The Ambitious Assistant

You know who has perfect timing? My assistant, Unati Slater. Slater's not really her last name. But passing as an ambiguous nymph straddling white-privilege and BIPOC world takes a certain finesse and a certain personality. Depending on what she's wearing and what accent she adopts, the girl can almost pass for a mixed heritage. I call her a chameleon—behind her back, of course.

Unati—means progress! Isn't that apt? She's the most driven young woman I've ever met. Slater? Well, that is just the last name she picked to 'fit in' better in the publishing world. That's where she's headed. And that's how I am saddled with her burdensome, boring young self.

I knew her mother. The poor woman passed away suddenly from a heart attack at forty. Ninety-nine-percent clogged arteries, or so her husband claims. He brought up the girl on his own. I felt sorry for the poor bugger most days. And he put in a word with me about his daughter, how she would love to get her foot in the publishing world, I couldn't decline. Not when he was begging. Not when he pulled the 'you were my wife's best friend' card. Bloody emotional blackmail. Our people are ace at that.

Never hire your friend's kids! Some may surprise you with their great work ethics. Some, like our Unati, may be great at assisting, but when she opens her mouth and dribbles on and on about her future 'plans' one wishes for a shot of tranquiliser straight to their nerve-riddled bottom. For peace.

And here she goes again. Bright eyed and bushy tailed, at fucking ten in the morning, walking straight—or as straight as she can, given the rocking—towards me. I've barely even washed down the taste of my omelette with my spiked OJ when she graces me with her presence, her mouth already flapping.

"Devi! I was thinking, for ajha rati, we have all the decorations ready. The Captain confirmed, everything is on board ... so shall I decorate the dining hall now with Miles' help, or would you like it to be a complete surprise aruko lagi? In which case, he and I can start decorating once you all go on that kayaking thing after lunch?"

She barely takes a breath.

I stare at her as if she's gorgon and I'm stone. Has the stupid girl missed the memo from the weather bureau? Kayaking, in this weather? Is she out of her fucking mind?

"Who the fuck is Miles?" I slurp my OJ. Who am I to burst her preppy bubble?

"He's the go-to—I don't know what they are called—the handy man on board." She blinks at me like I've got two heads. We are at an impasse. Her Gorgon, me Hydra.

"Oh." I slurp loudly, ready to side step her.

"So, what do you want me to do?" She blocks my way

I'm about to say I'm not fussed but then I stop. No. I'm most definitely fussed. I want this night to be 'memorable'. Isn't that what I said to Toby?

She presses on. "Ke garne?"

I admire when bits of Nepali slips into her conversations easily with me. One, it makes me feel like I'm still somehow connected to my motherland, and two, it's the only tell that she's not an ambiguous person of ambiguous origins. I hold on to the railing to keep my balance and welcome the brisk breeze kissing my bare shoulders. Early menopause! Joy! I'm wearing a strapless sundress—despite the lack of sun—this morning for obvious reasons and saving the other for this evening.

"I think a surprise—" she begins again, excited little thing. Or too eager. I haven't decided which yet.

I thrust my empty glass at her. There's no way I can be anyone other than Devi Dhungel with her. She'd think I've lost my mind if I suddenly do un-Devi-like things, like be considerate.

"How long have you been working for me?" I resume walking, following the slight curve of the desk. "Two years? Three? What do you think I wish for? Quiet. Boring? Or a big splash?"

"Actually, this December, it will be five years." She follows along the wooden deck. Her heels clipping on the wood heard faintly over the waves. Who wears heels in this weather? Does she want to get accidentally thrown overboard by a big swell? Again, I'm questioning the girl's logic.

But five years? When did that happen? Didn't I hire her out of pity just yesterday?

"Very well." I wave my hand dismissively. "Tell me—" I turn rashly, and the girl almost walks into me. "What would Devi Dhungel want?"

"A splash." She smiles, a sunflower against this drab morning. God, I wish I had her vibrancy.

"Then do it. What do I pay you for?"

I turn and walk. I do not know where I'm going, but away from her, that's for sure. Why did I invite her on this trip? Like, did I really need reminders that my career has stalled, or that any day now, I'll have to let her go too? Financial crisis can be a bigger bitch than karma.

"Aunty Devi." Instead of taking the cue and pissing off, she trails after me. Fuck. She used the aunty card! Double fuck. Now I can't be an asshole.

"Yeah?" I stop and turn, obligated to. "What?" But no one said I had to be kind. I want the girl to get annoyed and quit of her own accord. Obviously the tactic might need a rethink, seeing how she's been hovering around me for five years.

If I have to fire her ... Suddenly, Toby comes to mind. Not good. Not good. I can't handle another Toby. I shudder at the thought while she chews her lips again.

She's hesitant? I wonder why. "What?" I ask again, exasperated.

"Umm ... I was wondering if you've read my manuscript yet." Her face screws up tightly, like she needs to pass air but she can't, not in my company, not without sounding like an air horn.

I almost chuckle at the picture while I try to recall the said thing. Her manuscript? There's a vague recollection of it, buried under piles of other ARCs floating around on my desk, ARCs I've been asked to blurb. Shit. When did she give it to me? Or did she just leave it on my desk hoping I'd get to it and go, 'Wow, Unati, I didn't know you were a hidden gem'?

"I've been writing it for a while, since I started working for you," she begins. "I asked you a few months ago if you'd read it for me and give me feedback. You said yes, so I put it on your desk, on top of your laptop." She peers into my face with the single determination that I recall her manuscript.

And I do. I remember seeing a bound manuscript, the name Unati Slater typed in cursive, a major no-no. I recall reading the first two pages—I'm not heartless!—before I set it aside. It lacked spark, X-factor, that singularity that makes you want to turn another page then another.

"I was hoping had some thoughts on it ... " she's still talking.

I shake my head. Not at her, but myself. I should have known what this was about. This entire trip, I've been trying to stop her from talking shop, but this morning, with most of the guests still in their beds I suspect, she's found the perfect time to corner me. "You know I've been busy, Unati."

She gives me a nettled smile.

Disbelief. Hurt. Anger. There are plain as pimples on her face. And frankly, I don't blame her. Young writers are always so eager for feedback, for validation, for a little leg up, especially if they have someone like me in their lives. Someone they hope will help them get an agent, or an editor, or a publishing deal because they are the next Rowling or Stein, or a number of other famous authors. She was no different. When she joined me, I remember her yaking away, about what wanted her life to be like. What she wanted to achieve. My life. My lifestyle. It was inspiring, apparently.

I might have been the same at her age if I'd thought I could use someone as a leg up. But I fell into writing quite by accident, didn't I? When I wrote about my housekeeping friend disappearing on that cruise, it had been therapeutic. To work out things in my head. To come to terms with the fact that she was gone, and no one was going to do anything about it. Nothing official anyway.

But then Charlie had found my notebook—or books. He'd read them, loved them; encouraged me to polish her story. He even helped, nights after he'd come home from work, he'd read, give me feedback, correct my mistakes. And the night he couldn't do any of those, finally, he'd asked me to print off a copy and have it ready by the morning.

Who knew he was going to give it to a friend at a publishing house I didn't know about. Who knew they were going to like it and sign me as an author? It was all unplanned, much like my life. I was simply a leaf blowing in the wind, going wherever life took me. I wish I hadn't.

As they say, the rest is history. Charlie. My Charlie. He was the catalyst for all good things in my life, for all the accidental discoveries, all the meaningful adventures. But he was also my amawas, my dark night, where I still linger, unable to see the light. When he went, he took the sunshine and left me in the dark, pining. Turning, bitter with every passing night.

"I just ... I'd love to know your thoughts on the story, you know? I have so much to learn from you. You're man incredible writer, Devi. I want to be—"

"Just like me!" I give her a faint smile; irritated that today of all days, she is as cloying as the stench of manure from a freshly sowed veggie patch. Needy. And what's this about wanting to be just like me? Does she not understand what makes me me are the accumulative experiences of my life, the good, the bad, and the butt-ugly? Does she want to be a widow in her thirties and spend the rest of her life chasing that happiness, only to be disappointed at every corner, every kiss, every limp penis just so she can be me? I don't even want to be me!

"Can we talk about this once we're home?" I pinch the bridge of my nose.

"I'm also happy for you to pass it onto your agent." She holds firm on her stance, even with all the bloody rocking. "I'd kind of hoped that by now, you would have anyway. I promise I won't quit on you yet, not until the book comes out or something, so don't worry about that," she adds quickly.

If only that was what worried me—her quitting on me—and not the lifeless writing I recall reading. The girl was years away from being agent-ready. But how does one say that to someone without breaking their heart?

Apparently, if you're Devi Dhungel, not long at all, cause I blurt it out then, unable to help myself, "Unati, I'm gonna be honest with you, because I think it might help you in the long run. Your writing is lifeless. You're writing as if you're making a quilt, taking this and that from stories you devour, yet nothing in it seems to have flair, pizzazz. There is no voice. Its doldrums is that of an abandoned castle, left to rot. It's voiceless, like the dead. Forget about my agent. Forget any agent. First, go learn how to write. Learn the craft. Write another story, a better story, and then another. Do it for a decade ... Now go decorate shit ... I don't care."

I'm tempted to steal a glance as I walk away. I feel sickly inside, but I have the energy of a spent battery. I'm sure the girl is about to cry. If I had been in her shoes, I'm sure my eyes would be welling up right now and I'd be so tempted to hurl something at the back of my head, walking away all high and mighty. If I turn thought, it would mean Devi Le Fontaine is turning, and it's too early for her to show up. She is not allowed to show face yet, not until dinner tonight.

I hear the faint sound of her sobs behind me.

God, I'm fucking awful.

And then, as if Unati and her burst dreams weren't enough, I had to walk right into him then, didn't I?