It is a nice statement, don’t you think? It assures you that regardless of in which corner of our turbulent world you are, if you are in need or in peril and a fellow sister is nearby, she will help you.
It gives me the creeps.
I will not disclose my real name for privacy reasons. Suffice to say that I work in Moscow, as an estate agent. In the light of recent events (and with all the oligarchs flooding back to the country because their assets got frozen) work has been piling high with people wanting to find a residence. The real estate agency I work in is dealing with the most horrible and snobbiest of customers: financiers, (pseudo)-celebrities, important and not-so important politicians. The kind that looks down on you and thinks you should be filled with euphoria for just standing in their presence, let alone accommodating them. If the amount of self-entitlement I encountered would be converted into dollars, I would have retired half a year ago.
All of my colleagues and supervisors are male. Our dress code is business, which means I have to slather on make up and climb on heels every morning. And once I made it very clear that I will not suck dick or bend over to get a promotion, they have slowly but steadily pushed me into answering emails or responding to calls from irritated clients. I was dreaming of making my first big sale and showing those chauvinist pigs what a woman can do, but all I had was complaints about the wrong shade of pink of the kitchen tiles -“It looked different when we looked around the place, now it is an entirely different kind of pink, we do not like that shade of pink, you have to reimburse us for the renovation we have to do because those kitchen tiles are unacceptable!” and frantic screaming about a faucet dripping -“Just call the front desk and they’ll sent out a plumber to your unit” “What is a front desk, how do I call it, YOU ARE JUST TRYING TO GET ME TO DROP THE CALL AND LEAVE ME WITH A DRIPPING FAUCET, WHAT IS YOUR NAME, WHO IS YOUR SUPERVISOR” “The phone number of the front desk of your building is on the last page of your lease” “NO THERE ISN- oh yes. WELL YOUR COMPANY SHOULD HAVE MADE IT MORE OBVIOUS SO I DONT HAVE TO CALL YOU”.
You get the idea.
Then one morning she walked in. One of our many clients. I am by no means a lesbian, but even I stopped doing what I was doing (answering yet another complaint about something about the bushes in front of a property not being trimmed for over three days, the outrage!) and couldn’t help but stare at her. The murmur of conversations died down as colleagues and supervisors turned their attention to the woman entering our office.
She was..I wouldn’t say beautiful, but definitely a sight to behold. Long naturally wavy hair of that red colour other women would kill for, green eyes that always looked slightly narrowed, a smile full of teeth so white she legit looked like one of those American actresses from the Hollywood movies of the 90s (think Pretty Woman). She was wearing a black dress that left no advantage of her curvy figure unnoticed and high heels. In her movements laid the grace of a predator, lazing around just after a good meal. In other words, a sex bomb. And the guys gobbled it up, staring at her like this was the first woman they have seen in their life.
I scoff and return to my email, assuring the worried tenant that the trimming of the bushes is on a strict schedule provided by the building manager and there is nothing to worry about when suddenly I see a finely manicured hand with red pointy nails (of course) rest on my table.
“Are you available?”
Her voice carried a strange, deep vibration that was strangely sensual. And of course my immediate boss was standing near her, cooing towards her that all the experienced agents were at her disposal while trying to guide her away from my table. The dickhead. Even now, when this could be my very first sale, he tried to sabotage me.
“Yes, of course” I said, holding her gaze.
She turned towards my boss still gushing about how they will cater to her every whim, narrowed those feral green eyes of hers and with a tone not allowing any contradiction she responded “I want her” and sat down across me.
I tried to hold back my triumphant smile as my boss walked away staring daggers at me. My very first client! I swore to myself that I would do all I could to not squander that chance.
My very fist client obviously picked up the dynamics between me and the boss, the fake smile he put up as she looked at him walking away didn’t do much to conceal his true feelings. She winked at me before giving me a grin of those strangely pointy white teeth and tossing her red hair over her shoulder “Us girls have to stick together, right?”.
Politely, I nodded an of course before pulling up the paperwork needed to register her in our database. As I learned, she had her money from several meat production factories and was looking for a place strictly for herself, secluded. She did not have any children nor pets. Her name was apparently Lamia -I actually blinked once as I typed it in, but then shrugged it off mentally, people give their children the weirdest of names - I even once saw a wedding dress named Lamia being promoted.
“Any specific requests of your new apartment, Miss Lamia?”
“It MUST have a built in storage room. This is non-negotiable. I will not accept anything else”.
I nodded and typed it in, word for word. “Any other preferences? A bathtub? A parking lot? How much rooms does your apartment need to have? Do you have a preferred price range you are willing to pay?”
At all those questions she just smiled and shrugged. “Irrelevant”. Anxious to drive my first client away through too much pushing I smiled back and told her I will be contacting her as soon as possible. She smiled and with an “I am looking forward to it” she bode me farewell. As she left the building , the room erupted in a loud whistling and cheering of my colleagues discussing her ass, thighs, tits and what not else (their words, not mine). I just kept staring at the screen at the file of my very first client. This was not much to go with, wasn’t it? The residence has to have a built in storage room. That’s it. No specific demands of kitchen tiles being the one and only shade of pink, no demands of bushes being cut every three days. Just a built in storage room. That shouldn’t be too hard, right?
I could not have been more wrong.