I wake up to the sound of the front door opening. I think about people who have keys. Have I missed a day? Is it Friday, which would make it the housekeeper? Has my mother officially lost her mind and driven down here to force me up to the cottage? Have I overslept so much that Peter has come to make sure I’m still alive?
This last seems most likely, so I call, “Peter?”
“That’s a bad sign,” says Matt, walking into the bedroom.
“Oh,” I say. “It’s you. What are you doing here?”
“That’s even worse,” says Matt.
“No,” I say. “Sorry. I’m half-asleep.” I smile at him. “Let’s start again.” I open my arms, and he comes over to me cautiously. I pull him into a hug, holding on tight. “I’m so glad to see you, you have no idea,” I say. “But really, what are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be in the air right now.”
“I was,” he says, into my hair. “The meeting finished early, and I’d had enough, and I was able to switch seats to the earlier flight. It only cost a small fortune.”
“Worth every penny,” I say. “Let me look at you.” I lean away, hands on his shoulders. He reaches up, wraps his hands around mine, and levers them straight up until I lose my balance and flop backwards onto the bed. Matt rests on his elbows above me, his face close to mine.
“Aren’t you tired?” I ask.
“Can’t give in to jet lag,” he says. “Best thing is to stay awake.”
“Can I help?”
“I hope so,” he says, and kisses me, a question.
I rest my hands on his waist for a moment, and then glide them up to his shoulders and down again, an answer. He deepens the kiss.
Later, with my head on his shoulder, I say, “Your heart is racing.”
He says, “Does Peter have a key to our house?”
I sit up. “We don’t really know the neighbours, and it made sense, with you away so much, for him to have one. Just in case.”
“In case of what?” says Matt. “I don’t think Peter would water the plants, if we had any plants.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “If I were sick or something.”
“I would discuss it with you before giving a key to anyone,” says Matt.
“I should have,” I say. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“I’d like you to ask for it back.”
“Do you have any idea how awkward that conversation would be?” I say. “Why would you care one way or the other?”
“Because I don’t feel comfortable with your boss having access to our home,” says Matt. “I don’t like him enough for that, and I don’t want him here.”
“What do you mean, you don’t like him? You’ve never said that before.”
“I’m saying it now.”
I look away, catch a glimpse of the bedside clock, feel my chest seize with stress. “Jesus Christ,” I say. “It’s after nine. Why didn’t the alarm go off ?”
“Search me,” says Matt.
“I had a meeting first thing this morning,” I say.
“If Peter needed you that badly, he could have come to get you. He does have a key,” says Matt.
“For God’s sake,” I say, rolling off the bed, crossing the room, and closing the bathroom door behind me with some force. I rush through the shower, run a comb through my hair, and pull it into a damp ponytail. I throw on a simple summer dress and some sandals and sprint downstairs.
Matt is making coffee in the kitchen, rumpled and adorable. He meets my eye, unapologetic. “I’m still annoyed with you,” I say.
“And I’m still annoyed with you,” he says. “But I love you anyway.”
I sigh. “I love you too,” I say. “I’ll see you tonight.”
At the office, Bonnie puts up a hand as I slink by her desk. “He’s been asking for you,” she says.
I pivot, and take the few steps to Peter’s door, knocking as I open it. “Wait,” says Bonnie. “He’s in a meeting.”
But I’ve already stepped through the doorway as I process that Peter is sitting on his sofa right next to a woman. They both turn.
“Avery,” says Peter, rising. “Nice of you to drop by.”
“Yes,” I say. “Sorry about that. Matt arrived home early from Paris. I couldn’t rush off without saying hello.”
“No problem,” says Peter. “You’ve got to tend the home fires every now and again.” He turns to the woman, who stands. She is small and tidy, in a crisp new suit. “Melanie, meet Avery Graham, my chief of staff. She’s the brains behind this operation. Avery, this is Melanie. She’s a law student. She’s going to be our intern for the rest of the summer.”
Melanie steps forward, holds out a hand. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you,” she says. “This is a dream job for me.”
I shake her hand, and shift my gaze to Peter. “I didn’t realize we’d posted for an intern,” I say.
“We didn’t,” says Peter. “But when I met Melanie at the event in Judy Mendelson’s ward last week, and she asked about opportunities in our office, I realized that she’d be a perfect fit around here. And we could use some extra hands on the waterfront file.”
“Terrific,” I say. “Peter, could I have a word?”
“Sure,” he says. “Melanie, why don’t you head out to Bonnie’s desk and ask her for the briefing notes for today’s meeting.”
“Right away,” says Melanie. “And again, Mr. Mayor, let me say what an honour it is to be part of the team.”
“Peter,” he says. “Call me Peter.”
“Thank you, Mr. . . . Peter,” she says, stepping out and closing the door behind her.
“There are already a lot of hands on the waterfront file, Peter,” I say.
“What’s the issue?” says Peter.
“We’re taking hits from all sides, we’ve got the Wozniaks out for blood, and we’re giving someone we don’t know access to the inner sanctum. I don’t like it.”
“Melanie’s the top of her class. She’s exceptionally bright and personable. She deserves the chance to prove herself. I gave that to you, if you recall. And she reminds me of you. Haven’t you been saying for months that we need to clone you?”
“You’d known me for twenty years when you hired me, Peter,” I say. “She’s an unknown quantity, however talented, and we’re exposed.”
“Unclench, Avery,” says Peter. “We’re not trusting her with our state secrets just yet. Take her to your meeting with Jim Crawford. After that, if your instinct is that we should keep her out of the fray, we’ll get one of your staffers to supervise her for the rest of the summer, and we’ll give her a stack of research memos to write on best practices in waste management or bike lanes. But give her a chance before you rule her out, okay?”
“Fine.”
“How’s Matt, by the way?” asks Peter. “Working hard, as always?”
“He’s perfect, as always.”
“Good guy,” says Peter. “The four of us should have dinner soon.”
“That would be nice,” I say. Peter suggests this every so often and it never happens.
“I’ll have Bonnie set it up,” says Peter. “When’s the meeting with Crawford?”
“I need to get going,” I say.
“Off you go, then,” says Peter. “You wouldn’t want to be late for our artist friends.”
“God forbid,” I say.
Melanie and I pull up in front of a large warehouse on the west edge of the waterfront. It takes some effort, but we find an unlocked door that seems to be the entrance; at least, it is where the demolition notices are posted. Inside is a long, wide hallway, utterly deserted, with no sign of a central office.
“Do we have a unit number?” I ask.
“I’m so sorry,” Melanie says, flushing. “I didn’t think to ask Bonnie for one.”
“Lesson one,” I tell her. “Never assume that people will give you all the information you need.” If I’d chosen Melanie myself, I’d probably confess to her that I’m still learning this lesson. But having had mentorship thrust upon me, I don’t.
“Should we knock on doors and see if anyone can tell us where Jim Crawford is?” she asks. “Or do you want me to call the office?”
“Give it a minute,” I say, and sure enough, we hear the sound of rapid footsteps. A woman appears at the end of the hallway, waving.
“Are you from the mayor’s office?” she calls.
“Yes,” I call back.
The woman breaks into a run. By the time she reaches us, she is out of breath and flustered.
“I’m Marla Kraft,” she says. “I’ll take you to Jim.”
“Take your time,” I say. “We’re not in a huge rush.”
“No, no,” she says. “He wants to see you right away.”
If Marla Kraft were one of the extras in the movie of my life, she would be the Magician’s Assistant: long, very curly hair with more grey than brown, an abundance of draped layers and patterns, scarf over caftan over loose pants, purple eyeshadow that must be the product of a mid-eighties colours analysis. Marla is a Summer, obviously.
She leads us down the hallway and up a staircase to the second floor. “My studio is here, next door to Jim’s. He’s in the middle of a major commission, so I’m helping him with some of the ArtCo administration.”
“That’s kind of you,” I say.
“We’re like a family here, really,” she says. “Everyone needs to pitch in.”
She knocks on a door that is covered in stickers, and opens it. I register a few of the slogans as we are ushered in: “The Only Good War Is a Class War,” “Occupy,” “Democracy Is Nice but Revolution Gets Shit Done.”
“Jim,” she says, “I have our visitors from the mayor’s office.”
The man doesn’t turn right away. He’s holding a can of spray paint in his left hand. He’s wearing coveralls, a long braid down his back. There’s something familiar about the braid, I think, and then he spins and I realize immediately who he is.
Jim Crawford is the Bandwagon Objector.
“And so,” he says. “The mayor’s office comes slumming.”
“Mr. Crawford,” I say. “How nice to see you.” Have we met before? I don’t think so, but I’m not going to risk a “nice to meet you.” “Thank you for alerting us to your concerns. The mayor would like to know more about them.”
“Not enough to come himself, I see,” he says.
“I apologize,” I say. “I should have introduced myself. I’m Avery Graham, the mayor’s chief of staff. This is Melanie . . .”
“Christie,” says Melanie.
“Christie,” I say. “Melanie is a law student who is assisting us in our office this summer. I hope you don’t mind having her participate in this meeting.”
“Not at all,” says Jim. “Students change the world more often than anyone else. Be welcome, Melanie.”
“Thank you,” says Melanie, beaming.
“Mayor Haines wanted me to tell you that he regrets not being able to attend this meeting personally, and that he is anxious to understand and address the issues that you have with the development,” I say. “Shall we get started?”
I look around but see only one stool.
“I’ll get some chairs from my studio,” says Marla. “Back in a jiffy.” She races to the door and out into the hallway.
While she’s gone, I wander over to the canvas. “I understand you have a commission,” I say.
“That’s right,” he says. “For one of America’s signature cultural icons.”
“Which one?”
“California Comix.”
“Oh, well done,” I say. “Congratulations.” I have no idea why I should be impressed by this, never having heard of California Comix, but I have become a real proficient when it comes to polite social dishonesty.
“The oldest comic book store in . . . is it North America?” asks Melanie.
“In the world, actually,” says the Bandwagon Objector.
“Incredible!” says Melanie. She moves closer to the artwork. “I love this,” she says. “It’s so Tim Burton meets Banksy.”
“Exactly,” says Jim. “Good eye.” He looks at me. “People always underestimate youth.”
I can sort of see where Melanie is coming from. The piece is a gigantic spray-painted portrait of a boy who bears more than a passing resemblance to Edward Scissorhands, without the scissor hands.
Marla comes in with a chair, sets it down, and heads out again. “Melanie,” I say. “Why don’t you help Marla with the chairs?”
“Oh,” says Melanie. “Of course.” She practically runs out the door after Marla, and returns moments later with two chairs, one balanced over her shoulder.
“Thank you, dear,” says Marla, coming in behind Melanie. She arranges the four chairs in a circle, and we all take our seats.
“Mr. Crawford,” I say. “I understand from Councillor Wozniak that you have concerns about the development that weren’t raised at the public consultations. I look forward to hearing those concerns. But I wondered if you could help me understand why we are only learning about them now.”
“Everyone knows that public meetings are a sham,” says Jim. “Protests are one thing. There’s safety in numbers. But they use those meetings to collect information about dissidents. Before you know it, you’re on a watch list and being searched at the airport.”
“Jim has a lot of experience in these matters,” says Marla.
“Right,” I say. “Well, I’m happy to receive your valuable input personally, then.”
“As you know, Avery, this building—a home to artists for the past fifteen years—is being destroyed.”
My research indicates that the only artists working here up until four years ago, when the city refurbished the building, were teenaged kids with spray cans, but I nod. “The city recognizes the contribution that artists make to our community, Mr. Crawford. I can assure you that the preservation of studio space has been a foremost consideration in the design of the new complex.”
“Space, yes,” says Jim. “But what kind of space?”
“Clean, safe, well-ventilated, bright, rent-controlled space,” I say. “Space designed with reference to the highest international standards for artists’ studios.”
“Standards,” says Jim, using air quotes around the word, “are politically negotiated crumbs that self-serving overlords dole out to the ignorant public. Roger Wozniak understands that.”
“Are there other kinds of overlords?” I say, thinking, The only standards Roger Wozniak cares about are allowable emissions for SUVs.
“I beg your pardon?” says Jim.
“I understand that you have raised a specific issue about noise,” I say. “Can you tell me more about that?”
“Yes,” he says. “ArtCo, the Artists’ Cooperative Council, of which I am the president and Marla is the secretary, learned recently that our downstairs neighbour in the new building will be a women’s shelter.”
“That is correct,” I say.
“I’m a feminist, naturally,” says Jim. “So I wouldn’t want my comments to be taken out of context.”
“Naturally,” I say.
“We on the council were in favour of the idea of sharing space with abused women initially,” says Jim.
“That was also the mayor’s understanding,” I say.
“But now we learn that children will be living in the shelter as well. And so the situation is quite a different one from what was contemplated when we first discussed it.”
“It is quite normal for women escaping domestic violence to take their children with them,” I say.
“We understand that,” says Marla.
“I bloody well didn’t understand it,” says Jim. “People should say what they mean and mean what they say. This is sharp dealing.”
“I don’t think the mayor would appreciate that characterization of the negotiations,” I say.
“If the shoe fits,” says Jim.
“Mr. Crawford,” I say, “Our interest here, as it has been from the beginning of these discussions, is in finding a sensible solution that works for all the parties involved. The issue you now raise is one that frankly didn’t occur to anyone up until now. So we are trying to understand your objection and deal with it. There is no ulterior motive.”
“The mayor wants his big shiny legacy at any cost. I’d call that an ulterior motive,” says Jim Crawford.
Marla puts a hand on Jim’s knee. “Jim,” she says, “let’s remember the rent-controlled studios.”
“There’s no point in a rent-controlled studio if you can’t produce art in it,” he says.
“Hang on,” I say. “You obviously believe that you won’t be able to work with children downstairs. Why is that?”
“Do you have children, Avery?” asks Jim.
“No,” I say.
“Neither do I. And that is my choice. I choose to focus on my work without distraction. I should not be forced to cope with the consequences of other people’s choices in my own studio.”
I consider this a fair description of my own job: being forced to cope with the consequences of other people’s choices. And as I’m trying to find a diplomatic way to say this to Jim Crawford, Melanie raises her hand.
“You don’t need to raise your hand,” says Jim. “We believe in free and unfettered speech here.”
“I was wondering about the soundproofing measures in the building,” says Melanie. “Have we explored increasing the soundproofing? That might be a simple solution to the problem. Maybe we could recommend that to the mayor?” This last question is directed at me.
“Excellent! That’s the kind of action we need more of in politics,” says Jim. “Less talking, more doing.”
“Thank you for that suggestion, Melanie,” I say. “Mr. Crawford, you have my word that I’ll look into this issue and see what can be done to reassure you that the spaces in the new building will be at least as agreeable as the ones you have currently.”
“I prefer what she said,” says Jim.
“I understand,” I say. “But I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep. Let me study the problem and I’ll get back to you with a proposal.”
“Mealy-mouthed double talk. I expected no better,” says Jim.
“Thank you for taking the time to see us,” I say. “We’ll be in touch as quickly as we can.”
Marla sees us out. She says, in a low voice, “The other artists here are looking forward to the new studios. We appreciate your efforts. It’s just that Jim can be a bit of a bully, you know. It’s always best to humour him.”
We climb into the car, and as soon as the door closes, Melanie says, “Did I say something wrong? Isn’t soundproofing a simple way to solve the problem?”
“It would be if it didn’t add between $500,000 and $800,000 to the cost of the build, and if I weren’t currently trying to cut $3 million from the total project cost.”
“Oh,” says Melanie.
“Melanie,” I say, “It’s great to have you, and I’m sure there are many useful things that you can contribute to our office. Shadowing me at meetings is a terrific way to learn. But that’s what I need to you to be: a shadow. Watch and learn. And please don’t make any suggestions unless you’ve cleared them with me first.”
“Got it,” she says. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
I soften. Peter’s right. Melanie isn’t so bad. I should lighten up on her, I know.
“Don’t sweat it,” I say. “You’re learning.”
“I can’t wait to see Mayor Haines in action,” says Melanie. “He’s amazing.”
“He is,” I say. “But he’s also incredibly busy. I hope you won’t feel disappointed in your experience with us if you don’t have a lot of direct access to him. You’ll be working most closely with me and with members of my staff.”
Melanie looks surprised. “But Mayor Haines, I mean Peter, said that we’d have a chance to chat at the end of each day.”
My jaw tightens. “I’m sure he’d like to do that in theory,” I say. “He’s very supportive of young people. But the reality of his job is that he isn’t often in a position to spend that kind of time with one staff member, even with me. And I’m his chief of staff.” I place no emphasis on “chief of staff.” I congratulate myself for this.
“I totally get it,” says Melanie. “So should I mention the soundproofing issue to Peter when I meet with him? Or is that something that you want to raise with him?”
God, I think. I want to punch Peter in the face. Not Melanie, really. It’s not her fault that she’s hopelessly young and inexperienced. In fairness to her, she’s much more focused than I was at her age. I was wandering around Europe, finding myself, yet another project that didn’t pan out as expected.
I feel myself aging in real time.
You are a mentor, I think. This is a teachable moment. “Let me ask you,” I say. “Given what you’ve learned today, how should we handle the situation?”
Melanie looks genuinely puzzled. “I think I should mention the soundproofing issue to Peter when I meet with him this afternoon,” she says.
“Right,” I say. And I crank up the volume on the radio, and drive.