Chloe

My desk at work is one smooth sheet of inch—thick glass. It's called a waterfall. It's utterly simple and uncomplicated, and every night when I leave my office, I leave that surface perfectly clear. Free of stress.

Gleaming.

So when I walk in this morning and see what appears to be a bound report lying open on my otherwise beautifully empty desktop, I am not happy.

There goes my chi. And it's only seven a.m.

I can tell from across the room that the page has been highlighted in a shade of day—glo pink so bright it hurts my eyes.

It still hurts my eyes.

Whatever this document is, someone has helpfully previewed the contents for me.

I stow my tote bag in the closet, pulling out my laptop, cell phone, and my heels.

I push my empty cardboard container of coffee far down in the small rattan wastebasket. At O, the women's spa

and so much more

where I am director of design, visual clutter is not in keeping with corporate standards. My next coffee this morning will be sipped from company china: a white mug outlined with a pale grey rim. O.

Just…O.

Sitting in my chair, I squint at the alarmingly pink page. It's the color of Pepto—Bismol. I doubt that's a coincidence.

Access: The Consolidated Evalu—shop team conducted its initial assessment of O's flagship location in downtown Boston at 11:30 am on a weekday. As our vehicle approached the retail shop, it became apparent that neither street parking spaces nor garage facilities were available within an easy walk of the entrance. Investigators were forced to park two blocks away in a metered space requiring $2 in quarters for two hours, with no refill option after time expired. Grade: C.

Recommendation: Complimentary valet parking service should be instituted at the door immediately.

Sigh.

Okay, the good news: Operations at O are not my area of responsibility. The not—so—good news: Presentation is. Once you enter our door, if you can see it, I am responsible for it. And now it seems that my spa—my career baby—has been deemed average.

Average. Grade C. Middle of the bell curve.

I flip quickly to Section 3 and skim down the page. Thankfully, no highlighter. I can open my eyes. A random paragraph reads:

Staff Attire: Servers

Male

Our team unanimously awarded very high marks in this area. The male thongs were clearly custom—made, and without exception, well—fitting. They were constructed in such a way as to reveal the positive attributes of each server, at the same time leaving the most intimate details to the club member's imagination until intentionally revealed. The servers' short kimono jackets were chic and serviceable; the motion of the fabric and open style of the jacket captured and held the viewer's interest. Very high—quality materials. Grade: A

Great. Let's translate this, shall we? The nearly—naked men get an A, the facilities get a C. Sex sells. Parking doesn't.

And there's more. Over one hundred pages more.

We've been mystery—shopped.

Being the subject of a mystery shop evaluation is like standing naked in front of your future in—laws with your credit report taped all over your body and lie—detector tests from all your exes being read over an intercom. In the middle of church.

While standing in a pool of sharks.

Or maybe it just seems that bad. I'm not sure. But I do know there's no way I can read this much pink without more coffee.

And some Xanax—flavored creamer.

A C? I'm that kid who never earned a C in her life. Failure starts with C!

Okay, so, technically it starts with F, and right now, another word that starts with F is coming out of my mouth as I read this secret shopper evaluation that is longer than my college senior honors thesis.

I live for O.

Don't misunderstand. You've heard of O, right?

We've been written up in every lifestyle publication from A to Z. Boston trendsetter Jessica Coffin Instagrams about us regularly—although I'm never quite sure whether she's being sincere or snarky, and sometimes I suspect she's on retainer. This is from yesterday's feed from Jessica: Standing O.

O is a twenty—first century club for sophisticated women. A fourth space for women of a discerning taste.

Home is the first space. Work is the second space. Third spaces are locations like coffee shops and malls.

O is the fourth space. The space where you can arrive. Rest. Relax. Indulge. Be someone you can't be in the other three spaces.

Based on our membership rates, we're onto something. Our investors are, shall we say, pleased.

O does have a public presence, thanks to our retail environments. In Boston, Chicago, San Francisco, and soon in New Orleans, sophisticated consumers can spend hours—and hundreds of dollars—browsing our selection of "elegant accessories for intimate pleasure."

That's right—sex toys. That's what the masses call them. Except at O, we cater to a clientele that doesn't want to be one of the hoi polloi. They want to be unique. In the know. Enlightened and cosmopolitan on the surface.

But a wildcat down…below.

Which makes a Grade C unacceptable. No one wants to be average.

Especially down below.

"'Trying too hard'?" I read aloud, my words coming out like a bark, my fingernails curling and biting into my palms. "How dare they!"

The last time we were mystery shopped, the review began with superlatives that turned my ego into a hot air balloon.

This new eval? More like a Patriots football.

I read on for a very long time, forcing my face to relax.

Every O has its levels. We begin with apparel. Think of it as gift—wrapping—who doesn't love to unwrap a beautiful package? Gently tugging off the ribbon, sliding a fingernail underneath the glossy paper, slowly lifting the lid and spreading open the rustling layers of tissue paper to reveal the delicious surprise beneath. We offer both lingerie and street—wear boutiques.

"The clothing seems a bit out of date and not accessible to the average woman," I whisper—read, wondering who wrote that? There was that word again. Average. We don't cater to the average woman! Our boutiques carry every size fathomable, and designers from Milan you've never heard of

but will next season

have exclusive pre—season visits with us to make decisions about their lines. We don't follow trends.

We set them.

But it's not just about merchandise. O is a destination. All our retail spaces include stylish bookstore cafés, where our clientele can sip espresso with a twist of lemon peel from tiny cups while reading masterpieces of erotic literature. Famous authors spend nearly a year on our bookstore signing wait lists to get a crack at access to our members

and their purchasing power and buzz

.

O's clients enjoy meeting a friend here after work for a sparkling glass of prosecco, and sparkling conversation about who gets to use that new toy on whom tonight, without the annoying meat—market feel of a bar.

And if you happen to want a little meat? We have another bar on site for that, except this meat doesn't hit on you.

It serves you.

That white china cup of black coffee descends onto my desk as if delivered from a crane. I look up, and up, at a wall of flesh that makes my morning just a little more tolerable.

"Oh, Henry, thank you. I really need this."

"I can see that. You look a little frazzled. And it's only nine o'clock." He lowers himself into a white upholstered armchair facing my desk, his brow wrinkled with concern, as I blink. I've been mired in all the ways O disappointed a mystery shopping team for the past two hours. No wonder I'm exhausted.

Henry Holliday is seriously seven feet tall. He is my 'work husband.' Ginger hair, green eyes, and the muscular physique that his somewhat unique job requires. Henry is a master masseur in the O Club spa, and fills in occasionally as a performer for private parties. Dancing is in his body and soul. And it pays the tuition for his brain: Henry is working on his master's degree in public health at Harvard.