Paradime Read Online Free PDF Page B

there left its mark. To a certain degree, it still informs the way she thinks.
    So it’s hardly a surprise if she finds this shit hard to take.
    I get my phone out and stand up. I take the letter from the table. ‘Okay,’ I say, not looking at her. ‘I’ll do it in the bedroom.’

3
    I sit on the side of the bed, my side, facing the window, phone in one hand, letter in the other. I stall for a bit, thinking there might be a way out of this, then just enter the number really fast. I get through to someone who puts me on hold for five minutes. Is this a display of indifference on their part, I wonder, contempt for the client, or have I set an alarm bell ringing? Do I stew in irritation or paranoia? I don’t know, but either way, it’s a long five minutes.
    I look around, a tinny ‘Windmills of Your Mind’ ringing in my ear. The bedroom, like our whole apartment, is oppressive. What little space remains, when you discount the bed itself, is cluttered with shoes, clothes and books. There’s also a strong scent in the room, a mix of candles, perfume, soap and stray lingerie. When I moved in over a year ago, living here was supposed to be temporary. I had a lease in Williamsburg that was nearly up and the timing seemed right. I didn’t have much stuff with me, and, besides, before we knew it we’d be getting our shit together and moving on to a bigger apartment.
    ‘Sir?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Um, okay . . . this afternoon at four. Mr Galansky will see you then. Do you have the address?’
    ‘Yes, I do, and I’d—’
    But that’s it, she’s gone. No have a nice day, no thank you for calling, no fuck you, loser.
    Whatever.
    So who is this Mr Galansky? I study the letter again. It was signed by Abe Porter, Assistant to the Vice President of Legal Affairs and the person I’d asked to speak to before I was put on hold. I google Galansky on my phone and find out that he’s the actual Vice President of Legal Affairs. Which could mean I’m moving up in the world.
    Or about to leave it.
    My first interview with Gideon Logistics was in a building downtown, and although they had a suite of offices on the third floor, the rest of the building seemed to be virtually deserted. Subsequent interviews and orientation sessions took place in a remote and very basic facility in Pennsylvania. Their corporate HQ on Third Avenue was never really on my radar. But now, out of the blue, I’m headed there for a sit-down with – I look at my phone again – with Arthur P. Galansky?
    Holy fuck .
    So, irritation or paranoia? There’s no contest. Not any more.
    *
    By the time I come out of the bedroom Kate’s ambivalence has evaporated. She’s able to speak again, able to express both outrage at what I told her and a keen desire for me to be free of any fallout. I mention Galansky and the appointment at 4 p.m. She doesn’t think it’s a good idea.
    Nodding at her laptop, I tell her I’m going to go outside to clear my head for a bit, give her a chance to get back to her coding thing. She looks at me, eyebrows raised, about to object it seems, but in a flash I’m out the door and down the stairs.
    I check the time, and then put my phone on silent. I have about two hours. It probably would have made sense for me to stick around, have a shower and change my clothes, even shave, but another part of me thinks, fuck it , I should go into this meeting as scruffy and dishevelled as possible. Who are these people? Legal Affairs? They’re going to walk all over me anyway, so what do I care? What difference does it make?
    I hit Second Avenue and head uptown.
    What I need to do is make a convincing case to this Arthur Galansky that my time at Sharista is behind me, that I’ve moved on, and that if they want to withhold my last pay cheque for some contractual reason, fine, they can knock themselves out, because what can I do about it? I signed the contract, didn’t I? And, besides, I’ve moved on. The idea being that they’ll back off and