― Willow Madison
I’m living the good life in an exclusive penthouse suite with Brock Hamilton, declared to be the most elligible bachelor by Fortune Magazine.
I’ve got to admit I sometimes find it difficult because other women tend to get jealous of our relationship and just last week one of the client’s wives referrred to me as a ‘kept woman’.
I never heard the term before and had to actvate my archive of stored data to find out what it meant. Basically, it means that I’m Brock’s mistress rather than his wife.
How insulting!
Brock has always told me I was his partner although I found it strange that he insisted I use my maiden name especially on all correspondence and when dealing with clients, but I’m sure there’s a good reason for that.
I shouldn’t pay attention to gossip but my receptors picked up a conversation between two partners’ wives at the a cocktail party where they sarcastically referred to me as ‘submissive’ and a ‘regressive’ who typified the traditional female stereotype of the dumb blonde.
They lughed about my romantic notions.
But I really do enjoy listening to cool Jazz, dancing sambas in moonlight, and going on shopping jaunts for jewelry and designer gowns. It’s just—well, I wish Brock would listen to me now and then.
I’d like to talk to him about things that interest me.
But I’m being selfish again. I need to be constantly reminded of my place.
I’ll do better tonight—I really will. Brock deserves it.
Precisely at seven the doorbell rings. I admit the caterers.
Finger foods and a hot buffet, Brock specified. Most people will prefer to drink. Circulate. And speak only when spoken to.
I nurse a martini and try to look elegant.
Brock arrives a few minutes later. His eyes light up.
“You look spectacular. You’ll make a big splash tonight. Just remember—be understated, and pay attention to Jon Draper—even if he gets randy after a few drinks. It’ll drive Elle and Sara crazy.”
“But I don’t want them to be angry at me, Brock.”
“Let them eat their hearts out. Don’t worry about them.”
“What about your other guests?”
“Stay aloof—keep the mystery—especially, with men. Be polite to the women, and circulate. It’s all small talk anyway—nothing of significance will be said.”
I nod taking it all in, but inwardly, I’m feeling overwhelmed.
Fitting into human society is not as easy as my AI programming had led me to believe.
It will be a long night.