Free Bitch Slap by Michael Craft

else?”
    Stepping toward her, I said calmly, “You know as well as I do that that’s impossible. Both companies have contractually agreed to abide by Tyler’s assessment. There’s no pulling out now, especially on the whim of one party.”
    â€œWhim? Is that what you call this?”
    â€œGillian, I don’t want to get into this with you. The specific issues are beyond my grasp, and I need to back out of the debate. This is between you and Perry Schield. I hope the merger is still on track—I’ve always supported it—but the whole question is out of my hands now. The contractual mechanisms are in place, and that’s that.”
    â€œUgh.” She slumped onto the arm of an overstuffed armchair. “I
wish I could be so philosophical and practical. How do you do it, Mark?”
    â€œMaybe it’s a guy thing.” I smiled.
    She smirked. “You’re calling me feminine?” Her tone implied revulsion.
    I could think of no safe answer to her query, so I tapped my watch again. “Your interview?”
    â€œOh, that .” She slumped. “Can’t we cancel—or at least postpone it?”
    â€œNo, Gillian, we can’t.” I enjoyed bossing her, and for reasons I couldn’t fathom, she seemed to defer to me as an authority figure.
    She whined, “But I’m just not in the mood …”
    â€œLook, Gillian. You agreed to the interview. I’ve assigned staff to it, and we’ve reserved space for it. Besides, a nice feature on the house could be helpful to Neil’s career.” This last point was a stretch. Neil’s practice was sufficiently well established that a feature in a small-town daily was unlikely to bring droves of new clients to his door, but I reasoned that Gillian might find my pitch persuasive because she seemed genuinely fond of Neil. And I was right.
    â€œWell,” she conceded, “I suppose I do owe Neil the recognition. He’s given me so much”—she gestured at her surroundings—“I can’t begrudge him a little well-deserved publicity.”
    â€œHe’ll appreciate it. And so do I.” I offered a smile.
    A tentative knock drew our glances to the closed doors.
    I told Gillian, “That’s probably Neil now.”
    â€œWaiting in the wings, no doubt.” She breathed a little sigh of resignation, stood, and positioned herself at the fireplace like royalty at a throne.
    I crossed to the opposite side of the room and cracked the doors open.
    Neil peeked in. Under his breath, he asked, “Still on the warpath?”
    â€œNo, no”—I chuckled, opening the door wide—“everything’s fine.”
    Neil turned to Glee, who was standing behind him. “They’re ready for us. Come on in. I want you to see this.”
    â€œOh, Neil, ” she said, following him into the room, “it’s everything you promised—and more!”

    Moving toward the center of the room, Neil acknowledged, “It did turn out beautifully. I’m pleased.”
    â€œPleased?” asked Glee, turning to take in the whole space, gazing at the library balcony. “It’s first-rate, simply stunning. I can’t wait to get a photographer in here. Mark, it’s page-one material, Sunday’s Trends section.”
    â€œGreat idea, Glee. It’s quite a house. And now, perhaps you’d like to meet the proud owner.” I escorted her across the room, around Neil, toward the fireplace, where Gillian still stood, erect and queenly.
    â€œWith pleasure,” Glee assured me.
    â€œGillian,” I said, “I’d like you to meet the Register’s features editor, Glee Savage. And, Glee, this is Gillian Reece of Ashton Mills.”
    The two women each took a step toward the other, pausing some six feet apart.
    â€œGlee?” said Gillian, stepping closer. “Glee Buttles?”
    Glee closed the distance between them,