Page 45 of Tell Me What You Want

“My mother is Spanish; that’s why I speak Spanish so well. I’ve slept very little in the last few years. I’m thirty-one years old. I’m not married or engaged. Right now, there’s not much else I can tell you.”

Moved by that small confidence, I smile happily, as if I’ve won the lottery.

“Mr.Zimmerman, I accept your proposal. I will go with you.”

17

My supervisor goes nuts when Eric tells her I’m going with him on his visits to the branch offices. Miguel is glad he’s not the one going. My supervisor tries in a thousand different ways to convince Eric not to take me. She argues that I don’t have much experience and that I haven’t been with the company that long; in the end, however, she gives in. Eric’s the boss, so she has to accept it. Check that out!

I call my father on Wednesday to explain that I have to take my vacation later than I had planned. He thinks it’s fine and encourages me to do a good job. If he had any idea how this all came about, he’d pack me up in a box and seal it tight. My sister, on the other hand, gets mad at me. For me to leave her alone in Madrid for a few weeks is disconcerting. Who will she tell her troubles to?

On Thursday, Eric comes by with his chauffeur at six in the morning. We travel in his private jet, and I’m taken aback by so much luxury. I feel utterly provincial. I look at everything with such awe that I think Eric must be making an effort not to laugh.

When we arrive in Barcelona, a car picks us up at the airport and takes us directly to the Hotel Arts. No big deal—just the best hotel in the city! They put us up in two rooms on the top floor. He’s kept his promise: separate suites. When the bellboy closes the door behind him and I’m left in the middle of that gigantic room, I spin around to survey every inch of it. It’s all so big and spacious. The best part: huge windows offering me a view of the sea.

High from so much opulence, I drop my bag and head for the window. Incredible! After enjoying the panorama for a while, I begin to investigate the room. There’s chocolate in the fridge, and I quickly appropriate it. When I enter the sleeping quarters and see the bed, I whistle. It’s beautiful. Enormous windows frame a view of the sea here too. There’s wall-to-wall carpeting, violet, like the beautiful sofa that matches it. The bed is oversized, and I throw myself on it. Wow. The bathroom is marvelous. All blond woods and mirrors around the tub. Very sexy!

The phone rings as I’m leaving the bathroom. It’s Eric.

“How’s your room?”

“Splendid. Beyond spacious. It’s like five times the size of my apartment,” I say, laughing.

I can hear him laughing too.

“I’ll meet you in the lobby in half an hour,” he says. “Don’t forget to bring the documents.”

I arrive in the lobby right on time and catch Eric talking to another woman. She’s tall, glamorous, and blonde. Very blonde. When he sees me, he beckons for me to join them.

“Amanda, this is my assistant, Miss Flores.”

This Amanda person gives me a once-over and an uneasy feeling, but in a bow to professionalism, we both reach out and shake hands.

“Miss Flores, Miss Fisher is here from Berlin,” Eric says in German. “She’ll be with us for a few days. Amanda oversees the sales of our medical products in Great Britain.”

He smiles as the long-legged blonde nods her head. A man comes up to tell us our car is ready. The three of us walk over to a long black limousine. Eric sits next to Amanda and forgets about me. That bugs me. But what bugs me most is sensing there is, or was, something between them. Nonetheless, I maintain my composure and look out the window, thinking about my own affairs.

When we arrive at the central offices in Barcelona, we’re welcomed by the branch director, Xavi Dumas. As soon as he sees me, he grins and then greets the big boss and Amanda.

“Hi, Judith,” he says, turning to me. “It’s so good to see you again!”

“The same, Mr.Dumas.”

His assistant, Jimena, then says hello.

“Jude, why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

“Because I just found out yesterday,” I respond as I hug her.

“Well, well,” she says playfully as she watches Eric, “and with the big German boss. He’s very powerful!”

Just then, various executives, including Eric and Amanda, move into the conference room. It’s a rectangular space with dark panels and with windows providing a view of the countryside. Positioned in the middle is a long table with several chairs; to one side are a few other, smaller tables. I sit at one of the smaller tables; and next to me, Eric presides over the long table. His implacable expression makes me recall Miguel’s nickname for him, “the Iceman.”

The meeting begins, and Jimena, at her supervisor’s signal, moves from the smaller table, where she’s been sitting with me, to the larger table. Her supervisor wants her to translate everything he says for this Amanda person. I pay close attention and realize Jimena is an excellent translator. But something happens that surprises me. At one point, Mr.Dumas mentions Eric’s father; Eric, very politely but very seriously, asks him to never mention his father again. What happened between father and son? An hour later, as the meeting continues, I get an email.

From: Eric Zimmerman

Date: July 5, 2012, 10:38 a.m.

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