Page 6 of Old Money

“ M ore ice?” Jamie Burger asks.

I pull the bag away from my nose. It’s mostly cold water now.

“I’m fine,” I say. “How’s your shoulder?”

“Oh.” He looks at it, shrugging. “All good.”

There’s a beige smear of my makeup above the left lapel of Jamie’s suit jacket.

The collar of my blouse is speckled with bright blood.

We look like children who’ve been dragged into the principal’s office, for a fight that neither of us won.

In fact, we are two thirtysomething adults who, quite simply, walked into each other.

That’s it. In my haste to get away from Cory’s suspicious face, I’d stepped through the ballroom doorway just as Jamie was speed-walking past it, heading to the boot room to find me.

It was slapstick—a classic Jamie Hotdog move.

Jamie shifts in the wooden swivel chair behind his desk—an antique behemoth that takes up two-thirds of the room.

The walls are lined in 1970s wood paneling that bubbles out in spots, making the room feel even smaller than it is.

Jamie himself almost hits the ceiling when standing.

He was always the tallest kid in class, and now I bet he’s the tallest adult in most rooms. Physically, Jamie really is the scaled-up version of his sixth-grade self.

Still lanky, same sandy-brown hair, and densely freckled skin.

“I forgot about that,” he says. “Your, uh, fainting thing.”

He says it lightly, as though it were a hobby I once had.

In fairness, it’s not completely unjustified.

If slapstick was Jamie’s annoying habit in middle school, then fainting was mine.

It started about a month after Caitlin’s murder—I’d just pass out every few weeks, seemingly at random.

Mom kept taking me to the doctor, who kept saying there was no evident physical cause, but that much we all knew.

All I could do was choose desks at the end of the row (my classmates learned to leave one open), so I wouldn’t fall on anyone.

The fainting spells eased up with time, and by senior year they’d stopped entirely.

Until today, when I stepped into the gallery without looking, and crashed into Jamie Burger—his shoulder bone, specifically.

I’d come to only seconds later, but was still fairly dazed.

Jamie had sent Cory for a first aid kit, then guided me to his office, where I’d briefly panicked again after he pointed into a closet and told me to sit down.

This, Jamie explained, was actually his office—although it had been a coat closet originally. So he wouldn’t take offense.

“I don’t faint anymore,” I tell Jamie firmly. “Really. That hasn’t happened since high school.”

Jamie nods slowly.

“And the office—you know, it’s great, but you might take the coat hooks down,” I say, gesturing at the wall. “That’ll throw people off.”

I smile at my own little joke, hoping he’ll follow my lead, but he stays quiet. This is the most uncomfortable job interview I’ve ever had, and it hasn’t even started.

“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—this contained, 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 a career assistant, 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—”

“Come on .”

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.

***

It is true 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.”

I glance reflexively at the giant, old computer monitor on his desk.

“Not that,” Jamie says. “I mean, yes, computers. But I mean all operations. Dining reservations, function-room bookings—all the basic admin stuff. Oh, and a website.”

“Sure.” I nod, then pause. “Wait. The club has no website ?”

Jamie leans back, chuckling.

“When I say we’re out-of-date, I mean straight-up analog. Think rotary phones. Think Brody.”

I nod again. It’s fine. I was alive for dial-up.

“That’s the other thing about this job,” Jamie continues, sitting forward. “It won’t last.”

“Right, it’s just this summer, I know. The listing—”

Jamie shakes his head.

“I’d be surprised if it lasted through July. I got very reluctant board approval to make this hire. They don’t want the place ‘modernized’—none of the old guard do. Especially not this summer, with everything going on here.”

Jamie sits back, drumming his fingers on the side of his chair.

“I can’t tell,” I say after moment. “Do I have the job?”

He shrugs, eyebrows raised, his whole body skeptical.

“I can’t think of a reason not to hire you. Not a good one, anyway.”

I feel myself smiling. I’m sitting here blood crusted, and he’s got a stain the size of my cheek on his jacket.

“Aside from the dry-cleaning bill?”

Jamie glances at his shoulder.

“Oh no, I’m going to sue,” he deadpans. “You’ve got the job, but I’ll see you in court.”

“Sounds good.” I nod, standing and extending a hand. “Tomorrow then?”

This time Jamie does follow my lead, standing to shake my hand with a tight smile.

“Nine a.m. Oh, but no sandals. I’ll send you the dress code.”

I’m floored by how smoothly this whole thing’s gone. I guess part of me expected worse than just a head-on collision, a fainting spell and a bloody nose.

I pick up my bag and shuffle around my chair, heading through the open door.

“Alice?”

Something sinks inside me before I even turn around. When I do, Jamie is standing with his arms folded, his ears slightly pink.

“About this summer—the thing I said, about everything going on here?”

I look at him, lost. Finally, he spits it out.

“Sorry, I just have to ask. You do know about Susannah, right? I mean, about—”

“Oh! Yes!” I answer, far too brightly. “Definitely.”

“Okay. Great. I just had to—”

“Of course.”

We stand there nodding vigorously at each other.

“I didn’t know if you were in touch,” he says, a splotch of blush emerging on his forehead. He lifts a hand, rubbing at his hairline. “Sorry, no. ’Course you’re not.”

I smile through a wave of sadness. It’s nice to hear someone else say it.

“No. Not in years. Not since before she moved back here.”

I leave it at that, as though Susannah’s move and our estrangement had nothing to do with each other—just coincidental timing. This sends another wave of heartbreak through me. I wish it were that simple.