A Wild Affair (29 page)

“And all that crap about you and him. As if you would … As if you and he …” Max looked at me uncomfortably. “I never believed it. Not for a minute.”

“No?” I asked, my heart thudding in my chest uneasily.

“No,” he said firmly. “Not my Jessica. You know, you were right about something.”

“I was?”

Max nodded. “You're nothing like your mother. And I couldn't be happier about it.”

“Me too,” I said breathlessly. “God, me too.”

TO SAY THAT I CAME BACK to earth with a bump the next day is about as big an understatement as saying that I was quite relieved that Max and I were okay. Sure, I was upset about my mother; sure, I got an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach every time I remembered her broken expression. But that was her fault, not mine; I had to focus on things that were more important. Like Max. Like the fact that we were planning our wedding again. Like the fact that the business was booming again and everything was back to normal. To be honest, I was ecstatic. I was so relieved I could hardly breathe. And it wasn't just “us” I was happy for; it was Max. Chester, true to his word, had not just taken out a double-page spread in
Advertising Today
, but he'd also taken all the banner ads in the online version and had written an open letter to the newspaper explaining his mistake. By 9
A.M.
, he'd called all our clients who'd immediately come scurrying back to us, and by 9:30
A.M.
he called triumphantly to tell Max that Hugh Barter's “ass has been fired from Scene It. That guy won't work again in this town, I can tell you that.” Max was himself again—over breakfast he'd been striding around purposefully, his shoulders back up where they used to be. He was confident, he was energized, he was happy. And he was also panicking.

“The launch is scheduled for next week,” he said, as we pulled into the parking lot at work. “We need people.”

“We need a venue,” I said.

“A venue? We don't have a venue?” His eyes widened.

“We had to cancel it,” I explained. “Otherwise we would have had to pay for it and …” I cringed, not wanting to go into detail.

Max nodded worriedly. “Okay, so we need a new venue.”

“And caterers.”

“Caterers?”

I nodded. “And …” I dug out my list. “Invitations, goody bags, posters, other signage, a PA system, lighting …”

“So why the hell are we still in the car?” Max interrupted anxiously. “Why the hell did we have a long breakfast? We should have been in hours ago. We need to get going. We need to …”

“We'll be fine,” I said, putting my hand on his leg and smiling. “Leave it to me and Caroline, okay?”

“Okay,” Max said, kissing me gratefully, then jumping out of the car. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will.”

I followed him into the building and relayed the news to Caroline—first the great news about Chester, then what it meant for our workload. Her eyes lit up, then she clapped her hands, then her mouth opened, then her face went white.

“But we canceled everything,” she gasped.

“We kind of have to uncancel it,” I said, attempting a smile. “The launch has got to be next week.”

Caroline nodded uncertainly and picked up the phone. “Uncancel it,” she said to herself. “Okay then.”

Two minutes later, she wheeled her chair over to my desk. “Not so easy to uncancel,” she said, biting her lip.

I frowned. “It's not?”

“The venue's gone.”

“Gone?” I felt the blood drain from my face. “Oh shit.”

Caroline nodded.

“Okay, try another day next week. It doesn't have to be the same day—we haven't sent out the invitations yet. Try every day next week, okay?”

“Right,” Caroline said firmly. “Right you are.”

A couple of minutes later, she was back again. This time her expression was even more desperate. “I tried every day next week but it's fully booked. Our caterers have got jobs too. The printer won't be able to get the invitations out for another week. The lighting guy's busy, too.”

I fell back against my chair. “Oh God. Oh bloody hell.”

“There's one piece of good news,” she said quickly.

“There is?” My eyebrows shot up expectantly.

“Signage. The signage people can still do it. Actually, they were really pleased because they didn't know what they were going to do with all the Project Handbag posters and place cards and floor tiles and stuff.”

“Right,” I said, my eyebrows falling again. “So we have signage then.” In my mind's eye I could see us on a street corner somewhere, pinning posters to lampposts, doing a quick run to Burger King for food. It was a disaster. It was a complete and utter disaster.

“That's good, isn't it?” Caroline said hopefully. “I mean, that's a start.”

I took a deep breath. “It's a great start,” I said, trying to mean it. “And don't worry—we'll come up with something. Don't you worry at all.”

“Worry about what?” I turned around to see Anthony standing behind me. “What's up, Jess. Anything I can help with?”

I shook my head irritably. “You're still here? Now that you're not needed anymore to save the day?”

Anthony pretended to look offended, then shrugged. “I just like to help,” he said, smiling easily. “So Caroline, how do you like working here? You and I should have lunch sometime. I can tell you how we started. You know we used to be located above a fish-and-chip shop?”

“I'm sure Jess can fill her in,” Marcia said, appearing out of nowhere. She smiled frostily at Caroline. “Can't you, Jess?”

“Actually she's already told me,” Caroline said seriously. “And lunch sounds, like, great, but I'm like really really busy, so you know, probably not a good idea.” She shot Anthony an apologetic smile.

“Lunch?” Marcia said, spinning around to face Anthony accusingly. “You were going to take her out to lunch?”

“All three of us,” Anthony said quickly. “Don't be like that, Marcia.”

“Like what? First you insist on coming back to this crummy firm even though I made it perfectly clear I wanted to stay in Mauritius for another few weeks, and now you're hanging around Jess-boring-Wild and asking this bimbo out to lunch? I mean, puh-lease.” She folded her arms angrily.

“Marcia,” Anthony protested. “Marcia, come on, honey …”

But he trailed off, because as he was speaking, Caroline stood up and walked toward Marcia, a look in her eye that I'd never seen before. She looked angry. She looked assertive. She looked amazing. “Actually,” she said, her voice silky but low, “I'm not a bimbo, I'm an advertising executive. And Jessica isn't boring. She's the opposite of boring—she's clever and funny and generous and kind, and she's the best boss I've ever had. Actually, she's the only boss I've ever had, but that doesn't matter because she's still brilliant. And as for Milton Advertising, it isn't crummy. It's about as far from crummy as you are from getting into Boujis. So if you don't mind, I think you should go now because
we're very busy organizing the launch event for Project Handbag. Okay?”

She stared at Marcia; they were only about a foot away from each other by this point. Marcia opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. Then, her lips beginning to quiver, she grabbed Anthony. “We're out of here,” she said, her voice catching slightly. “I never wanted to come here anyway. Come on, Anthony. Come
on.”

She sniffed loudly; Anthony turned and meekly followed her out of the building. I, meanwhile, couldn't wipe the huge smile off of my face.

“What happened?” I asked her in amazement. “I've never heard you like that!”

Caroline smiled and sat down. “Was I like okay?” she asked, her eyes wide and sparkling. “It's this lipstick,” she confided. “Your mother told me that if I wore darker lipstick I'd like feel way more confident and assertive. She said I had to, like, learn to stand up for myself because I'm single, and single women can't depend on men to defend us.”

“She said that?” I asked, frowning. I'd been trying not to think about my mother. Been trying to resist the urge to call her all morning.

Caroline nodded, then she went slightly red. “I meant it, too. You know, about you being the best boss.”

“Oh, don't be silly,” I said, blushing myself. “I'm a terrible boss. We've got a launch event next week and nowhere to hold it.”

Caroline nodded sagely. “I'll get on it,” she said seriously, sitting down at her desk again. “We'll find someplace.”

I sighed and turned back to my computer but was interrupted by the phone. Half expecting, half hoping that it was Mum, I picked it up immediately.

“Hello?”

“Jess! You're there! I have been trying you for like … well forever.”

I reddened guiltily. “Giles. Sorry. I've been kind of … busy.” The truth was that I'd been avoiding his calls. I hadn't been able to break the news to him that the wedding was off, not again. And now I wouldn't have to, I realized happily.

“Busy? What do you think I've been doing—filing my nails?”

I giggled at the image. “No, Giles. I know you've been busy, too.”

“Yes,” he said, slightly defensively. “Yes I have, as it happens. Anyway, if you're interested in your wedding, I was ringing to give you an update.”

“I am interested. Very interested,” I said quickly. “And grateful,” I added. “Truly and utterly.”

“Good,” Giles said, sounding slightly mollified. “Well then, the venue is all set. They're painting the walls to go with the sunflower theme and we're covering all the chairs with this lovely silk damask. Lovely. Not too froufrou, just enough purple in it to add a … oh, never mind. Just trust me, it's fabulous. The flowers you know about—suffice it to say the enchanted forest and glowing sunset are going to be beyond beyond. If your guests don't cry in appreciation, then you should ax them from your life. Now, one question. I've got a lighting crew all set up for the reception, but how would you feel about a spotlight on you and Max during the ceremony? Following you up the aisle, that sort of thing?”

“A spotlight? You've got a lighting crew at our wedding?”

“Yes, of course,” Giles said, sounding offended. “My flowers aren't going to be ruined by overhead strip lighting and you can't trust venues to know the first thing about enhancing and highlighting.”

“What about catering?”

“Darling, we've been through this before. Tell me you're not having second thoughts about the menu, please. I've been through it with them five times now and I thought we had it settled.”

“Sure, sure,” I said, my mind racing. “So, we've got a venue, we've got caterers, we've got lighting. And the invitations?”

There was a long silence. “The invitations were with you. You sent them, right? I mean, you did send them?”

I bit my lip. I could visualize them, in a pile on Max's bureau. Then I took a deep breath. “Not exactly.”

“Not … ex …” Giles broke off—he was making a strange rasping noise.

“Giles? Are you okay?” I asked concernedly.

“Ahhh. Nooo. Paper bag. Need paper bag. You … you didn't send the … Oh, no, there we are …” I heard him breathing in and out, and a strange flapping noise—presumably the paper bag.

“You're having a panic attack?”

“You didn't send the invitations?” There was more rasping, more breathing, more flapping.

“No,” I said carefully. “But listen, Giles, I think actually it might be a good thing. There might be a little change of plan.”

“Change? What sort of change?”

“How would you feel about being the creative director not of the Wild-Wainwright wedding but of the Project Handbag launch?”

Giles coughed. “What? I'm sorry, what?”

“I'll explain later,” I said. “Just … send all the details over. No, damn that. Come to the office for a meeting and I'll fill you in then. Okay?”

“Okay,” he said dubiously. “Am I going to need the paper bag?”

“Better bring it just in case.” I grinned, then put down the phone and waved at Caroline. “We've got ourselves a venue,” I
said. “And caterers. And lighting. We just need to send out some invitations, but we can do that by email, right?”

“I suppose,” Caroline said dubiously. “How did you find somewhere at this short notice?”

“Thinking laterally,” I said, winking. “Now, I've got to go and find Max.”

Max looked at me in disbelief. “You want to cancel the wedding? I thought we were … I thought everything was okay?”

“It is,” I assured him. “This isn't about us.”

“It isn't?”

“No. Well yes, but no.”

“Jess, what are you talking about?” Max asked uncertainly.

I smiled. “It's about us because we're okay. Because we don't need to get married. I mean, we do and we will, but not because we have to, because we want to. We can do it next week or next year and it won't make any difference, you see. You do see, don't you?”

“I suppose,” Max said, his frown deepening.

“If we get Project Handbag right,” I continued, “we'll put the firm back on the map. And we can't let Chester down. We have to do this, Max. We have to do this well.”

“At the expense of our own wedding? Are you sure you want to do this?” Max looked at me searchingly and I smiled back.