Problem Child (Jane Doe #2) - Victoria Helen Stone Page 0,1

you know.” He winces a little at the hint of bodily functions. I wink in return, which seems to help him recover. It’s a lie, of course. I control my body with ruthless efficiency with nonstop birth control pills.

“Camille’s sounds great,” he says tentatively. “Thanks for the offer.”

“Are you ready? We’d better not dawdle. We’ve got that meeting at two.”

“Let’s go.” He grabs a slim-cut peacoat and a tastefully masculine cashmere scarf to ward off the slight chill of the cool September afternoon, but then he just drapes the scarf over the lapels, which won’t ward off anything except dandruff. I snag my purse and a new red raincoat from my office and bounce happily toward the door. The receptionist, Amy, looks woefully cheerful at this scene of camaraderie.

I’m so hungry.

As we step into the elevator, I ask Rob about another case, and that flips the switch to get him talking again. So much talking. An embarrassment of talking, because he knows so much, our Rob. So much, and all I can do is soak it in and learn. I’ve been at the firm for a year now and I’ve become a crucial member of the team, the point man, so to speak, on international contract negotiations. But I’m a woman, so I will always still have so much to learn.

He begins to explain a complicated contract between an American car parts company and a Vietnamese manufacturer, because he’s forgotten that I helped the firm hammer out the details during my first month on the job. “These guys were unbelievable,” he says. “They were hoping the trade war meant they could—”

But I’m thinking about lobster ravioli and the restaurant’s famous warm bread, which they serve with salted butter. Mmm.

The day is colder than it looks; an early arctic front has dipped down from Canada to bring a shiver to the sunny day, and I love it. No more buzzing mosquitoes. And no buzzing lithe-limbed girls wearing tiny shorts as they try to flirt with my boyfriend. Try and fail.

I have the sex drive of a woman who’s unable to process shame or self-consciousness, so their buzzing is a mere annoyance. I keep him very busy. But I’ve never had a real boyfriend before, so I sometimes find it hard to control my temper when I see them trying to steal what’s mine. Mine. Those little girls are easy to scare off with an icy-eyed hiss, and if that doesn’t work, there’s always a well-timed foot to trip them up on their way past the table. Still, I’m satisfied that they’ll have to put their ass cheeks away for a few months now. Buttocks are a summer accessory this far north in the world.

We’re walking toward my condo—the restaurant is halfway between my office and the home I share with my cat—so I’m on familiar turf as Rob continues explaining shit I already know.

My place of work is biased toward men, as most law firms are. If I were still in my twenties, I’d have already slept with one of the married partners and leveraged that into a fast track, because why not? There’s only one female partner out of eight at this firm, and I’ve heard several of the men make secret, snide comments about her “time off.” Her time off was to have a baby and then recover from massive hemorrhaging during the birth, and that was three full years ago. They can’t seem to understand why she wasn’t smart enough to simply marry a woman and get that female to stay home and whelp progeny the way they did.

That’s why Rob is their current favorite for becoming partner. No maternity leave, and no paternity leave for that broseph either. He’s only been married for two years, and even though they have no children, his wife still stays home. “She’s an amazing girl,” he says reverently. Also, he’s screwing the mournful receptionist on the side. I wonder if she sounds sad when she comes.

Just kidding. I’m sure he never bothers to get her off.

When we arrive at the restaurant, I grab the door and hold it open for Rob. “After you,” I offer cheerfully.

“Why, thank you, sir,” he responds.

“Would you get a table? I need to run to the restroom.” I leave him behind, no doubt horrified at my menstrual needs, and I saunter to the bathroom to reapply my favorite red lipstick and make kissy faces at myself in the mirror. When I emerge, I head straight for