Page 40 of Things I Overshared
“Oh yeah?” I look between him and Emerson.
“He really is a wizard, this one.” Bernie gestures at Emerson, who is a stark contrast sitting still and ramrod straight. “Must be that English upbringing.” Bernie winks.
“I prefer robot over wizard myself, but yes, numbers seem to be his primary language, don’t they?” This gets me a hearty laugh from the young Santa and an irritated grin from the Android himself. No sigh, though—win!“Let’s head back, and I can show you a few more things before we call it a day.”
Emerson holes up in the office while Bernie, two employees, and I go over a few of the example displays I changed for them. They ask great questions and show genuine excitement for the changes. Excitement I used to feel.
Hope springs up in Bernie’s eyes, and it makes my chest tight. I know it’s been a hard year for him, for all the retailers. I also know when we come back in a couple weeks, the interior of the store will go from good to absolute amazeballs. I hope Emerson is working similar—no, much bigger, better—magic in the back. I may not love my job like I used to, but I know thousands are depending on us, so I put on a smile to match Bernie’s.
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“Oh man, I’m glad I went with the burger this time. Again, you should take a couple fries.” I pad out into the dining room in joggers and a sweatshirt. Emerson has lost his jacket, but otherwise, the man is unchanged. He doesn’t even look famished. The nerve. He starts to grab his plate, but we’d been silent zombies in the car. Refreshed by my shower, I stop him.
“Wait, can I just ask you a few questions, and then you can go back to your lair?”
He sighs.
“Hey! That’s only number three!” I smile at him. He squints at me, unbelieving. “Now, hey, if you sigh when I’m not around, those do not count. I cannot bear the burden of all your sighs on my dainty shoulders, Mr. Clark. Look at me—I can shrug, but I’m no Atlas.”
He rolls his eyes and sits down and mumbles, “So dramatic.”
“So? How bad is it for Bernie?” I ask, taking a bite of my burger.
“Not ideal.” He grimaces and then takes a bite of his chicken.
“Uhhh, not ideal like he’s closing next month, or not ideal like all retail sucks right now and he’ll be fine?” I study him.
“Close to the latter.”
“Do you think he’ll actually do everything you told him to do?”
He looks down at the table. “Reluctantly.”
I nod and wince a bit. “My advice is much more fun than yours. Way easier to move price tag stickers from the front of a product to the bottom than to, oh, you know, fire a beloved employee.”
He nods again. I am still energized from the day, so I carry on.
“Well, at least we left him with hope in his eyes and a list of boxes to check. Everyone likes a clear list, right? He’s not wondering what to do or how to fix things—now he just has to follow through.” Emerson gives me a half nod. “That lunch place was fun, even if it was, as you’d say”—I throw out my most obnoxious cockney accent—“‘a real bit dodgy.’”
That earned me a choking cough and an eye roll.
“I read online they had amazing fish and chips, and Bernie said it was the best he’d hadin ages,so score one for me and the binder!” He eyes my binder on the table but doesn’t say anything, which irks me. He could flip through there and find any contact of ours and prepare himself for an amazing meeting. That binder is a dadgum work of artandscience, and he has yet to comment. “Anyway, tomorrow should be better. We’ll hit both central and west side, and neither of them are as bad off as Bernie. So. Should be fun!”
He gives me a slow nod that says “if you say so.” I ramble on a bit more about the stores and owners we’ll meet tomorrow, and some of the changes I’m imagining. I talk about London, the trip, and my texts with my sisters. By the time he’s done eating, I’ve recapped my entire day and plan for tomorrow. He stands, covers his dish, and gives me a slight bow like it’s the freaking 1800s.
“Good night,” I say. He doesn’t respond and goes to his room. I imagine him on the other side, leaning against the door, eyes closed, breathing in sweet relief to be rid of me.
My turn to sigh again.
Chapter 12
I was right that the next two stores were much easier. Emerson and I split off right at the start to work our respective magic. I didn’t see much of him, but I heard his rave reviews again over lunch. Maybe, inexplicably, talking about numbers gives him a much more human bedside manner?
Somehow his number crunching puts our owner operators at ease and gives them hope. The response was obvious on Otis’s face as we wrapped up lunch after going through his store in central London. Then I saw it in Farrah’s smile after our afternoon with her on the west side.
“Are you all up for some dinner?” I ask.
“Absolutely!” Farrah says in unison with her daughter Trina, who I’d guess is a little older than Sally, and very hip and London-y.
