bottom line here, what a silly
term under the circumstances. Yes, somebody will quite
probably pay good money for a very badly trained little
girl with some evident talent and a pretty body. Not a huge
amount of money, but she'll squeak through the trials, and
somebody will get a bargain at the auction. Let's hope it's
somebody tough and professional, which is what she desperately needs. Still, it's not the way I like to do business,
and it's not the way I like to see business done. Why all the
rush? Why not train her properly? Why not really develop
a product? Send her to me if you're too bored and lazy to do it correctly. Do her good to get out of this misty Wuthering
Heights you've got here, anyway. And she'd be no trouble,
would you, Carrie?"
I didn't think Jonathan would like it, but I couldn't see
promising Ms. Clarke that I'd make trouble for her, even
hypothetically. "No, Ms. Clarke," I said.
She laughed again. "In fact," she continued thoughtfully,
"Carrie would like to come and stay awhile with me, I think.
Not that we-or I, at least-care what she'd like. But I think
she's becoming somewhat infatuated with me."
"Bitch," he said evenly. "Well, I'll think about it."
"No, you won't," she answered. "You'll never send her,
so don't pretend you will. You will continue in the confused,
romantic, amateurish way you've begun, and I will continue
to disapprove. At least, though, promise me you'll send her
for some yoga or ballet classes. I can see that she's a little jock,
but she could really use the strength and flexibility."
She picked up her purse and checked her perfect image
in the mirror. Then she put her arms around him and kissed
him. It was a long, communicative kiss, seeming to express
things I couldn't even guess at.
"Listen, sweetie," she murmured, "I'm sorry I teased
you, but you make it so damn easy. God, I miss you, though.
I wish we saw each other more often. Even if you won't bring
Carrie, you should come to Napa more than twice a year. It's
not so far, you know." Her hands, with those perfect fingernails, were all over his ass. He sighed, and they nuzzled a little
more. Then they drifted out of the room, arm in arm.
I stood there on the stool, a few tears trickling down my
cheeks, waves of shame, fear, and confusion washing over me.
I could think of so many things to cry about, I wasn't even sure what was really making me cry. Somebody had betrayed
somebody, I thought, but I didn't quite know what I meant by
it and who I thought had betrayed whom. I heard her car pull
away, and then, about five minutes later, Mrs. Branden came
into the study to tell me that Jonathan said I should go home
for today.
The next time I came was different, too. Mrs. Branden told
me to keep my clothes on-messenger clothes, that day my
T-shirt said, WE'RE PRIlVIUS-WE SUCK-and just to go into
the study. Jonathan was standing at a large walnut table by
the leaded window in the corner, making neat piles of papers.
There was a pot of coffee.
"There you are, good. Listen, this is a terrible pain, but
we need to do it together. These are ownership papers, these
are auction applications, these are photocopies of the laws that
these papers ever so elegantly skate over, so that we can actually be doing this in this day and age. Read everything, then
you can ask me questions. Then we can fill them out. Have
some coffee. No rules today. I've ordered a pizza and Cokes."
I went back to the kitchen to get my reading glasses -
first time I'd ever needed them here-then grabbed a pile of
papers, curled up in Jonathan's armchair, and started to read.
After a while a pattern emerged.
"It's another virtual reality, isn't it?" I asked, reaching
for a slice of the pizza, which had arrived by then.
"Pretty much," he nodded. "There's no real ownership-I mean, how could there be? Just elaborately precise
degrees of consensuality and gift giving within the boundaries
of international law.
term under the circumstances. Yes, somebody will quite
probably pay good money for a very badly trained little
girl with some evident talent and a pretty body. Not a huge
amount of money, but she'll squeak through the trials, and
somebody will get a bargain at the auction. Let's hope it's
somebody tough and professional, which is what she desperately needs. Still, it's not the way I like to do business,
and it's not the way I like to see business done. Why all the
rush? Why not train her properly? Why not really develop
a product? Send her to me if you're too bored and lazy to do it correctly. Do her good to get out of this misty Wuthering
Heights you've got here, anyway. And she'd be no trouble,
would you, Carrie?"
I didn't think Jonathan would like it, but I couldn't see
promising Ms. Clarke that I'd make trouble for her, even
hypothetically. "No, Ms. Clarke," I said.
She laughed again. "In fact," she continued thoughtfully,
"Carrie would like to come and stay awhile with me, I think.
Not that we-or I, at least-care what she'd like. But I think
she's becoming somewhat infatuated with me."
"Bitch," he said evenly. "Well, I'll think about it."
"No, you won't," she answered. "You'll never send her,
so don't pretend you will. You will continue in the confused,
romantic, amateurish way you've begun, and I will continue
to disapprove. At least, though, promise me you'll send her
for some yoga or ballet classes. I can see that she's a little jock,
but she could really use the strength and flexibility."
She picked up her purse and checked her perfect image
in the mirror. Then she put her arms around him and kissed
him. It was a long, communicative kiss, seeming to express
things I couldn't even guess at.
"Listen, sweetie," she murmured, "I'm sorry I teased
you, but you make it so damn easy. God, I miss you, though.
I wish we saw each other more often. Even if you won't bring
Carrie, you should come to Napa more than twice a year. It's
not so far, you know." Her hands, with those perfect fingernails, were all over his ass. He sighed, and they nuzzled a little
more. Then they drifted out of the room, arm in arm.
I stood there on the stool, a few tears trickling down my
cheeks, waves of shame, fear, and confusion washing over me.
I could think of so many things to cry about, I wasn't even sure what was really making me cry. Somebody had betrayed
somebody, I thought, but I didn't quite know what I meant by
it and who I thought had betrayed whom. I heard her car pull
away, and then, about five minutes later, Mrs. Branden came
into the study to tell me that Jonathan said I should go home
for today.
The next time I came was different, too. Mrs. Branden told
me to keep my clothes on-messenger clothes, that day my
T-shirt said, WE'RE PRIlVIUS-WE SUCK-and just to go into
the study. Jonathan was standing at a large walnut table by
the leaded window in the corner, making neat piles of papers.
There was a pot of coffee.
"There you are, good. Listen, this is a terrible pain, but
we need to do it together. These are ownership papers, these
are auction applications, these are photocopies of the laws that
these papers ever so elegantly skate over, so that we can actually be doing this in this day and age. Read everything, then
you can ask me questions. Then we can fill them out. Have
some coffee. No rules today. I've ordered a pizza and Cokes."
I went back to the kitchen to get my reading glasses -
first time I'd ever needed them here-then grabbed a pile of
papers, curled up in Jonathan's armchair, and started to read.
After a while a pattern emerged.
"It's another virtual reality, isn't it?" I asked, reaching
for a slice of the pizza, which had arrived by then.
"Pretty much," he nodded. "There's no real ownership-I mean, how could there be? Just elaborately precise
degrees of consensuality and gift giving within the boundaries
of international law.
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