Big Swiss(68)

“Millennials,” Greta muttered.


[ALARM]

OM:?You hear that, my dear? It’s my next client—

[END OF RECORDING]



Greta had a delayed reaction to most things and often fell asleep in high-stress situations. She’d slept through one car accident, eight or nine root canals, the SATs, prom, pap smears, her twenties and thirties. She’d fought sleep at her mother’s funeral—and lost, sadly—and now it appeared she’d passed out at her desk. She woke up drooling and disoriented. Evidently, hearing herself talked about in therapy had been as stressful as dental surgery, but now that it was over, the transcript complete and sent, she needed to make sure it never happened again. It was time to end this, to make a stand, to put her foot down. No one should have such easy access to the private thoughts of their lover—or anyone. It would be one thing if she were eavesdropping in the traditional sense of the word, by hanging from the eaves of Om’s office building, straining to hear the conversation within, perhaps catching only snatches, an odd word or phrase, but she was listening from well within, practically from the lapel of Big Swiss’s shirt, and catching every goddamn word, every worried swallow, every exasperated sigh. It was snooping times a million, and despicable. Of course, she had no right to be upset by anything Big Swiss said in therapy, but she hadn’t realized Big Swiss was demeaning herself with Greta, who’d somehow never thought of herself as a broken toy. She’d never been on this side of things, looking up from the gutter. Was this why Big Swiss had such power over her, why Greta dropped everything the minute she beckoned? Well, never again, goddammit. It was time to end this insanity. Today. Right now.

Her phone vibrated. A text from Big Swiss. “What’s your ETA? Dinner will be ready in forty-two minutes.”

Greta typed, “Not feeling well. Sorry to cancel last minute. I can’t do this anymore.”

Her thumb hovered over the send button. Her head felt as heavy as granite and she thought she might pass out again. Instead, she deleted what she’d written and typed: “Coming!!!!!!”





13


Maybe it was the wrong day to try microdosing, but she’d needed something to help her get through dinner, and she remembered Sabine’s saying that one stem plus one cap equaled a Valium and a cup of coffee, or maybe it was one cap, no stem, two Tylenol PM. In any case, she felt pretty loose as she drove to their house, which she’d always imagined as a Swiss chalet built directly into the side of a mountain. The chalet had very wide eaves, of course, with trim painted dark green, and window boxes full of bright red geraniums, and she kept envisioning Big Swiss on a balcony, dressed in a traditional dirndl, the embroidered bodice laced up tight, her tits spilling out of the low, square neckline, and there was Luke approaching from the rear, lifting her full skirt, letting his lederhosen fall around his ankles. Big Swiss closed her eyes and opened her mouth. Was she singing? She was yodeling. She stopped suddenly and started coughing. Luke paused to pat her on the back. Big Swiss pulled a small item from her apron, unwrapped it, popped it into her mouth. “Ricola!” she said, looking right into the camera. There was a close-up of her face. A boom microphone dipped into the frame. “Cut!” the director shouted.

Greta nearly missed the turn and swerved onto their private road. The road meandered over a creek, through a thicket of silver birch, and then under a canopy of budding pear trees. A black wooden carriage house loomed on the right, an undulating meadow on the left, and, straight ahead, the main house, which was not at all chalet-like, but rather entirely modern, low-slung and concise, made of concrete, glass, and steel. They had the Wright style, in other words, were far wealthier than she’d realized, and would probably not be dressed as peasants.

Rather than knock, Greta simply stared at the front door, which appeared to be made of solid chestnut containing many evocative knots. Big Swiss abruptly opened the door and pulled Greta into the foyer. She was flushed, dressed entirely in pink, and seemed to be glowing from within. Greta felt like she was being greeted by a Himalayan salt lamp. Big Swiss kissed the air on either side of Greta’s ears: left, right, left.

“Are you good?” Big Swiss said. “Can you handle this?”

“I’m a master of the charade,” Greta said, a phrase she’d been repeating to herself for eight hours. “God, it’s quiet!”

“We’re in the country. What did you expect?”

“Church bells,” Greta whispered.

Big Swiss gave her a frightened smile. Stay out of her transcript, Greta ordered herself.

“Cowbells,” Greta said quickly. “Listen, I may have eaten a tiny amount of mushrooms about an hour ago.”

“Fuck,” Big Swiss said. “Will you be able to eat fondue?”

“Well, I’m not hallucinating,” Greta said. “But on the way here, I became completely entranced by a vision of your home life, only to realize that it was a pornographic commercial for Swiss cough drops. And then I wondered why they don’t make pornographic commercials in general. Like for potato chips. So, I don’t know, I guess I’m a horny mess.”

“What else is new,” Big Swiss said.

“Here,” Greta said, and brought forth two bottles of Grüner Veltliner.

“Perfect,” Big Swiss said. “We can’t get drunk, though.”