Party Girl (5 page)

“I can’t wait, Brody. See you then,” she says, breathless and far too sexy for the workplace.

In quick succession the phone is off her ear and now in her hands. She’s reading something on the screen. She starts to type. She doesn’t look up, and the room stays quiet waiting for her.

“Quade, I assume I’m not the only one with a million other things to do,” Selah says without looking up from the tiny screen. All hint of the flirty girl is gone.

Apparently, that is the gunshot we’ve all been waiting for, because Quade leaps from her seat with the eagerness of a thoroughbred on race day. She looks down at the iPad she’s holding and then to the far end of the table.

“Lerner mitzvah. Taylor, can you tell us what’s going on with production?”

I look down the table at Taylor. Despite the bad-boy looks and his age, he holds the attention of the room with confidence.

“We’re good. Rentals are delivered on Friday; A/V loads in that afternoon. Client was annoyed about the need for on-site security to watch it all overnight, but it can’t be helped. Timeline is finished. Walker sent it out this morning.” Taylor points to a woman sitting next to him.

“Sunset?” Selah says without looking up.

Is that a question or a statement?

Man, I wish I understood this lingo!

“Seven thirteen,” Taylor answers, so apparently it was a question.

“We’re going to have to see what we can get away with there.” Selah looks up. “Let me see the timeline.”

She reaches out towards Quade, who’s already handing her the iPad, but instead of grabbing the tablet she seizes one of Quade’s hands.

“Is this the new metallic polish from OPI?” She looks closer at Quade’s manicure.

“It is,” Quade answers, a little unsure. “But just on the fringe; they call it an inverted French tip.”

Selah takes another half second to inspect the nails while the room holds its breath.

“It’s fabulous, Q!” she finally decrees, and Quade’s gaunt frame literally ripples as she preens under the compliment.

“I saw it on someone’s Latergram,” she tells Selah and, evidently, the room at large, because she’s raised her voice confidently.

“It looks a lot like what Prabal’s models had on at the last show. You’re so on trend, Q. Let’s do something like this at the Riverton party . . . Maybe on the servers?” Selah’s voice is sweet and playful, and she suddenly seems exactly like I thought she would be, like the coolest girl in school. If you can just impress her, she’ll make you cool too.

“Definitely,” Quade answers, and hands off the iPad.

It’s about now that I remember I was told to take notes. I don’t know which part of this conversation is important, so I just start writing down everything I hear. The room is quiet again as Selah contemplates the screen in front of her.

“It’s really tight.” She looks down the table at the production team, seeming annoyed, and her cool-girl moment is over.

“There’s two bands, a party host, and the kid’s performing a violin solo. The dinner is six courses, we have four food trucks for the teenagers, and there’s a Venetian dessert table.” Taylor throws an irked look at the culinary arts team. Revere responds with a dramatic shrug, as if to say
,
Not my fault.
“And the klezmer band during cocktail hour. There was no other option with the timing.”

“What time is strike?” Selah asks, looking back down at the screen.

“Midnight,” Taylor says.

My head volleys back and forth between them like I’m at a tennis match. I have no idea what they’re saying at all, but it’s obviously a hot topic because Selah is radiating annoyance.

“It’s tight,” Selah says again.

“We’ll get it all in,” Taylor says, cool as a cucumber.

Selah looks back down at the screen, dismissing the conversation. I know now where McKenna learned that little trick.

“Floral?” Quade looks to an older woman three seats down from her. The woman has bright-red hair and a petite build. I’m a shorty, but she’s so small I feel like she might fit inside my pocket. When she speaks she’s got a thick British accent, and I immediately imagine her as some sort of spritely garden gnome.

“We lost the lady slippers. We’re still unsure they’ll make it out of customs, and even if they do, I don’t trust the quality after so much time. We’ve reworked it with phalaenopsis.”

“It’ll feel too tropical. That’s not the aesthetic at all,” Selah snaps, glaring at the older woman. It seems like too harsh a response for a conversation about flowers.

Before the Gnome can defend herself, Miko chimes in.

“Not at all.” She stands up from her chair and pulls her headphones back until they hang around her neck like a yoke. She walks over to Selah, opening the cover of her sketchpad. I’m already nervous for Miko because she’s the only person in the room who hasn’t waited to be spoken to before speaking herself. Selah doesn’t seem to question it, though, and just looks at the sketch in front of her.

“See, we just added a bit in here for the color,” Miko says, pointing to something on the page.

“And the cymbidiums?” Selah asks.

“Overkill I think,” Miko says decisively.

Selah considers the page again. “Agreed,” she says finally, then looks up at the Gnome again. “You’ve made her aware of the changes.” It’s not really a question.

“Yes, she’s excited about this direction,” the Gnome responds.

“She’s
excited
about the dissolution of her design scheme three days before her event?” Selah raises her voice.

Miko interrupts again, waving a hand through the air in a staying motion. “She is. We showed her the new design, and I mentioned that I haven’t incorporated this combination into a piece before. She’s thrilled to set the trend.”

The Gnome looks relieved at not having to answer. Selah looks irate, kind of like the angry cat on Miko’s shirt.

“Well done, Jin,” Selah finally says begrudgingly, and Miko walks back to her chair without acknowledging the praise. More than a few people throw pointed looks at the little designer as she takes her seat, but she either doesn’t know or doesn’t care. Miko’s clearly a Selah-favorite whether she wants the title or not.

“The Riverton party is new, but since it’s moving so quickly I suggest we discuss it next,” Quade says.

“About the venue—” Selah begins, but McKenna interrupts, suddenly overeager.

“I was able to secure Milk Studios. I had to beg to get them to release the date, but JJ owes me a favor and—”

“And who approved that?” Selah’s sharp tone ricochets off the windows behind me, and the already-quiet room grows ominously more so.

Holy crap.

“You asked me to get—” McKenna tries.

“Absolutely not! The brand asked for something exclusive and fresh, and Milk is so overdone it’s nearly pedestrian.” Selah attacks with far more venom than seems necessary. “In fact, last time I checked it was
my
name on the wall. So maybe you can explain why decisions are being made about
my
company without
my
input.”

“It must have been a miscommunication,” McKenna says quietly. “When you asked me to book it I—”

“Tell me you weren’t idiot enough to confirm!” she hisses.

It takes everything I have not to cower down in the seat alongside McKenna, who looks like a beaten puppy.

“I did, but I’m sure I can—” McKenna tries.

“Oh, you will. It’s not my job to correct your mistakes. I’m not even sure why I’m having this conversation with a
second assistant
.”

She says his title the same way she called me
“
this
girl,”
and
even though he’s a jerk, I feel so badly for McKenna. The entire room is looking anywhere but his direction.

“The party will be at Twenty-Five.” Selah announces it like a proclamation.

All around me murmurs rise up in a swirl, praising her decision.

“Gorgeous space,” someone says.

“Go there all the time—”

“Love the vibe.”

“Oh, it’s sexy and masculine, a great departure from other Riverton parties.” I’m surprised to hear McKenna agree loudest of all.

I can’t believe he can even find his voice after she just ripped him a new one in front of everybody. But apparently he rebounds quickly, because as she starts to describe her vision for the party, he nods along emphatically like a church lady listening to a testimony. I half-expect him to throw out an “Amen!” when she starts talking about the celebrity DJ she has in mind. I don’t know how she’s gone from flirtatious to complimentary to ruthless in the span of one meeting, or how her staff has learned to keep up.

My gaze slides tentatively down the table to Miko, and at my wide-eyed stare she mouths the exact words I’m thinking.

Pod-people.

Chapter FOUR

After the uncomfortable meeting we make our way back to the office in silence. If it were me, I’d be railing to anyone who would listen about my nightmare boss or crying in a stairwell somewhere, but McKenna is doing his best to act like nothing happened.

I excuse myself for the restroom, and once I’ve locked myself in the stall my mind starts spinning.

What do you do when you realize the woman you’ve idolized for years is a horrible person? Successful, brilliant, beautiful? Sure. But also kind of crazy harsh. I mean, I guess she needs to be sort of hard-core to run her team and her company, but she’s so vicious, and it seems almost like she enjoys being mean. And that whole deal with the phone call and making everyone wait for her, and the way she can intone the simplest words with the venom of a rattlesnake?

No, she’s definitely not a nice person.

I can’t help it; I laugh.

Not a nice person? God, I am such a country mouse!

She’s a crazy B! Even I can see that! What am I gonna do, though? It’s only my second day, and I’ve worked so long to get this position!

I rub my now-clammy palms down the front of the skirt of my dress and think about what it took to get here. Years and years of going home every day with my hair smelling like barbecue sauce and never spending the money I made on anything fun. Years of imagining what it would be like to help a bride choose the perfect flowers for her bouquet or how it would feel to see my favorite actresses walk the red carpet at an event I produced. It’s all I’ve dreamed about for as long as I can remember.

Selah is the best, period. I wanted to work for her so I could learn from the best, not because I want to be some evil minion she crushes in the all-hands meeting. I’m not here because I want to
just
work
for her; I’m here because I want to
be
her. I want to be a fabulous event planner in my own right, and the only way I’m going to be able to do that is stick it out and learn from the best. I’ve got to secure a real position here, even if it’s hard. I’ve got to make myself stand out, to be the absolute best intern I can be, so I can learn everything I need to know. I’ve got to—

The door opens and closes as someone comes in, reminding me where I’m standing. I throw my shoulders back and turn the latch of the stall door. I will take this place by storm. But first I’ve got to leave this bathroom.

By the time afternoon rolls around I’m deep in my hidey-hole behind the office door, working on the borrowed laptop on jewel-themed decor ideas. My locale has proved treacherous: someone came barreling into the room and the door slammed into my elbow. I had to bite my tongue to keep from yelping out a blasphemous curse. That spot’s going to bruise for sure.

I’ll be honest. Being stuck in the corner is pretty degrading, but I suppose it’s better than sitting outside the room on the floor. The partial obstruction of the door also means that I’m able to listen in on all of the phone calls and conversations and they mostly forget I’m here unless they need to bark an order at me.

From their conversations I’ve learned that we have an event this weekend . . . the aforementioned Lerner bar mitzvah with the rush-order, sailboat-themed kippot. Something, by the way, that Google informed me is another name for yarmulke, and apparently it’s OK to have them custom designed to match your party so long as they cover your head. I looked up some pictures of them too, and I thought the little themed hats were adorable. I wish Presbyterians got to wear something so cool!

Snap-snap-snap.

My head flies up at the sound of McKenna’s fingers. He points down to the Post-it on his desk.

Time for Coffee Bean.

This time, as I make my way back up Beverly munching the lonely bran muffin that was all that remained of the pastry section, I don’t feel as terrified as I did yesterday. For one thing Miko has explained to me how to pull petty cash for these coffee runs, so at least I won’t go broke keeping my bosses supplied with caffeine. As far as those bosses go, Quade hasn’t ever spoken to me directly and McKenna is even ruder than normal after the morning meeting. But I haven’t openly pissed off anyone today, and that’s going a long way towards boosting my confidence.

On another positive note, I’m going to work my first SSE event this weekend! I
should probably be a little more terrified after seeing Selah’s temper firsthand, but I
know
I can impress her at this party. At least I think I can.

Back in the lobby of the SSE building I juggle the coffee tray and hit the button for the elevator. I step in and, as the doors slide together, shove the entirety of the remaining muffin into my mouth in an attempt to finish it before I reach the top floor. No one has expressly forbidden it, but I’m pretty sure carbs aren’t allowed inside this building.

I have just started chewing the gorged mouthful when a hand flies between the closing elevator doors. The doors slide back open and standing there is . . . Jesus, in his human form.

OK, not Jesus. Not Jesus, but easily the hottest man I have ever seen in my life! Did I just call Jesus a hottie? I did. I think I did, and I’m for sure going to burn in hell. I guess I just meant that this guy is so beautiful, he’s got to be some kind of deity. He’s well over six feet tall and has perfectly tousled dark-blonde hair and the lightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. His skin is sun-browned surfer perfection, he’s rocking this sort of scruffy five o’clock shadow, and he’s got lips that no one of the male species deserves to have. He’s wearing a perfectly cut, light-gray suit, a crisp white button-down, and no tie. He doesn’t necessarily look old, but he seems very grown-up. He fairly oozes confidence and money, and I’m sure his suit probably cost more than my car.

The guy takes a step inside the elevator and resumes typing into the phone in his hands. I see him open another e-mail on his screen and start reading, completely unaware of my presence. It’s only after he starts typing a response that I realize I have a mouthful of muffin that I’ve stopped chewing, and I’m just staring at him like a deranged chipmunk.

Kill me!

I duck my head and do one massive swallow.

Big mistake.

Like all late-in-the-day pastries, this one is totally dried out, and it absolutely refuses to go down my throat! My eyes dart to him to make sure he’s not looking at me.

Of course he’s looking at me!

My eyes are bugging out, and I’m trying not to spill the coffees.

I start choking and coughing like a moron, but I swear I’m doing my best to asphyxiate as demurely as possible!

No go.

There’s dreamy guy, looking all pulled together and gorgeous, and here’s me, being all
cough-spastic, breath-wheeze-cough-cough death rattle
. This is it. I’m going to choke to death in an elevator dressed like I’m on my way to a hooker’s funeral, and this blonde male model is going to watch me die!

All of a sudden he steps in front of me, looking concerned.

“Are you OK?”

Even as I’m coughing bits of bran muffin into my hand, I can’t help but stare up at his mouth. His teeth are perfect. I wonder if he ever had braces
.

He doesn’t wait for my response, since clearly I’m in no position to give him one. He just takes the coffee tray from me with one hand and starts pounding me on the back way too hard. My coughing fades slightly, and he reaches to grab a drink at random.

“Here, drink this.” He hands me the coffee.

I shake my head, my voice coming out squeaky. “Not mine.”

He looks at me like I’m an idiot. “I’m sure whomever it belongs to won’t mind.”

I clear my throat about fourteen times and then try and speak again.

“She’d mind,” I choke out. “I doubt she’d use the liquid in it to put me out if I was on fire.” I reach out to take the tray back.

The model looks at me skeptically but relinquishes the tray. “If you say so.”

I nod stupidly and take one giant sideways step to give myself some space. He watches me for a beat and then turns around to face the elevator doors again.

Through the speaker in the ceiling Lionel Richie reminds me that he’s easy like Sunday morning. It’s the perfect awkward song for this horrendously awkward moment. God, can’t this thing move any faster? I look up to see the progress of the elevator car . . . Three more floors to go.

Right then is when I realize that he hasn’t hit the button for a different floor. Which means he’s also going to the top floor, and SSE is the only office up there. Which means he’s headed there too. Ugh!

Finally, blessedly, the doors open, and I don’t even look at my companion or the rude receptionist. I make a beeline past the partition and head for my chair. I’ve never been so desperate to sit in a hidden corner in my life! Only, as I’m walking, I realize the model is following me. I don’t hear him speak with the receptionist or anyone else, and no one acknowledges him as he trails behind me. So, clearly, he being in this space isn’t unusual.

Oh please Lord and Baby Jesus, do not let him be . . .

“Brody Ashton, you’ve kept me waiting,” Selah purrs from the doorframe of her office.

She’s reapplied her lip gloss; I can see the shine all the way from here. Also that flirty voice is back, and I know without question this is the “Brody” from her phone call earlier.

I continue walking, but for the smallest moment I squeeze my eyes shut as if it might erase this car wreck that is my life.

Just keep moving forward. Keep smiling. Nothing to see here, people.

I walk towards Selah since she’s standing directly in front of me and clearly sees that I’ve got her coffee in my hand. When I’m a few feet away she nods towards her office.

“Put it on my desk, Brinkley,” she says, looking past me.

I walk past her and set the drink down on the desk. All the while I’m wondering if maybe I should have just let the bran muffin take me when it had the chance.

I turn from the desk, tray in hand, and keep my eyes trained on my shoes. When I get to the door Selah is in my way, and I have no choice but to look up at her and Brody. Light blue eyes consider me for a second before looking away.

“We seem to be in the way here,” he says, pulling Selah to the side to let me pass.

“I didn’t even think of getting you something, B. I can send her back if you want,” Selah tells him.

She doesn’t even look at me when she asks, just continues to stare at him, smiling her glossy, fake smile.

“No, I’m good. Thank you, though. Are you ready?”

I don’t wait to hear what she says; I’m already back in the small office handing out the other coffees and thinking very seriously about how much alcohol I might need to drink to forget the last hour of my life.

That night McKenna doesn’t let me leave until after seven. By the time I’m dismissed I have copied, filed, collated, stapled, schlepped, and researched until I can’t see straight, and I’ve done everything so fast I haven’t had time to sit down in between. At this point I’m so tired I can’t imagine anything better than putting on my oldest sweatpants and eating a vat of mac’n’cheese on the couch. I head out to the elevator and spy Miko headed in the same direction. She takes one look at my face and declares that we’re going to find a happy hour.