No, #SeaWalkFishermen doesn’t work because there’s a female fishing, too, with a child at her side. #FishersFolk? That doesn’t sit well with Daisy, either. The people fishing all appear to be of Asian cultural descent. #Folk might infer that she sees them as an inferior grouping. She decides on:
#Fishers #RareSunnyDayInPacificNorthwest #GladToBeBackInMulticulturalVancouver #PregnantMumsNeedExercise #BidingTimeTillBistroLunch
Daisy shoots a few more selfies capturing her tummy. She also takes a shot of the shimmering skyscrapers that rise high above Coal Harbour, where seaplanes come and go. Jon works on the top floor of one of those glass towers, sitting at his desk like a golden god in sunlight, surveying the ocean, mountains, and ski slopes across the Burrard. Daisy is tempted to use hashtags that declare:
#JonsOffice #Penthouse #TerraWest #SkiLife #MarriedToAnOlympian #DoubleGoldMan
But she’d never do that. Jon abhors her Instagram habit. He says it invites trouble. He particularly dislikes the fact that Daisy is becoming something of an influencer and that she’s being sent items from top companies catering to pregnant moms. Last week she received the cutest musical crib mobile with dancing unicorns and elephants. The week before a package arrived at Rose Cottage with the sexiest yoga leggings designed to accommodate growing bellies.
Jon thought the leggings were amazing until she told him she was going to pose in them for Instagram. He said “gifts” in exchange for publicity are demeaning. He said they were beneath her.
We don’t need handouts, Daisy. It makes us look needy. It makes it look like I am a failure and can’t take care of my own wife. It makes us look poor, for God’s sake.
Daisy lowers her camera, her gaze still fixed on the shining office tower where her husband works. His voice curls through her mind.
The only reason you even have a following of so many thousands is because you’re my wife. You openly exploited that association in the early days of your social media account. And you know it’s dangerous, Daisy. It’s not like we haven’t had nutjobs stalking us before. Anyone can use geolocation to pinpoint exactly where you are and when you’re there. If you post a photo of yourself in a restaurant as you sit down, by the time your order shows up, so can your stalker.
Daisy shakes the memory, but Jon’s chastising tone lingers like a cold, tight thing in her chest. Her thoughts turn to last night, when Jon came home reeking of alcohol.
He climbed quietly into bed in the dark, obviously thinking she was asleep. But she wasn’t. She’d been lying there for hours fretting over whether she dreamed the female voice on Jon’s phone. It didn’t help that she was already worried Jon might be finding her newly chunky body unsexy. He hasn’t tried to make love to her in a while. Daisy replays, blow by blow, her interaction with Jon this morning as he came down for breakfast.
“So what did Henry want to talk to you about?” she asks as she pours a fresh coffee for him.
There’s a tightness in his face, a guardedness in his eyes. Worry trickles through Daisy.
“Jon?”
He inhales, rubs his brow. He’s hungover, she thinks. Surely that’s all it is.
“Jon, please. Talk to me. Why did Henry invite you to dinner?”
“Something came up at the last board meeting. Henry wanted to discuss it with me in confidence. He felt I should have a heads-up.” He accepts the mug of coffee from her, sips, and when he speaks again, his words are quick. “He said I’m not a shoo-in for the new COO position.”
“What?”
“There’s a competitor.”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean ‘competitor’？”
Jon sets down his mug. He begins to straighten his tie. Tension rolls off him in waves.
“Jon! Talk to me.”
“Did you already know this, Daisy?”
“Know what? What on earth are you talking about?”
“That TerraWest has hired someone new, and he’s already been brought into the HQ office, and they’re pegging him as the new COO for the Claquoosh Resort. Did your father or mother not mention it?”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t keep something like that from you.”
“Wouldn’t you? I mean, maybe it was all part of the plan, Daisy—you and your parents tricking me into moving back home. Just like you stopped taking those birth control pills.”
“How dare you—”
“Forget it. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
Hot tears fill her eyes. “What did you mean, then? You think I tricked you into getting pregnant? And then tricked you into moving home? Why would I do that? You said this is what you wanted. A baby, a family. A fresh start. After that . . . that nightmare in Colorado.”
He sinks onto the counter stool. His shoulders slump. He rubs his face hard. “Forgive me. It was a shock last night. I’m sorry. I—I’m still trying to process, Daize.” He glances up, meets her eyes. “I think it’s a done deal. I think this other guy is getting the position.”
Daisy stares at her husband. Her world spins. “Who is this person?”
“Ahmed Waheed. Some guy much younger. Less experience.”
“Why would TerraWest do this? What’s wrong with you as the—”
“What’s wrong with me? I’ll tell you what’s wrong, Daisy. This Waheed guy is brown and I’m white—I’m a white guy nearing middle age and times have changed and everyone needs the optics of diversity. I peaked at the wrong fucking time. I fucking missed my slot. I’ve been usurped by this . . . this new wave of political correctness.”
“Jon, that’s not—”
“Isn’t it? I won two goddamn gold medals for this country. Skiing runs through my veins. I was born right here—” He jabs his fingers hard on the countertop. “Right on the flanks of these North Shore Mountains, in this very city where TerraWest was born. I was iconic. My name carried weight in this industry. It was monetized. My face and body could sell anything from beer and aftershave to toothpaste, time-shares, and lifestyles. The company—your family company—traded off my fame, off me. They’ve cashed in, and now they reckon I’m washed up because I’m not brown and don’t speak five fucking languages.”
“Don’t swear in this house, and don’t you dare bring my family into this. My father had a heart attack and he was forced to retire. This is not his decision. I bet it was decided after he retired and stepped away.”
“You know what that would mean, then? That your dad—and maybe Henry—are the only ones at TerraWest who wanted me in that COO job? Is that what you’re saying? That everyone just leaped to cut me loose the instant Labden walked out that door?”
“Have you considered that maybe this Waheed guy is a better fit?”
“Are you serious? Did you just say that?”
“Jonnie—”
“Don’t ‘Jonnie’ me.”
“I’m just saying, five languages? He sounds impressive, and given TerraWest’s renewed push into the global market, it could be that—”
“That they need a Muslim? He’s a bloody Muslim, and now they think they can check off a box.”