At Mr. Cartwright's Command (12 page)

I nod and force a smile across my lips.

Melissa turns back towards me, leaning a hip against the door frame.  “I have an extra shirt in my car, it's about your size. It's nothing special but it's better than what you’ve got on right now,” she says with a comforting smile.

I smile right back.  “Thanks, I really appreciate it.”

“You don't have to thank me.  It's the least I can do,” she says before marching off.

All alone now, I slip back inside the bathroom, taking a deep breath as I glance at my reflection over the sink.  Damn, I look stressed, and I'm not even doing a good job at hiding it.  My face looks thinner – I didn't even realize I'd lost weight.  For the past handful of months I've pretty much buried myself in work. It's been the perfect escape from my feelings.  And yet, after all that work, my feelings waltzed right through the front door and planted himself in a chair just a few yards away.

I can do it. I
can
do this.  Why wouldn't I be able to?  I've been through worse and I've dealt with people a hundred times more nasty than Mr. Cartwright, and I still made it here.  So why would I think for a second that I couldn't deal with this?  Of course I can. It's a no-brainer.

So why does this sting worst of all?

I splash my face with some cool water, which surprisingly makes me feel a heck of a lot better.  There's a light rap at the door a few minutes later – it's Melissa, with her fresh shirt in tow which I quickly change into and head back into Connors office.  Those two are still seated right where they were before and neither of them bother to look me in the eye.

“Tamara, take a seat.  I'll need you to take notes so we can keep a schedule of all the preparations,” Connor instructs.

I nod and grab a planner as well as a notebook from behind his desk, sneaking a quick glimpse at some of Connor's random notes, doodles and sketches.  Good Lord, from the looks of it, these two are going all out for this.  The thought of them spending so much money on something that will probably last two years tops makes me stifle a laugh and for a moment, I feel just a little bit better about this whole fiasco.

Before I can even move to sit down I can feel
her
eyes on me like lasers, watching my every move.

I take my seat next to Connor.  Which also unfortunately happens to be directly across from Mr. Cartwright.  For a split second our eyes meet – in real time, I'm sure it lasted a fraction of a second, but for me it felt like it would never end.  I felt something sear through me just by looking at him, my stomach tying itself in knots.  It's a mix of betrayal, anger, pain, and in his eyes I swear I saw a flicker of sadness.  Maybe even longing. 

No. No, I didn't.  That's just me projecting again.  If I've learned anything at all about Mr. Cartwright it's that he's devoid of any emotions.

I let out a quiet sigh as I fiddle nervously with my pen, placing it against the paper.

“Well of course, my first concern is the dress,” Veronica says.  My eyes flicker up to her as she smooths her hair, slowly and meticulously.  And that's when I see it, just as the light catches it and almost blinds me.  The absurdly huge and gleaming diamond is probably twice the size of her bony finger.  And for the first time she makes a point to make eye contact with me, just driving it home.  She looks away dismissively, resting her ringed hand not-so-casually on her shoulder. 

I'd be willing to bet anyone ten bucks that she paid for that thing herself.

“Did you get that?” Connor asks.

I glance up at him, slightly startled and obviously in my own world. 

“Get what?”

He nearly rolls his eyes. “The date for Veronica's dress fitting.”

“Right,”  I nod.   “When is it again?”

Connors jaw sets.  “Two weeks from today.  Are you free?”

“Free to....?”

Connor blinks repeatedly and begins to look slightly agitated.  “
To be at her dress fitting
,” he parrots in an incredibly slow manner, like he's talking to a 3
rd
grader.

She seriously wants me at her dress fitting?  “What does she need me there for?” I ask, as if she isn't sitting just a few feet from me.

“Getting in and out of gowns. Schluffing dresses back and forth from the bridal shops in Manhattan to my fitting,” Veronica says, and I still refuse to look at her.  “You know, the kind of stuff you'd be good at doing.”

And so it begins.  It didn't take long for her catty side to lash out at me, did it?

Don't let it get to you. Just keep your eye on the prize and get your paycheck.  That's all this is!

“I'm pretty sure there are sales assistants to help with that.”

Veronica scoffs and replies, “No, I'm not having my fitting in some stuffy bridal shop.  That's obvious.  You'll be pulling a selection of gowns from some of the top designers in town and bringing them to my family's manor upstate.”

You have to be fucking kidding me.  Me, alone, in a house full of Veronicas?  Kill me now.

“Don't you have a stylist or personal shopper who does that?” I ask.  “I'm sorry, I don't think I'd be good at picking out gowns for you.”

“Well clearly,” she says, “Obviously, the gowns have already been selected.  I just need you to pick them up.  Is that too difficult for you, or no?”

If she says 'clearly' or 'obviously' one more time, I swear to God...

“It won't be a problem,” Connor chimes in with a healthy dose of glee. “She'll be there.  Anything at all that you two need, we are more than happy to provide.”

Yeah freakin' right.

“We're looking forward to it.”  She turns to Mr. Cartwright with a grin.  “Right honey?” she asks him, nudging him in the arm.

Mr. Cartwright replies with a less than enthusiastic, “Absolutely.”

I
can't help but wonder if Mr. Cartwright is doing all of this just to punish me. 

Every detail of the wedding is over-the-top and, frankly, quite garish.  The flower shop has handled more than a couple of weddings since I’ve worked there, and posh ones at that, but Connor is pouring over the most minute details of this one, and Melissa is one step away from pulling out her hair trying to deal with him and everything else.

One of the first orders of business is the cake tasting.  Connor recommended Ron Ben Israel, a ridiculously successful and exclusive New York baker who only takes a handful of weddings each month, and usually requires at least 12 months in advance.  Money talks, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised that Veronica and Mr. Cartwright were able to weasel their way into his schedule with only a little over a month's lead time.

Mr. Israel himself couldn’t be there, but the head baker as well as her assistant is here guiding the tasting. So remind me why
I'm
here again?  Oh, right, as Connor says “it's important to note every detail of what they like, dislike, and are lukewarm about”.  So in translation, because Veronica demanded that I be.

Mr. Cartwright and Veronica are seated at a small table with a variety of cake slices placed in front of them, almost all of them in different colors.  And yet, neither of them have taken a single bite yet.

“Well this one looks tasty,” Veronica says, eying a slice of lemon and poking it with her finger.  She brings the plate up to her nose and gives it a good sniff before placing it back on the table.  What the hell?

Mr. Cartwright looks distant and completely uninterested in cake.  “You pulled me out of an important meeting for this,” he mutters to her. 

“This is important,” she whispers.

“It's fucking
cake—
you've tasted one and you've tasted them all. Just pick a damn flavor.”

“Would you stop,” she replies through gritted teeth. “You're being awfully rude for no reason.”

Apparently, it's getting pretty chilly in hell right now because for once I actually agree with Veronica.

Suddenly she smiles, picking up a plate full of red velvet and shoves it towards me.  “Tamara, you look like a big eater, try this for us, please?”  she asks with a sardonic bat of her lashes.

For a moment, I stare at her incredulously.  She can't be serious right now?
They
can't be serious with this, can they?  Who the hell doesn't try their own wedding cake before spending thousands on it?

I hold up a hand to her, refusing it with as much grace as I can muster.  “I'm not really hungry.”

“This isn't a luncheon, it's a tasting. It's one bite,” she says.

“And it's your wedding.  Shouldn't you be the one to taste it?”

She cocks her head to the side.  “I have to fit into my dress,” she says with raised eyebrows. She looks me up and down. “Some of us watch our figures.  Maybe you should try it sometime?”

Someone just kill me now.

“Stop,” Mr. Cartwright seethes, catching us both off guard.  “Fucking stop,” he says to her.  The tension in the room looms like a thick fog.  Did I just hear him right? I think this is the first time I think I've seen him look her in the face.  For a moment, I didn't believe that he was directing that at her.

Veronica just stares back at him I shock.  “But I--”

“
Can you act like a human being for one fucking hour? It's just one hour,
” he continues, reprimanding her like a child. “Don't fucking speak to her like that. Her, or anyone else.  Do you understand that?”

I should smile and be happy that he put her in her place.  Hell, I probably have every right to laugh in her face, but I can't, even though I know she wouldn't hesitate to do the same to me.

Veronica's face goes rigid.  Her eyes narrow and for the first time I'm a bit frightened of her. “Fine, pick out your own damn cake,” she hisses, pushing an entire plate of red velvet right into the front of his suit. She pushes herself out from under the table and storms out of the bakery, her heels clicking against the tile floors as she goes.

Well, that went well.

Mr. Cartwright barely reacts.  He sits there for a moment staring down at the plate as everyone else stares at him in a mild state of shock.  The two bakers quietly retreat into the kitchen, leaving us alone up front.  He stands up, peeling the pate off of him and dropping it on the table.  His expensive suit is left covered in icing and cake crumbs. 

He looks up at me and says, “A little help maybe.”

I should help him. I should probably even feel a little bit sorry for him,  considering the fact that he was trying to defend me, I think. But I can't exactly muster any sympathy.

I simply blink and wrap my arms around my planner.  “You know, you didn't have to be so rude to her in public.”

Mr. Cartwright looks stunned.  “You have to be kidding me?”

I shake my head no.  “You were a bit of a jerk.  Jerks get covered I cake. Don't worry, it'll wash out.”

His eyes grow dark.  “You're an ungrateful little bitch, you know that?”

I'm not going to lie, his words sting.  Who does this asshole think he is? I want to scream at him, tell him that I don’t owe him a thing.  I want to hurl every obscenity at him, along with a few more slices of cake. And it takes all the restraint in my body not to.

I click my pen. “So the red velvet it is, then?”

*

“Tamara, come over here.  Pull up a seat.”

Like a deer in headlights, I'm caught dead in my tracks by Connor.

It's barely even 6am when I arrive at the flower shop the next morning.  For some reason, I thought if I got there super early I'd be able to avoid him –  clearly, I was wrong. Because the second I unlock the back door and sneak in I see him standing there in the dim light, already working hard on an arrangement.
Of course
he's here before anyone else.  Why wouldn't he be?  Having to work with not just Mr. Cartwright but his freaking fiance makes it easy to lose sight of the fact that he's planning a six figure wedding in only six weeks.  The pressure he's under is probably insurmountable, and yet he seems to be handling it coolly.  But after yesterday's fiasco I was hoping to avoid him completely.

He nods at one of the plush chairs on the other side of the room.  I hesitate at his insistence – is he about to break something to me? Let me down kindly? My heart races and  I'm quite sure that I'll be walking out of here unemployed.  Did Mr. Cartwright call him up and tell him what happened yesterday?  Why the hell did I think it was a smart idea to speak to him like that?  I think about how I'll handle it as I drag that heavy chair across the room, taking a seat in it just a few feet away from Connor and his magical creation.  He might be a little bit of a jerk but he's a creative jerk.

He steps back for a second, eying the arrangement with his chin in his hand.  “What's wrong with it?” he asks.

That's not
exactly
what I expected him to ask.  “Are you really asking me?”

He nods.  “Why wouldn't I?”

I'm flattered.  Confused, but flattered.  “Well, I don't exactly have your designers eye.”

“Of course you do. And this needs a fresh pair of eyes. It's missing something. I can't quite put my finger on it.”

“I...” my voice trails off as I study it with my eyes.  “Maybe the hydrangeas?”

He looks at me sideways and I instantly feel like I've over stepped my boundaries, despite the fact that he asked me for my opinion.  “What do you mean?”

I shrug and reply hesitantly, “I mean, it looks great but, you know, everyone uses them.  Maybe add some ranunculus and more peonies?”

He looks back at his creation, his eyebrow arching up before he smirks.  “You see, this is exactly why I asked you.  Genius!” he says, ripping the hydrangeas from the vase. “Grab me the ranunculus, please?”

I jump to my feet, sprinting across the room to retrieve a bucket full of multicolored flowers.  I help him sort the stems as he positions the new flowers in the vase.  It's like watching a magician work – quickly, with hands flailing all over and leaves flying, but when he finally steps back, it's a masterpiece.

We both need a moment just to take in the beauty of the arrangement.

“It's perfect!” he says with a chuckle. “It looks a million times better.”

And it does.  I'm pretty proud of it, until I remember who I'm making it for.

“See what I mean?  You'll be making your own arrangements soon.”

Is he serious?  I shake my head wildly.  “No, I don't think you want that! I'm not artistic at all.”

“Yeah you are, you just haven't realized it yet.  Don't be so quick to dismiss your abilities; you're more creative than you know.”

Now that has to be the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a while.  Compliments? I'm not really sure how to react to them.

“Thanks,” I reply shyly.

“You're blushing,” he kids, and we both laugh.

Eventually the laughing subsides into silence.  His eyes stay fixated on the arrangement, but I can tell something else is on his mind.  That's when I start to shift uncomfortably in my chair.

“Veronica told me about the cake tasting yesterday.”

“Oh yeah?  What did she say?” I ask, trying to play it cool.

“She said you instigated a fight between her and Mr. Cartwright.”

Oye.
  She
would
.  “That's not entirely true.”

Connor eyes me and says, “Not entirely true?  It shouldn't really be true at all, you know.”

“I mean she's exaggerating.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“She may be my client but that doesn't mean I don't realize she's crazy.”

I breathe out a sigh of relief.  Thank God someone else sees it.

“I don't know what happened between the two of you, and you obviously still have feelings for him...”

Oh God.
  I look away from Connor, feeling slightly embarrassed. “I don't have any feelings for him,” I reply dryly.

“Whatever is going on, it's not my business,” he continues, “And I do believe you.  I know these past couple weeks have been hell and Veronica isn't making it any easier.”

I shrug it off.  “I've been through worse.”

“Yeah, I know you have.  I just—I've been a jerk.  I'm just under a lot of stress, so I apologize for the way I've been treating you guys.”

Well, that was unexpected.

“And no Melissa didn't put me up to this,” he adds.

I can't help but laugh.  “I never assumed she did.”

“I actually apologized to her this morning, too.”

“It's alright, I get it.  This wedding is a huge deal for you and I'd never expect you to turn it down. I wouldn’t want you to, either.”

“It's a big deal for all of us, the shop as a whole.”

“Right.”

He sighs and rubs his eyes.  I didn't realize just how tired he looked until now.  “Anyway, I'm rambling.  Can you please try and be a mediator between the two of them? They're a match made in hell and everyone knows it.” Well, he's got one thing right.  “And that's why we have you.  Otherwise, this whole thing is going to fall apart.”

“Gotcha.”

“Tomorrow is Veronica's fitting and she's bound to be a pain in the ass about that.”

Shit, I almost forgot that was tomorrow.  The days are all blending together and I'm starting to get a migraine just thinking about it.

“Not made any better after yesterday's charade.”

“Exactly.  Mr. Cartwright most likely won't be there, but Veronica is going to say something stupid to get under your skin like she always does. Just try to ignore it.”

I nod, flashing him a tight lipped smile. “I know. I can handle it,” I reply.  I don't have much of a choice, do I?