For some bizarre reason it was always an adjustment hearing the elderly, who looked adorably old and fragile, swear at you like you were the filth beneath their shoe. I’d have thought this old man was adorable and delicate with his suit all done up and his white hair in place, and don’t get me started on those pearly white dentures that made him look extra cute when he smiled with those wrinkles crinkling the corners of his eyes.
Goddammit.
I was such a sucker.
I took a moment to absorb his words, and he seemed chuffed to have knocked me speechless, this old, fragile, adorable man with his suit all done up and hair in place.
“I’d watch who you’re calling a bitch, Mr Crane.” I said sweetly as I collected the paperwork. “I have the tendency to often though infrequently, intentionally though accidentally, inform the local authorities of dirty old men with questionable off-shore accounts.”
“Your threats are hollow.”
“Do you want to take that risk?”
He ignored my question and scowled at me. “You’re just a woman.”
“Okay.”
“You belong in the kitchen.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re only lucky that in today’s world gender equality is even a thing.”
Goodness. What a guy.
“You know, you should be nicer to people, Mr Crane. You sound like a bitter old asshole.”
He looked unbothered, giving me a filthy once-over. “Look at the world I have to share it with.”
“Not even,” I stated dryly. “You’ve got a foot in the grave as it is.”
He stared evenly at me. “I look forward to dying.”
My eyes lit up. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, I’m tired of being surrounded by women who think they’ve got an equal place as me –”
“Jeez –”
“You’re just good for making babies –”
“You are such an asshole –”
“And making sure your house is in order –”
“Misogynist to the extreme, but you hid it so well in the start –”
“And hoping your man is even still interested in you when he gets home because he can have the pick of the litter –”
“I really hope you die soon, Mr Crane, and nobody shows up at your funeral –”
“You’re ugly by my standards. There are better women, easier to find, who’d beg for my attention. Oh, they would beg!”
“Rejection doesn’t suit you –”
“I wasn’t even seriously considering you, it was pity.”
We talked over one another; he hurled insults, and I wished him a good death, and then I gave up. I let him continue for a while longer and promised myself never to judge a book by its cover. You’d think I’d learn after meeting with countless strange clients. Locke really needed to up his standards.
I collected the paperwork and carefully placed it in my messenger bag. “Good to know, Mr Crane,” I said with another bright smile because fuck his shit. “I’ll see you again this time next month?”
“Maybe,” he retorted, standing up and taking an absurdly long time to straighten his suit jacket. “But maybe not, Miss Miles.”
I looked up at him with a dry look. “So, you won’t continue business with Locke going forward?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“You will, then?”
“That’s not what I said, either.”
I held back my eyeroll. “I’ll pass your message along to Mr Locke.”
Now he stilled and, realizing his error, he looked at me with slight panic behind his gaze. “Let’s not do that, honey.”
I let out a hard laugh. “Honey? It was bitch two seconds ago.”
“That’s blasphemy. I would never call a woman that. I’m a man of God, after all.”
“Clearly.”
“God bless you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“May the power of Christ compel you. In the name of the Father and the Son and the –”
“You can stop that.”
“Good night, Miss Miles.”
“Good night, Mr Crane.”
Fifty-five long and arduous minutes in this suffocating room and we were done. Mr Crane finally left, and I wanted to stick a few needles in each eye. My blood pressure was through the roof.
Locke owed me big time.
I zipped the messenger bag closed and stood up to adjust my pencil skirt. Pulling my phone out of the side pocket of the bag, I sent the jerk a message.
All done. No more night calls with this anti-feminist geezer. Apparently, I belong in the kitchen. Your clients never cease to amaze me, Locke. No one should have to feel the kind of stress I feel when I meet with them. It’s so unnecessary, don’t you think? Just think about it, Locke. Isn’t it? It’s so…yeah, unnecessary. I can’t think of a better word to describe how UNNECESSARY it is to feel THIS sort of stress. I should file a complaint. I wonder if you’d