FEW:?She seemed embarrassed about the Airbnb thing, but I think part of her found it amusing. She must be ashamed of herself, though, because she asked me never to tell a soul.
OM:?Has she done anything else that’s made you uncomfortable?
FEW:?Too many things to mention. She’s made huge displays, both in public and private. We had sex in her room last week while her housemate was running errands. At first it was very rushed and exciting. Then we got rough with each other. Afterward, she was tender, almost tearful.
OM:?How rough?
FEW:?We wrestled, and she left bruises on my wrists and thighs. I think she likes to leave marks, so that I’m forced to think about her when she’s not around.
OM:?Would you not think about her otherwise?
FEW:?I would and do. Constantly.
OM:?How do you explain the bruises to Luke?
FEW:?I haven’t seen Luke in a few days. He’s at some jiu-jitsu conference. Anyway, while we were grappling, she knocked a glass off the bedside table. It shattered, and she stepped on a sliver. It was nothing, a small cut. Well, now there’s a hole in her foot, because she’s convinced a piece of glass is trapped under the skin, and she keeps cutting her foot open so that the glass can “find its way out.” But there’s no glass!
“Oh, but there is,” Greta said, flexing her foot. “I can feel it.”
FEW:?I’ve been getting a weird feeling lately that she’s not who she says she is.
“Oh boy,” Greta said. “Here we go.”
OM:?How do you mean?
FEW:?Her reactions often don’t match what I’m saying. She either underreacts or overreacts, and there’s very little in between. When I’ve told her things about myself, surprising and disturbing things, she acts like she’s already heard them. And two people have called her by a completely different name.
“End of recording,” Greta said.
OM: ?What name?
FEW:?Greta.
Greta imagined Om’s eyes popping out of his head and rolling around on the floor.
FEW:?You know her, obviously. I can tell by your face.
Om did some throat-clearing. With any luck, he would spontaneously chant the word “Har” for twenty minutes, and Big Swiss would be forced to leave.
FEW:?Is she a client of yours?
“Har, har, har,” Greta said.
OM:?I can’t answer that.
FEW:?Who’s your transcriber?
OM:?It’s a service.
FEW:?It’s done by people, though, correct? Not a robot like you first told me?
OM:?Well, yes.
FEW:?I only ask because on the last page of the transcript you gave me, it says, “Transcribed by” and the name is crossed out. Actually, it looks violently scribbled out. So, I’m assuming it’s a person who lives around here, and I can see by your face that I’m right.
OM:?Look, this person signed a confidentiality agreement, which goes both ways. It would be unethical for me to give you this person’s name. I won’t do it.
FEW:?You’re in deep shit with me. Very deep. Do you hear me?
“I’m sorry!” Greta said.
FEW:?Are you listening?
“Yes,” Greta said.
FEW:?What else have you lied about? Everything?
“No,” Greta said miserably. “Just my name.”
OM:?You’re not talking to me, I hope. Are you?
FEW:?Her. Greta.
OM:?Don’t talk to her. Talk to me, please.
FEW:?You better come clean with me. Otherwise, this is over. I’ll end it and walk away, and you’ll wish you never had to see me again, but you will, over and over and over, because we live in a fishbowl, remember? I’ll tell everyone I know about this. Everyone. Is that what you want?
“No!” Greta said.
OM:?Please don’t—
FEW:?Are you trying to get me to leave you?
Greta didn’t answer.
FEW:?It’s occurring to me now that she wants me to abandon her.
OM:?[PAUSE] Are you talking to me?
FEW:?Now I’m wondering if her mother—
OM:?I’m going to stop—
[END OF RECORDING]
SINCE SHE’D ALWAYS IMAGINED Om’s office as resembling a private yoga studio, with Om himself bouncing around on a yoga ball, she was startled to find herself surrounded by carefully arranged antiques in what looked like an eighteenth-century boudoir. The walls had French-inspired panels painted a chalky arsenic green. Suspended from the high ceiling was an enormous gilt-wood chandelier. There was a working fireplace, along with a Louis XVI marble mantel. The oak floors were lacquered a weird magenta. The furniture: fringed slipper chairs, octagonal coffee table, curved couch, cream canopy bed dressed in blue-and-white chinoiserie.
No wonder people spilled their guts here—they were confused, blindsided by the casual opulence, by its contrast to Om, whose fleshy nipples were visible through his mesh shirt. He’d wrapped his lower half in… what on earth was it? A Turkish towel?
“Did you just get out of the shower?” Greta asked. “Or do you consider that business attire?”
“What’s wrong with a sarong?” he said irritably.
He looked like he might rip off the sarong and strangle her with it.
“Where’d all of this come from?” Greta asked, looking around.
Om gave her a puzzled look. “Have you not walked down Warren Street?”
“I guess I didn’t realize people actually bought this stuff,” Greta said. “I also didn’t realize you lived here.”
“I don’t. I live in Germantown.”
“Then what’s with the bed?”
“I’m a sex coach, Greta,” Om said patiently. “I deal with problems in the bedroom. My parents, on the other hand, deal with antiques, and are extremely established in that world.”
“You have sex with your clients? On that bed? Why didn’t I know about this?”
“It’s not your business, Greta,” Om said. “Not anymore.”
He led her into a smaller room with a desk, a love seat, and two stuffed chairs. This was more like it, or at least slightly more officelike, though it was still very more-is-more, what with the hand-painted wallpaper. The infamous brass gong stood in a corner, shiny enough to work as a mirror and, to Greta’s surprise, as tasteful and expensive looking as an Anish Kapoor sculpture.
“Sit,” Om said.
Greta sat on the puffy pink love seat. Om sat across from her without speaking.
“This couch is kind of vag-like,” Greta said. “Is that on purpose?”
“Do you feel safe?”
“No,” Greta said. “I feel very much in danger. Am I?”
“Well, you’re fired, if that’s what you mean,” Om said. “You probably won’t find work in Hudson ever again, unless it’s at a restaurant. Did you really expect to get away with this? I’m genuinely curious.”
On the coffee table between them sat a box of Kleenex for the wimps and crybabies.
“No,” Greta said. “I knew it would blow up eventually—maybe not quite so… flamboyantly—and I’m sorry about that, Om. I really, truly love this job—”
Her voice cracked. Christ, what was happening?
“Actions have consequences, Greta, like ripples on a pond. Your career as a transcriptionist is over. You’ll have to reinvent yourself.”