Something..
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She looked at him.
"Whatever you paid for that dress, it's probably too much. But it'll probably be worth it."
He went back to his office.
Zuri sat at her desk, staring at the bag, wondering how her life had come to this. Six thousand, eight hundred francs. Zero available credit. Seven days until she had to wear it and somehow justify its existence.
Her phone buzzed. Her mother.
Call me when you can. We need to discuss something.
That was never good. "We need to discuss something" was code for "I know you've done something and we're going to talk about it whether you want to or not."
Zuri put her phone face-down on her desk.
"You okay?" Min-jun asked quietly.
"Splendid."
"You look like you're having a crisis."
"I'm always having a crisis. It's my natural state."
"Want to talk about it?"
"Not even slightly."
"Okay. But if you do want to talk, I'm here."
"I know. Thank you."
He went back to his work. Zuri stared at her screen. At the presentation she was supposed to be building. At the deadline looming. At the dinner next week that she'd just spent seven thousand francs she didn't have preparing for.
Good things must be experienced, she reminded herself.
Even when those good things came with crippling debt and mother's phone calls and Tristan Ashford-Price explaining how to do her job in that voice that suggested he was doing her a favour.
Even when the entire universe seemed determined to prove that maybe, possibly, she'd made a terrible mistake.
Even then.
Her phone buzzed again. Unknown number. A text.
Looking forward to Thursday. Let me know if you need anything for the presentation. - DV
Dmitri Volkov had her number.
When had he got her number?
Probably from Linda. Or Klaus. Or someone who thought giving billionaire clients junior analysts' personal numbers was normal.
She stared at the message. At the casual way he'd signed it. DV. Like they were familiar. Like this was normal.
Should she respond? What should she say?
Thank you. All prepared. Too formal.
Thanks! See you then. Too casual.
Noted. Too cold.
She deleted all three attempts and just sent: Thank you.
Simple. Professional. Revealing nothing.
The message marked as read immediately.
He was waiting. He'd sent that message and then waited for her response.
That meant something.
She just wasn't sure what.
"Was that him?" Sophie asked, appearing at her desk like a bloodhound sensing drama.
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
"He asked if I needed anything for the presentation."
"That's very attentive."
"That's very client-focused."
"Those are the same thing."
"They're absolutely not the same thing."
Sophie studied her. "You're playing it very cool."
"I'm being professional."
"You're being deliberately opaque."
"Same thing."
"Also not the same thing."
Zuri finally looked at her. "Sophie. I just spent seven thousand francs I don't have on a dress for a business dinner that may or may not be a business dinner. I have zero francs of available credit. My mother wants to 'discuss something' which is never good. Victoria Chen thinks our office is depressing. Tristan Ashford-Price thinks our work is too long. And a billionaire client just texted me like we're friends. I am not equipped to analyse any of this right now."
Sophie was quiet for a moment. Then: "Do you want a hug?"
"Will it fix my credit cards?"
"No."
"Then probably not."
"I'm giving you one anyway."
She did. Right there in the office, in front of everyone. Just wrapped her arms around Zuri and squeezed.
And Zuri, who'd spent the entire day maintaining composure, felt something c***k.
Not break. Just c***k. Just enough to remind her that she wasn't actually fine. That she was terrified. That she'd just made a decision that was either brilliant or catastrophic and wouldn't know which until Thursday.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"You're going to be fine," Sophie whispered back. "You're brilliant and capable and you have excellent taste in dresses, even if they're financially irresponsible."
"That's the worst pep talk I've ever heard."
"I'm working with limited material."
They broke apart. Amélie was watching with suspicion. "Are we having feelings? In the office? This is very unprofessional."
"We're not having feelings," Zuri said.
"You just hugged. That's feelings."
"That was workplace support. Completely different."
"In France, we don't hug at work. We complain about management and drink wine. Much more efficient."
"You drink wine at work," Lars pointed out. "That's actively inefficient."
"Only on Fridays."
"Today is Thursday."
"The week has been long. Time is relative."
Linda emerged from her office. "Right. Everyone. Tomorrow's meeting with Client Relations. Nine AM. I want to make something very clear: we are not letting Victoria take over this presentation. And we are absolutely not letting Tristan Ashford-Price condescend to us about page length."
"Agreed," Amélie said.
"We present our analysis as we see fit. If Client Relations wants to add their perspective, fine. But we're lead on this. Understood?"
Everyone nodded.
"Good. Now go home. Rest. Tomorrow's going to be exhausting."
Zuri gathered her things. The Valentino bag felt heavier than it should. Or maybe that was just the weight of knowing she'd have to pay for it eventually.
She walked to the tram stop in the evening light. Zurich was doing its usual thing of being aggressively beautiful and expensive.
Her phone buzzed. Her mother. Again.
This time, she answered.
"Hello, Mother."
"Zuri, darling. I've just spoken to the family accountant."
Oh no.
"Right."
"He mentioned some concerning activity on your London card."
"It's fine."
"Nearly seven thousand francs at a boutique is not 'fine.' That's a substantial purchase."
"It's for work."
"Work does not require Valentino."
How did her mother know it was Valentino? Had the accountant called the shop? Did they track everything?
"It's complicated."
"I'm sure it is." Her mother's voice softened. "Darling, if you need money—"
"I don't need money."
"Your card is maxed. Your account is overdrawn. The accountant is concerned."
"The accountant should mind his own business."
"Your finances are his business. That's literally his job."
Zuri stopped walking. Stood on the street corner, clutching her phone and her expensive shopping bag, feeling about seven years old.
"I can manage," she said quietly.
"Can you? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're drowning."
"I'm not drowning. I'm just... adjusting."
"Adjusting to what?"
To living without you. To proving I can do this alone. To being something other than Emmanuel Okonkwo's daughter.
But she couldn't say that. Not to her mother. Not when her mother was trying to help.
"To Zurich," she said instead. "To the cost of living. To everything."
A long pause. Her mother was probably in the conservatory, looking at the Lagos sunset, worrying about her daughter who couldn't manage a budget.
"Come home," her mother said finally. "Just for a weekend. We'll sort this out. Your father has contacts in Switzerland. Better positions. Better pay. You don't have to struggle like this."
"I'm not struggling."
"You just spent seven thousand francs you don't have on a dress."
"That's not struggling. That's... strategic spending."
"That's not a thing, darling."
"It is now."
Her mother sighed. "You're exactly like your grandmother. Stubborn. Proud. Terrible with money."
"Grandmother was not terrible with money."
"Your grandmother bought an entire shipping company to avoid admitting she needed your grandfather's help. It went bankrupt within the year."
Zuri had not known that. "She did?"
"1954. The whole family knows. We just don't talk about it because she was so mortified." Her mother's voice warmed slightly. "She also bought a dress from Cairo that cost more than a car because she wanted to impress someone at a dinner. Sound familiar?"
"What happened?"
"She impressed him. Married him six months later. Wore that dress exactly once."
"That's not encouraging."
"No. But it is honest. Sometimes we make terrible decisions for complicated reasons. The important thing is having family to help when those decisions inevitably cause problems."
"I don't want help."
"I know. But you have it anyway. That's what family means."
They talked for a few more minutes. Her mother didn't push. Didn't demand she come home. Just offered. Gently. The way you offered something to a frightened animal that might bolt.
When they hung up, Zuri felt worse. And better. And more confused than before.
She got home. Unlocked her tiny flat. Hung the Valentino dress in her wardrobe where it immediately made everything else look shabby.
Six thousand, eight hundred francs.
Zero available credit.
Seven days until she found out if this was the best decision or the worst decision she'd ever made.
She made tea. Sat on her bed. Looked at the dress.
It really was perfect.
That was something.
Not much. But something.
- ผู้เขียน
