Ian
“How’s the studying been going?” Mason asked as he drove along Albert Street.
“I feel like I’ve got a head cold because my brain is so stuffed with information. If I sneeze, it’s all coming out.”
“Don’t sneeze then,” he said. Easy for him to joke. Learning all this shit didn’t come naturally to me, and it had been a real slog.
Mason parked at his parent’s hoity-toity condo. I knew it well because Mason lived here while they were in China. It looked like a museum inside with all the Asian art the Harringtons had collected.
“Hello, Ian,” Natalie greeted me with a hug. She’d always been nice because she felt sorry for me not having a mother.
David was waiting for us in the living room with a big stack of papers on a table beside him. I hoped they weren’t all for me.
“So, you want to learn about economics,” he said.
“Yeah. I’m going to Em’s awards lunch, and I want to be able to understand what’s going on.” That was our cover story because the truth was embarrassing. Of course, most people might ask why Em wasn’t explaining economics shit to me, but both Mason and his dad took everything at face value. It was weird that they were smart at school stuff but not life stuff.
“Yes, that Em is quite bright,” he said. “I read her paper on gender and investment risk aversion. The level of thinking is top-notch.”
I exhaled. Yeah, Em was smart, but she never made me feel like an idiot. I had problems understanding David’s work talk, so I hoped he got that he had to dumb things down for me.
We discussed her paper. According to David, the paper was interesting because the authors had managed to “glean enough data from existing sources” to be “statistically significant.” And the findings were “counterintuitive.” After ten minutes of this all I was doing was taking notes, so I could look up what he meant later.
“Research like this is very valuable to the investment industry if it’s proprietary. I’m certain that Em gets regular calls from headhunters. She could make a lot of money on Bay Street,” David commented.
“She already makes a lot of money,” I said.
“If she moved to the private sector, she could double her government salary.”
Jesus. The more I learned about Em’s work, the more I was tempted to give up. She wasn’t just too good for me—she was too good for every guy I knew. Lucas wasn’t good enough. Even Mason wasn’t good enough.
When David finished his lecture, he disappeared into his study. Mason and I went to the kitchen where Natalie was leafing through a magazine. “All done?” she asked.
“Yeah. David’s been great,” I said.
Mason got soft drinks out of the fridge. Natalie slid out a platter of cheese, sliced meats, and crackers she’d prepared for us.
She levelled a look at me. “Is this a big surprise for Em? I’d think she would enjoy explaining her work to her boyfriend.” Unlike the men in this family, you had to get up pretty early to put anything by Natalie.
When Mason stammered some lame excuse, I interrupted him. “Truth is I messed up. I wanna show her that I can learn stuff and fit into her world.”
Natalie nodded, like she knew this already. “I see. Is this a formal awards ceremony? Are you renting a tuxedo?”
I shook my head. “No, it’s just a lunch thing. Abby says I can wear my navy suit. Y’know, from the wedding.”
“Forgive me for speaking so bluntly, but have you considered your elocution?” she said.
“My...?”
“The way you speak. You grew up in the Ottawa Valley, right? There’s nothing wrong with an Ottawa Valley accent, but it’s reminiscent of those MacDougall brothers who made it into a joke. Hosers, I believe they’re called.”
“You mean Bob and Doug McKenzie, Mom,” Mason said.
She carried on, “There’s something called linguistic discrimination. People have a bias when they hear certain accents. You sound like a hockey player.”
“Well, there’s a good reason for that.” Jesus, there was just so much I could do.
Natalie smiled. “Yes, I’ve noticed that hockey players take care not to sound too intellectual in interviews—part of their tribal culture, I assume. But you already know how to adjust your speech for different audiences. I’m sure that the way you speak to me is not the way you speak in a locker room.”
No fucking kidding. “I can’t do it. Seriously, I have no clue how to sound like the people Em works with.”
“Are you a good mimic?” she asked.
I was getting a headache. “No.”
“Yes, you are,” Mason said. “Remember when you used to imitate our coach Guy Pouliot? You sounded exactly like him.”
“That’s different. I saw him all the time. And he was an easy target.” The guy had a thick French-Canadian accent and was always yelling at us to ‘go ’arder on da puck.’”
“What about Mason? Could you imitate Mason?”
We both stared at Natalie. She didn’t even blink. “Mason’s accent is mid-Atlantic. When he went to International Schools in Asia, they taught British English, but here he learned Canadian English.”
It was true that Mason had a slight accent that was hard to place. People were always asking him where he was from.
“Thanks, Natalie, but this seems like too much.” I couldn’t carry off a new voice with all the other things I had to remember.
Natalie smiled again. Her smile was creepy because it felt like the opposite of how she really felt. “That’s fine. But consider this, Ian—do people ever underestimate you?”
Well, sure, that happened a lot. Like when I did a reno, nobody could believe I did the decorating too. But that was because decorating was chick stuff. Happened with other things too, like getting a loan for my first flip. Even Em admitted she’d underestimated me.
The flip side of people thinking less of me was that I didn’t have to do as much. But I got what Natalie was doing: challenging me to be better. She believed I was smarter than I let on, and she was pushing me. I’d seen her do this with Mason his whole life.
I cleared my throat and lowered my voice. “Natalie, I do appreciate your advice, and I’ll do my best to follow it.”
Mason and his mom both gaped at me, and then started laughing.
“Is that how I sound? Kind of pompous?” Mason asked.
Truth be told, he did sound snooty, but he wasn’t. “Probably just sounds weird when I do it,” I reassured him.
My school day wasn’t over yet. Mason invited me over to his place for dinner (takeout pizza, thank God), but I knew it was because Abby had to get her hands on the New Improved Ian.
“Okay, let’s talk clothing first,” Abby said. Now she had a notebook too. Hanging out with Em must be contagious. “What are you wearing with your navy suit?”
“I dunno. Whatever I wore to the wedding. What’s the big deal?” I asked.
“The details count.” She pulled out a couple of ties. “Mason’s mom got these for him. They’re designer. Very expensive.”
She held both of them up to my face, apparently matching them to my nose hairs.
“Okay, this one,” she said. I got no vote, but they looked exactly the same.
Mason came in and handed me a beer. Now that the mental part was over, I could drink.
“I’ve got these nice cufflinks for you to borrow.” Abby dropped heavy gold cufflinks into my hand.
“It’s okay. I don’t have shirts that need cufflinks.” I tried to hand them back, but she pulled her hand away.
“You do now. Natalie bought this gorgeous shirt for Mason, but it’s too tight on him.” She patted her waist. Luckily Mason didn’t see her. He’d gained weight since he started living with Abby, and he was sensitive about it.
“I think she got my measurements wrong,” Mason explained.
Then Abby lifted my hand. “Oh my God. I forgot about your nails.”
I pulled away. “There’s nothing wrong with my nails. I have the hands of a guy who works.”
Abby nodded. “True. Em doesn’t care about your hands, and neither do we. But take it from me when you’re trying to pass as someone more sophisticated, the details count. When I started out in real estate, I had clients who asked for a different agent because they thought I was too flaky. I had to learn to dress more conservatively.”
“Yeah, right.” I looked pointedly at her zebra leggings, pink blouse, and feather earrings.
“I dress the way I want at home. But for work, it’s all business suits and dresses.”
Mason flipped on the TV and searched for a playoff game. Abby returned with a bowl of warm water and a purple case. “We’re going to get you looking like you’ve never pounded anything harder than a space bar.”
“That sounds dirty.” I snorted, and Mason laughed too.
“Okay, time to discuss the biggest thing,” Abby said.
“Shit. I’m sure I’m not going to like this.”
“Your hair,” she said.
I winced. “It’s my look.”
“Yeah, but how many guys at Em’s work are rocking mullets? Its time has come and gone, Ian.”
Well, it was true that more than one girl I’d dated had suggested a new haircut—including Em. And I could grow it back afterwards.
Abby held up her phone and showed me the photo of a male model. “I was thinking of a cut like this. Shorter would be good on you. You have a nicely shaped head.”
“Christ, if this doesn’t work, I’m going to have to hide for a month until I look like myself again.”
Abby pulled my hand out of the water and started doing something painful with a wooden skewer.
“Ouch,” I complained.
“One must suffer to be beautiful,” she replied. Then she giggled. “I wish I could be there when Em lays eyes on you. It’s going to be amazing.”
Or a huge failure. Could I really pull this off?