage job in Westchester. Here. Come on, Alice, do I have to say it?”
“Okay, I’m overqualified, but—”
“Comeon.”
Jamie levels his gaze. I hold it for a long beat, then drop my shoulders.
“Fine,” I say, exhaling. “Look, do you know what a reparative experience is?”
Jamie shakes his head no.
“It’s— Shit, it sounds so gross saying it out loud. I’ve basically spent the last decade in therapy, trying to get this place out of my system. I’ve spent pretty much all my money too, by the way. And it was completely worth it, but—there’s only so much you can do on the couch.”
I pause, eyeing him. Jamie’s hands are knit together tightly, his shoulders and eyebrows visibly tensed. I carry on.
“To really process a trauma, you need to do the legwork. A reparative experience is like—it’s like when you go to the park where you got mugged, and have a picnic or something. You have a good time, and then you aren’t scared of the park anymore. You’re not avoiding it, and thinking about it constantly.” I take another long pause. “I’ve been waiting for this chance, Jamie. I saw this job listing and it felt like fate. I could find a better one, you’re right, but—this is the one I need.”
I look into my lap, horrified at the landslide of emotion and vulnerability I’ve just unleashed.
Even more so, because it’s almost all bullshit.
***
Itistrue that I work as a personal assistant, and that I was looking for a job. My last one ended in May, when my employer—an ex-supermodel, expecting her second child—decided to move back to the UK. She’d given me a healthy severance and three months of insurance coverage (a stipulation I require in all employment contracts). I usually don’t need to use the cushion, nor do I need to job hunt. I’m good at what I do, and having done it for ten years, I can reliably count on word of mouth to find me a new position within a week or two. But again, this year is different than others.
I don’t know what compelled me to poke around job listings online—I didn’t have a plan at that point. But it must have been forming in the back of my mind, or else I’d never have searched for jobs in Briar’s Green. The truth is I’ve never felt the need to “repair” my relationship with this place, and certainly not with the club. It’s true I’ve done a thousand hours of therapy; I found my first therapist six months after landing my first full-time job. But no one’s ever suggested I needed to get on a train and return to the scene of the crime in order to truly heal from it. Reparative experiences are great for some people, but I think any mental-health professional would agree that this place is toxic.
Yet it’s also true that when I saw the job listing—barely two hours after Jamie Burger posted it—I knew I would apply, and that I’d get it. I knew I was going home this summer, and I knew exactly why.
***
“Right,” says Jamie, when he’s able to speak. “Well, since we’re putting cards on the table, I should give you a heads-up on something.”
He straightens up, the old chair squeaking.
“It’s a shitty gig.”
I straighten now too, cocking my head.
“Okay?”
“Technically, you’d be a ‘floating admin,’ but really, you’d be helping me update the club’s operating systems.”
