Pamela didn't understand what she'd done to deserve this again.
Why she was back here in this same situation.
She was a good person.
Well…OK, perhaps that was up to interpretation.
Pamela supposed most people had enough gauge of their own moral compass to decide that for themselves—decide where they stood on the ethics spectrum. And that's not to say Pamela was a psychopath, devoid of any empathy or common emotional decency, no, she was simply a woman with a holistic understanding of her own temperament. One who could easily identify her demons, but had no expectations of ever taming them. Pamela chose to dedicate her energy elsewhere, to tasks in need of more immediate attention. She could stand herself, and at the end of the day, what else really mattered? Whose opinion was she supposed to value above her own?
What she couldn't stand, however, was yet another morning that began like this. While it was true beginning the workday with an argument was not uncommon, Pamela typically got paid for those.
"There's nothing here under that name."
Pamela stopped typing, looking up from her phone like he'd just made a very poor joke. "You're kidding."
He wasn't kidding. She knew that. This was simply the routine they'd established, and at this point, she felt obligated to play her role.
"Isley, right?"
"Yes, Isl—Christ!" Pamela slammed her phone down on the counter, undeterred by the fact that the surface was glass. "It's not rocket science! It's not even 8th-grade-level-fucking-algebra! It's a skirt! A single skirt that I need pressed. That's it! Why is that so hard? Why do we do this every week? Should I call Dante up? Have I finally reached my own private circle of hell?"
The man shrugged, seemingly unfazed. "If I don't see it, it's not here."
"With all due respect, Sir." She was momentarily distracted when her phone vibrated loudly on the glass with a text notification. "Which is none, evidently…"
Selina: When are you coming in?
Pamela banged out a quick reply as she continued. 10 minutes. "…you have a sign on your door stating this is a 'proud, Christian business'."
"And?"
"And, I'd say that makes your statement claiming 'seeing is believing' a tad disingenuous." She slipped her phone back into her purse. "The skirt was $175. I'll be back this afternoon to pick up my reimbursement." And with that, she turned, tossing her now-empty coffee cup in the trash and letting the door swing shut behind her.
Pamela didn't believe in the social cast system the way her parents did. But even so, that man was clearly not her peer. And yet, every day, he asserted himself without apology. Despite the fact that he was clearly in the wrong. Under different circumstances, Pamela would have perhaps found it admirable, even, the depths his incompetence and entitlement both reached. But he was costing her money, and she simply hadn't the patience for that.
"Idiot," Pam mumbled, using her key fob to unlock her tesla and tossing her purse into the passenger seat. "And buy a recycling can."
Of all her many adversaries, that man there, the dry cleaner, he was her nemeses. There would be a day in their future when she would end their dance, smite him where he stood, ruin him and everything he held dear.
…but today was not that day. Today, Pamela was late.
She sped off towards the office, her wheels screeching as she pulled away.
"You have two missed calls," a robotic female voice rang out through the speaker system.
"From who?" Pam asked, aware that wasn't the right command, but too frustrated at how her morning was going to care.
"From Lillian Isley," the voice responded, somehow understanding her meaning.
Pam rolled her eyes. "Delete."
"Call back?"
"DE-LETE!"
"Calling Lillian Isley."
"You piece of sh—,"
"Pamela?"
She gripped the steering wheel tighter at the sound of her Mother's voice.
"Pamela, are you there?"
Pamela had to forcibly unclench her jaw before she could respond. "Yes, I'm here." she painted on a smile, something the esteemed Lillian Isley always required. Nothing was more important than falsified happiness. "Good morning, Mother. I noticed you called."
"Goodness," Lillian laughed to herself, though there was little humor in the sound. "I hardly even recognized your voice. Why is it you sound like some yankee?"
Sighing, Pamela said, "I've been living among them, Mother. These things are natural. Anyway, I don't have much time. Simply returning your call," she kept her tone clip. "How can I help you?"
"I call you often," Lillian pointed out. "Responses are few and far between. Calls back are even rarer. From you, anyway. Typically, these menial tasks are allocated to your secretary."
In every one of Pamela's bi-annual conversations with her mother, they would eventually reach a crossroads. This crossroads. An opportunity for Pamela to either ignore the subtle jab at her personal relationships, or to rage against it. On this day, she was far too aggravated to take anything lying down.
"That woman was a lot of things to me, Mother. 'Secretary' wasn't one of them."
"Fine." Pamela could hear her Mother waving off the correction, even through the phone. "Personal assistant. It's such a minute distinction, Pamela, really. For someone who's in a hurry, I'm surprised you wasted your precious time—,"
"Why did you call, Mother?" Pam cut her off, making the final turn towards her office, just ready to be done at this point. "I'm late for my meeting."
"Well, I thought you might like to know your Father has landed himself back in the hospital," Lillian informed her, her passive aggression palpable. "Not that you ever truly cared about his health…but he wanted me to let you know, and like the attentive wife I am, I obeyed."
Pam rolled her eyes, phoning in her answer, "What terrible news."
"Yes," her mother's tone was cold. "I can tell you're positively distraught."
"Mm…mhm," Pam distractedly acknowledged, showing her badge to the security guard at the gate and heading towards her parking spot. "Another heart attack?"
"The doctors aren't quite sure what it is, honestly. But—,"
"Well, let me know when you find out," Pamela cut her off. "Tell Daddy I'm praying for a speedy recovery."
Her mother scoffed. "When was the last time you prayed?"
"Shucks, ya got me there, Mother," she mocked. "Always nice to catch up."
Pamela ended the call before she got a response.
When she emerged from the elevator on the top floor a few minutes later, Barbara immediately shot up from her chair.
"Ms. Isley!" she nearly shouted, startling Pamela only enough to inspire a raised eyebrow. "Mr. Wayne has left me four messages this morning. He really needs to see you in his office."
Pam sighed as she dropped her purse and coat on the younger woman's desk. "Barbara, honey, can I give you a piece of personal and professional advice?"
"Um, well, yeah, but—,"
"Never let a man dictate your time," Pam told her, uninterested in her protests.
"But, Ms. Isley…he's your boss," Barbara reminded her.
"Yes," Pam acknowledged. "Just like I am your boss. And yet, you've already called me "Ms" twice in this very brief conversation."
Barbara's face blushed red enough to match Pamela's hair. "Dr. Isley. I'm so sorry."
Pam smiled, taking her hand to pat it condescendingly. "Better." She passed her by then, but turned on her heel before she made it too far down the hallway. "Barbara?"
"Yes, Ma'am?" she once again stood at attention.
"Have I ever once asked you to contact my mother?"
Barbara scrunched her freckled nose in confusion. "Um…no, Ma'am. I was under strict orders to block all her calls."
That brought a smile to Pam's face, her first organic one all morning. "Perfect. Let's keep it that way."
Barbara nodded, bobbing head until she reached her seat, and Pam began in the direction of Mr. Wayne's office, the clacking of her stilettos echoing off the copper, epoxy finished flooring.
She could see him sitting behind his desk through the glass walls of his office, his wife on the couch, her legs crossed elegantly, pinstriped skirt suit obviously well-taken care of—dry-cleaned.
Bruce Wayne was a "good man". And yes, the mental air quotes were mandatory, Pamela made sure to insert them whenever she thought about him. He held himself in high ethical regard…but in reality, was a liar and a crook just like the rest of them. He just did it with an even hand and a handsome smile, his square jaw and broad chest the universal symbols of trustworthy men everywhere. Even-keeled leadership. A man in control. The good king. The hero of every story, just by default. He had the benefit of even his down doubt, and that, Pamela thought, was quite an impressive feat.
Then again, it's plausible his boy scout reputation would have remained slightly more genuine had he married a woman with less dubious ambition. Everything you needed to know about Selina Kyle, you could see in her face. Her bright green always offered a mischievous glint, a plan developing behind them, the color a stark contrast against her dark olive skin, while her lips were drawn into a seemingly permanent, scheming smirk. Like Pamela, she had long ago arrived at a comfortable understanding of who she was but took the process of self-acceptance one step further—offering her demons a seat at the table rather than simply tolerating them.
"Don't start with me, Bruce," Pamela said, neglecting to knock and simply entering, before he could even open his mouth. "Either of you, actually. I've had a day."
"Pamela, it's 9am."
She ignored him, turning her attention to Selina instead. "What would it cost for someone to commission a psychological case study, do you think?"
"On your mother?" was Selina's educated guess.
"Well, yes, I'm sure that would be rather illuminating," Pam acquiesced. "But no, I was thinking about my dry-cleaner."
"God, is that still going on? Get another dry-cleaner, Pamela." Selina clearly had little patience for these antics this morning.
Pamela postured. "What? You expect me to drive another four blocks to a less convenient location just because of his incompetence?"
"As opposed to launching a psychological study? Yeah, that seems like the more reasonable option."
"Remind me what your problem with your mother is, again?" Bruce attempted to jump in. His mother died when he was young, and as a result, he felt the need to live vicariously through every mother-child relationship he came across, regardless of any obvious dysfunction.
Pam sighed, taking a seat next to Selina on the couch. "My Mother is a wealthy, southern bigot of the most stereotypical variety. One who has made it extremely clear what she thinks of my lifestyle."
"Which lifestyle is that?" Selina followed up. "The one where you sleep with any and every muscular woman who looks like she'd be able to pin you to a wall?"
Pam crossed her legs, leaning back. "I resent that implication, Selina…you know I don't discriminate based on muscularity. And the position really isn't all that important."
"Speaking of which…" Bruce attempted a smooth segue. "Kane—opens her season in three weeks, do you have a challenger for me?"
"I thought 'challenge' wasn't exactly the intent here," Pam pointed out.
"An opponent, then," Bruce rephrased. "I need someone who's going to put asses in the seats."
Pamela rolled her eyes. "I know what you need, Bruce, that's my job."
"Then who do you have?" Selina asked, distractedly running a hand through her short black hair, twirling it as best she could around her finger.
"A rookie out of Central," Pam told them. "Brand new, just qualified, but she's big in the underground leagues."
Bruce rapped his knuckles on the glass surface of his desk, clearly annoyed by her proposal. "I'd like to avoid filling my arena with that crowd, Pamela. Believe it or not, I'm running a business here. The goal is to actually make money off of this fight."
"When did I suggest lowering ticket prices?" Pam challenged, though her body language remained relaxed.
Selina didn't exactly seem thrilled either, but she still asked, "What's her name?"
"Harleen Quinzel. She's violent, she's eccentric…terribly undisciplined. Most importantly, though, she's got that community behind her," Pam said. "They turn up to watch her fight nobodies and amateurs every week. I'm sure they'll open their wallets to watch her take on the defending champion. That's an opportunity no fan's gonna pass up."
Bruce's brow furrowed, his dark eyebrows scrunching together. "What do you mean 'every week'?"
"Her coach has had her fight once a week for the last two years straight," Pam clarified what she thought was already a pretty straight-forward sentence.
"Jesus." Selina looked somewhere between alarmed, impressed, and disguised. "What's she on? cocaine?"
Pam shrugged. "All her tests come back clean."
"Well, those are Central tests she's passing," Bruce felt the need to remind them. "You'd be amazed what slips through the cracks."
Pam wished she'd been recording this particular conversation for Barbara, as this was a prime example of why she found men exhausting. "Again, I'm aware, Bruce. Did you forget who you're talking to?"
"Just have her tested before you schedule it," he brusquely concluded, rather than give Pam the apology she felt she deserved. "I'm not spending a penny on advertising until it's locked in."
"So what do you think? Let her go two rounds?" Selina asked, eager to get into her aspect of the business.
"That's up to you," Bruce told her.
"Have you talked to Kane?" Selina directed her question at Pam.
"Not yet, but we've got a working lunch today," Pam answered, getting to her feet and dusting herself off (despite the absence of any dust).
Bruce rolled his eyes, both at Pam and the blinking call waiting on his phone. "Of course you do."
Pamela chuckled as she turned towards the door. "You'd be lost without me, Mr. Wayne."
"Lost…but far less vulnerable to sexual harassment claims," Bruce countered.
"I'm a double-edged sword, Darlin'." Pam sent a wink over her shoulder at him.