Chronicles of a Lincoln Park Fashionista (14 page)

Or make a total ass out of myself, depending on what Craig thinks of my idea.

I stride into Craig’s office and smile confidently at him, despite the fact that I’m starting to tremble in my heels.

“Good morning, Craig,” I say brightly.

“Avery, have a seat,” Craig says, getting up to shut the door. Then he comes back around and sinks into his sleek, modern desk chair. “I understand you have a proposal that you want me to hear.”

I watch as he casually picks up his Premier Airlines coffee mug and takes a sip. Then his brown eyes focus intently on mine, waiting for me to speak.

Now I really feel like running out the door in terror. God, this man is still scary to me.

“Yes,” I say, zoning out the camera, Deke, the shining models of Premier Airlines jets that are neatly arranged in Craig’s bookcase behind his desk. All that matters is the pitch. I’m only aware of what I’m about to say.

“I was very inspired by the Spa Service that we want to launch next year,” I say carefully, getting directly to the point. “And despite the initial reaction of the marketing team, I think the spa basket toiletries kit can be a viable part of this new service.”

I wait for Craig to respond. He stares straight at me, his face revealing nothing. I almost wait for him to scream at me for wasting his time with this moronic idea.

But he doesn’t.

“And why do you think that?” he asks.

“I’ve done research,” I say, ready to start reeling off the facts and figures I’ve spent the past week memorizing. “About the spa industry and their consumers. As well as the other amenities other airlines are offering on overseas flights. And I think we have the opportunity to do something really different, if Premier Airlines is willing to take the chance.”

And then I launch into what I’ve learned. I give Craig statistics. I explain to him how we can partner with exclusive spas to offer their products in-flight and create cross-promotional opportunities. I show Craig the sample basket I put together, proving to him how much thought I put into each item I chose.

Craig says nothing the entire time. I keep speaking, filling the silence, until I’ve run through the entire presentation. By this point, my palms are sweating and my stomach is upside down in fear.

Craig folds his hands on his desk, on top of what appears to be an important stack of papers. His eyes focus directly into mine, making me want to throw up.

“So you believe in this idea, Avery?” he finally asks.

“Very much so,” I say honestly.

“Do you believe in it enough to present it to the national marketing team in San Francisco in July?”

“What?” I gasp, stunned.

“We have our annual marketing retreat in July in a few weeks,” Craig says slowly. “Normally assistants are not included in these meetings. But because you believe so firmly in this idea, I was thinking you could do a PowerPoint presentation on the spa baskets during our retreat and see how the national team responds to it. If you’re willing to take the chance, that is.”

I don’t respond for a moment. I’m so shocked that I don’t even know what to say. Craig wants me to present this idea—in San Francisco. This is huge. Really, really, huge!

Oh shit. My elation lands in my stomach with a huge thud. Because this also means flying for hours in an
airplane
to get to San Francisco.

“Avery?” Craig asks, raising an eyebrow at me.

I push aside my fear of flying for a moment. “Craig, I’d be delighted if I could present my idea to the group. Thank you for the opportunity. I promise you I’ll make the most of it.”

“I have no doubt that you will,” Craig says, standing up. “I’ll be sure to have Janelle put it on the agenda.”

Then he glances at Deke. “I think we’re done here. I have another meeting I have to go to in fifteen minutes.”

“No problem,” Deke says, shutting off the camera light.

“Thank you again for giving me your time this morning.” I say to Craig, nodding at him.

“Anytime, Avery,” he says.

I carefully pick up my spa basket and set it back inside the shopping bag. Then I leave the room, tingling with excitement from head to toe.

Oh my God. I’m going to do a presentation for the entire marketing team! My idea might actually see the light of day on board Premier Airlines flights. Adrenaline flows through me. My head is whirling with ideas. And the entire time I’m heading back to my cubicle, a sense of both accomplishment and challenge fills me.

And it feels good. I had no idea working could be so rewarding to my soul.

Then I remember the teeny, tiny, little problem about having to fly to San Francisco to make my career dreams come true.

I sit down in my cubicle and take a breath of air, as my stomach clenches at the thought of getting back on an airplane. There has to be a book or self-help app I can get to help me get over this irrational fear of flying. After Deke takes me home tonight, I’ll go get in my car and get one. It’s just a little phobia, that’s all.

“Avery.”

I turn and see Deke walking toward me, a huge grin on his face.

I stand up, as I’m excited to hear what he thinks.

“You did it,” he says excitedly. “Congratulations, Fashionista. You went in there and locked it down.”

“I did, didn’t I?” I say. “I can’t believe this. I was never supposed to do anything like this.”

“But you
did
. And now we’re going to San Francisco.”

I pause for a moment, taking in his words. “We?”

“Well, yeah. I go where you go, remember? And this is going to be the biggest part of your story on
Arrivals & Departures.
I can’t wait to shoot this presentation, Avery. You’re going to blow them away.”

My head is spinning as I realize what Deke is saying to me. Deke is going to be there with me. In San Francisco, one of the most romantic cities in the world. He’ll be there as I give a presentation that will change the course of my future.

And I just hope that San Francisco will not only change the course of my career, but my relationship with Deke as well.

Now all I have to do is get over my fear of flying.

Chapter 15

I’m nearing my death.

So that’s a bit melodramatic, but as I sit on this train, the one making its way toward O’Hare International Airport on Saturday afternoon, I’m on the verge of a complete meltdown.

I grip the handle of my wheeled luggage bag in terror as I see a sign for O’Hare. Oh God. I really should have read that fear of flying self-help book I bought two weeks ago. But every time I tried to read it, a sense of impending doom and anxiety overwhelmed me. I put the book at the bottom of my stack of magazines, willing this trip to go away. A paralyzing fear of dealing with the flight made me set it aside whenever I tried to read Chapter One.

That, and a big feeling of failure, too.

I wish I could be normal like everyone else going to the airport tonight. Why can’t I be like Bree? She flies all the time and never bats an eyelash at it.

Of course, the night before a flight, I bet Bree doesn’t watch back-to-back episodes of
Seconds From Disaster
on TV, either.

I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath of air, as directed by the “You CAN Conquer Your Fear of Flying!” self-help tips my dad e-mailed me this week. I’m not to obsess about my fears when I get to the airport, according to tip number three.

Suddenly my cell phone rings. I fish it out of my purse and see that it’s Bree.

“Hello?”

“Hey, how are you?” Bree asks. “Still breathing?”

I nod. Bree, along with my parents, understand how big of a deal taking this flight to San Francisco is for me.

“I am,” I say, my stomach knotting up as O’Hare looms nearer.

“I still could have traded shifts and taken you to the airport,” Bree says. “I wanted to be there for you, Avery.”

“No, absolutely not,” I say. “This is your first week at the Bradley Scott. I know you need every shift you can get.”

Bree has just taken a cocktailing job at the Bradley Scott Hotel downtown, her temporary job until she finds a career in advertising. And I can’t let her lose money out of her pocket because I have an irrational phobia.

Besides, unless Bree can magically find a way to get me to San Francisco tonight without taking a flight, she really can’t help me.

No one can.

“I wish you would have let Deke give you a ride,” Bree says. “I don’t like the idea of you entering the airport alone.”

“You know why I couldn’t ride with him,” I say sadly. “He wanted to shoot me, thinking he’d get exciting footage of a rah-rah airline employee heading off for a major presentation. I can’t let Deke see this. He’ll know I’m a complete
fraud
. I mean, how would Craig Potanski feel if he knew one of the stars of the
Arrivals & Departures
documentary is afraid to fly?”

I take another deep breath of air, as my chest is getting tighter. I blew Deke off with excuses, telling him I had a million last-minute things to do, and I know he was irritated with me for not letting him shoot my arrival at O’Hare. But I can’t have that camera on me now. I can’t. And it will take every freaking acting skill I have to appear semi-normal when he shoots me in the gate area, as I agreed to do in return for him not shooting me earlier today.

“Avery, it’s going to be all right. You’re going to be fine,” Bree says firmly, refusing to let me be defeated.

“Uh-huh,” I murmur as the train pulls into the airport.

“You’ll be okay,” Bree assures me. “Hey, I’m at the hotel so I’ve got to go. But think of the end result: you get to make a presentation that could totally change the course of your career. And when it’s all done, you will get to explore one of the most amazing cities in the world. It will be worth the flight, I promise.”

Dear God. How can I even think about San Francisco when I’m traumatized by the mere idea of getting in line at the Sky Cap?

“Right,” I say. “Bye, Bree.”

I hang up and remain frozen in my seat as other passengers get up to disembark for the terminal. I scan all of their faces. They aren’t worried that these could be their last moments alive. They aren’t thinking the plane is going to go into a death spiral somewhere over the United States.

No, of course they aren’t. I have enough irrational fears and trauma for everyone in the concourse this evening, so why should they care?

I force myself to get up. I drag my bag behind me, hearing the wheels roll against the pavement as I leave the train. Nausea rises in me. I hate that wheeled bag sound. Suddenly I’m aware of it everywhere, the wheels spinning and clacking as people drag their suitcases behind them. That sound = airport to me.

Then I hear the most dreaded sound of all.

A jet roaring overhead on take-off.

My heart explodes inside my chest. My palms are starting to sweat. The smell of jet fuel lingers in the air, and I resist the urge to throw up. I make my way to the Premier Airlines terminal, becoming more of a basket case as I near the Sky Cap check-in.

My phone rings again. I stop and check. This time it’s my mom.

“Mom,” I cry, panicking. “Mom, I can’t do this!”

“Sweetheart,” she says firmly, “of course you can. Daddy and I are both on the line here.”

“Hi, Pumpkin,” Dad chimes in cheerfully.

“. . . and we know you’re going to be just fine tonight.”

“Oh, is that so? What if the plane loses its hydraulic system? That’s like driving a car with no breaks or steering. What if that happens?” I snap, frustrated. I move off to the side, out of the way of all the passengers coming and going.  “Or what if the plane’s tail snaps off? What if the navigation system fails and it slams into a mountain? Will I be
fine
if any of those things happen?”

Mom and Dad are silent for a moment. Obviously they have no idea of how to handle me and my knowledge of actual airline disasters.

“Uh,” Dad starts cautiously, “Pumpkin, did you read the tip sheet I e-mailed you?”

Oh for the love of God. As if 10 stupid tips—like “take a calming breath of air” will help me off the ledge I’m on right now.

“Yes,” I say, annoyed.

“Sweetheart, you’ll be fine,” Mom tries again. “Daddy and I just called to say we are very proud of you, no matter what happens in the meeting, because you are being so brave today. But you can do this. We
know
you can.”

Tears well up in my eyes. And I feel incredibly stupid for snapping at them.

“I love you guys,” I say, my voice thick.

“We love you, too. And we can’t wait to hear all about San Francisco when you get back,” Mom says.

“Have a good trip, Pumpkin,” Dad says.

I hang up with them and toss my phone back into my purse. I think about the e-mail Dad sent, mentally reviewing the ten tips in my head: breathing, not obsessing, thinking pleasant thoughts—

Oh, now that’s a good one. I’ve already picked out my pleasant thought, and it’s my new pale blue Burberry scarf I got with Sasha’s discount yesterday. Sasha got the job at the advertising firm, and alas, I didn’t have enough money for the Burberry raincoat I really wanted before she quit Saks, so I got a scarf instead. Now, it’s put a teensy dent in my budget this month, but Bree is re-paying me some money with her first paycheck, and then it will be paid for.

I head toward the Sky Cap station, thinking about my totally fabulous scarf. It’s cashmere and coordinates great with my charcoal-gray pea coat. Deke told me San Francisco can be cold and damp in July if the fog rolls in. So I’ll get to wear it when I’m there. How cool is that?

Suddenly I have another relaxing visual. Deke and I are standing in San Francisco, and he’s using my scarf to draw me closer to him. And as he holds my beautiful blue Burberry scarf in his hands, he leans down to kiss me. The kiss is—

“Next in line, please.”

I blink. I’m now ready to check my bag.

And I’m one step closer to my final destiny, for whatever fate has in store for me tonight.

My stomach rolls again as I approach the Sky Cap. I hand him my driver’s license and my “must ride” pass from Premier Airlines. Usually when an airline employee travels, they can get bumped for a full-paying customer—unless they are using a “must ride” pass for business purposes.

“Where to?” the Sky Cap asks.

“San Francisco,” I manage.

He begins typing on the computer. “One bag?”

“Yes,” I say, the fear beginning to mount again.

The computer spits out a luggage tag and a boarding pass. And as the boarding pass is coming out of the printer, I feel as though I’m being handed my death sentence.

“Flight 1978 departs out of Gate 22,” he says, handing the pass to me.

Oh God. I don’t want it. I’m getting bad vibes from it. I really think this ticket is doomed. Shouldn’t I listen to my gut on this? Didn’t my mom always tell me that, listen to your gut and you won’t go wrong?

“Miss?” he asks, sticking the ticket out further to me. “Your ticket?”

“Uh, yes,” I say, quickly taking the ticket and shoving it into my tote. I hand him some money for a tip, and then my bag is lifted onto a conveyer belt behind him.

“Thank you. Have a good flight,” he says cheerfully.

Sure. A good flight. As if there is such a thing.

I make my way to the escalator, the one leading to the open, spacious, glittery Premier Airlines terminal. My heart is now pounding furiously inside my chest. My palms are sweating so badly that I rub them on my black pants, willing that symptom of fear to go away.

Breathing gets harder as I wait in line at security. I look around, scanning the faces in line, seeing if anyone appears to be a terrorist. So far I see a woman with a Gucci handbag I’d kill for, a middle-aged business man with a pot belly and Sunday
Chicago Tribune
tucked under his arm, and an elderly couple with Irish accents talking behind me.

So nobody looks like a terrorist.

But that doesn’t mean there aren’t any.

Stop
! I will myself. Think pleasant thoughts.
Think of your cute Burberry scarf. Think of how wonderful it’s going to go with—

But what if the terrorist snuck something into the Gucci bag? That woman looks so bored that I bet she wouldn’t notice if someone dropped an explosive device in her purse.

Oh God. I really do need mental health counseling.

I try to breathe again, but my chest hurts so bad that breathing is getting harder. I robotically go through security, grabbing my things off the end of the conveyor belt, glancing down at my watch.

It’s now one hour until I meet my destiny.

But I’m supposed to meet Deke at the gate so he can shoot me.

I hurry into a restroom, and as I soon as I see myself in the mirror, I want to cry. My face is pale—even more so than usual. As in deathly pale.

Oh, shit, could that be an
omen
?

I ignore the thought and pinch my cheeks in an attempt to get some color. Then I wash my hands, desperate to make the sweating stop.

But nothing can stop the fear that is threatening to take complete control of me.

I exit the bathroom, into the sea of normal passengers. You know, the ones who aren’t scripting their funeral services as they lounge in the gate area. I slowly move toward Gate 22 with an overwhelming sense of dread.

I pass by a bar. I should down a martini. Maybe that would help. But the tip sheet said to avoid alcohol or caffeine or anything else that can cause the upheaval in your stomach.

And as another queasy wave rolls over me, I decide that bit of advice has merit.

I approach Gate 22, looking at the passengers relaxing there. Soft jazz is piped over the loudspeakers, fresh flowers are in vases on modern Scandinavian-styled furniture, customers are getting complimentary gourmet coffee from the coffee bar or sinking into plum-colored chairs, and killing time before boarding begins.

Nobody appears to be worried or afraid.

And I must be the only one who just knows this flight is going to end in disaster.

“Avery!”

I turn and see Deke rising from his seat. Despite my fear, I’m momentarily distracted by the sight of him.

Oh my God. He’s dressed completely different, in a crisp white shirt that he has unbuttoned at the throat and flat-front khaki pants.

And he’s DDG—Drop Dead GORGEOUS—in his nice clothes.

“Are you all right?” he asks, walking up to me. I notice his brow is creased with worry. And his eyes are focused intently on me, trying to figure out what’s wrong.

“Uh,” I gasp, desperately trying to get some air, “yes! I’m fine! I just need to take a seat.”

Because I’m starting to get dizzy.

“Are you sick?” Deke asks, guiding me to the empty seat next to his equipment. “God, you look awful, Avery.”

Think. What do I say? He can’t know the truth. Deke can
never
know the truth about this.

“Kind of,” I say, which really isn’t a lie.

“Are you sure you can fly?” he asks, a worried tone in his voice. “Because if you’re this sick, you shouldn’t get on an airplane.”

The idea flickers through me. I have an out. I don’t have to get on this plane. I can say I’m sick and that would be that.

But something else flickers inside of me as I gaze back at Deke. I think of him. Of Craig Potanski. Of being given the opportunity to present to the marketing team. Of being able to go somewhere I’ve never been.

And I know I have to go through with this.

“No,” I say quietly, “I’ll be fine to travel.” Then I bite down hard on my lower lip. “But . . . I really don’t want you to shoot me now. Please. Please don’t make me do it.”

Because I’m quite sure the stress of having to act buoyant and cheerful along with the glare of the camera light will cause me to pass out right here in the terminal.

Deke’s eyes burn into mine. “Avery,” he says softly, “you know I have to do this. This is a big moment for you. I need to get you on tape.”