Skinnydipping (36 page)

“That’s exactly what I meant,” said Harris.

“He’s not very articulate, is he?” Shari whispered to me.

“Up-front communication and honesty are very important to avoid misunderstandings,” I said to Alice. “People should make it clear where they’re going
before
they leave.”

The producers motioned to Alice. “We’ve got to go, but stay focused,” she said, giving me a look. “You want to win, right? So act like it.”

Harris gave me a little smile, and then he turned and walked out the door. I couldn’t help smiling back. I loved that he was clever.

“What the hell was that all about?” Shari said.

I watched him leave. “I’ll tell you later,” I said.

At Affair to Remember, everyone
dashed around looking for the things on their list. I saw Katie grabbing painted wooden fish and a bolt of fishscale sequin fabric, and felt even more confident in our idea. While Shari and Monica found white votive candles and red velvet ribbons, I asked for the manager. The girl at the counter brought back an older woman with white hair and half glasses.

“Hello,” I said, extending my hand. “My name is Faith, and I’m
hosting a very special event. I am in need of a beautiful champagne fountain. Can you show me what you have? What’s your price range?”

She looked at me, then looked at the camera. She’d obviously been fully debriefed.

“Our fountain rentals are typically between four and five hundred,” she said. I knew that would really squeeze us on budget for other items.

“Can you give us any sort of deal?” I asked, with my most charming smile. I knew that she knew what this kind of exposure could mean for her business.

“Of course!” she said. “I’m sure we can find something in your price range. Why don’t you come over and see what we have.”

We arranged to have the fountain delivered. “I can’t believe you got that for two hundred,” said Shari. I’d even convinced the store owner to throw in some champagne for the setup. Before we left, she handed me a case. “Give Sybil my regards,” she said.

“Gladly,” I said.

We still had to pay for the flowers and greenery and the menu printing, and have some money in reserve in case of emergencies. We’d have to be creative and use what we had in the workroom for the rest of it.

Shari went over to the Rulebook to see if she was allowed to call her husband’s flower shop. “I can’t do it,” she said. “It says right here, no help from family members.”

“What if you called one of your suppliers?” I suggested. “They all know who you are, right?”

Her face lit up. “Yes, they do!” she said. She picked up the phone and dialed. “Hello, Carl? This is Shari,” she said. “I need eight dozen red roses and a big box of the winter greenery, delivered to the Sybil Hunter Enterprises offices first thing in the morning.”

Late morning, woodworkers came by to build the two separate rooms we would be decorating. We each got three walls, a floor, and a ceiling, so our holiday tables would be displayed like enormous shadow boxes. I cajoled two of the carpenters into building us a sideboard to match our table out of wood from Sybil’s lumber room.

Ditzy Monica had ditched her New Agey lifestyle coach persona for this challenge and taken on the part of artist with surprising competence. She designed beautiful menu cards that described the twelve-course meal I’d come up with: pumpkin bisque, goat cheese and walnut salad, shrimp cocktail, beef satay skewers, roasted Brussels sprouts, green beans with bacon, turkey, beef tenderloin, sweet potato cups, cloverleaf rolls, baked apples with ice cream and caramel sauce, and a cheese tray to finish. “I’m really, really glad we don’t actually have to cook all this by noon,” I said.

“I wish we could eat it now,” said Christophe. “I don’t remember the last time I had a decent meal.”

Monica and I took the mock-up to the printer, while Shari went out to find art for the walls, hardware, chair covers, and other room décor. She came back with an upholstered chair, a painting of a pretty winter scene, two antique framed photographs that looked like family portraits, and some antique glass vases for flowers.

When she got back, Shari launched into a micromanaging frenzy. “Monica, those snowflakes need to be smaller,” she lectured.

“I’m the creative one,” Monica whined. “I know how big they should be.”

“Christophe and Mikki, quit flirting and get back to painting!” Shari commanded.

“We’re just discussing what to do next,” Mikki said, defensively.

Shari even ordered the woodworkers around, claiming they were building our sideboard the wrong way.

We worked all day and into the night. When Christophe was staining our new sideboard, Andy noticed it. Before he was done, the other team was building one, too. The woodworkers had already left, so they were trying to do it themselves.

“They’re copying our idea!” said Monica. It was almost midnight, and we were all so bleary-eyed and sleep-deprived that productivity had virtually ceased.

“Calm down,” I said, noticing that Linda had the hammer. I don’t think I would have given that large angry woman a hammer. “Ours
will be better. They don’t know what they’re doing.” For the first time, I stepped back and glanced over to the other side of the huge room, at the other team’s table. It was decorated in aquatic colors—greens, blues, and bronzes—with an ugly centerpiece of wicker cornucopia forms filled with gourds. It was schizophrenic. I was dead tired and jittery and running on fumes, but seeing their hideous table made me feel a lot better. When the clock struck two, it was time to head back to the Loft.

“Would it be horrible if we took a bottle of champagne with us?” Monica asked.

“Not in my opinion,” I said. “I think we deserve it.”

chapter twenty-five

T
he champagne fountain was spectacular—four levels of gleaming silver bowls in graduated sizes, with a vase at the top for flowers and a clear center column glowing soft pink, lit from within. The champagne flowed down over the bowls, bubbly and festive. We all stepped back and surveyed our creation.

The other team stared, and I could tell they were intimidated. They started arguing with one another. “They’re going down,” I whispered to Shari.

“I know,” she said. “And our room looks amazing.”

It really did. “We got our shit together for this one,” I said.

“Do you think it’s too Christmas-y?” Monica asked.

“No way,” I said. “It’s Sybil Hunter. She starts getting ready for Christmas in August.”

Monica eyed the remaining bottles of champagne. “Can we open another one of those?”

I looked at Shari and shrugged. “I don’t see why not,” I said.

“It’s eight in the morning,” Shari said.

“So?” I said. “I bet Monica has champagne for breakfast all the time.”

Monica sprinted into the storeroom and came out with five tumblers.
The sound of the champagne popping gave her a second wind. Suddenly, she was jolly and rosy cheeked again, and talking at top speed as she downed a glass and then quickly refilled it. “I just know we’re going to win,” she said. “There’s no way that other team with their silly fish table is even in the running against our beautiful, elegant table.”

“It’s spectacular,” Shari said, sipping her champagne and compulsively rearranging rosebuds and evergreen boughs. “Oh my God, I’m so tired, this is going to go straight to my head.” She held up her glass. “How many calories do you think this is?”

“I think they cheated,” I heard Queen Nadine say to the camera on the other side of the room, mid-OTF. “There is no way they could get all of that for two thousand dollars. If they are using unfair influences, then they should be disqualified.”

Shari snorted. “Look who’s talking about unfair influences,” she said, rolling her eyes. “From what I’ve heard, Mrs. Earl-of-Snob-shire hand-jobbed her way right into the family, and her husband’s so-called fortune doesn’t even exist anymore.”

I thought of the note Nadine had slipped me about Hugh Pritzker. “I believe it,” I said.

Monica clapped her hands over her mouth. “I knew her hoity-toity act was a big fake.” She stood up and started dancing around, a champagne glass sloshing precariously in one hand. “I’m Miss Superior. I’m better than you because my husband is the King of England, and I’m from Queens!” she said in a sing-songy voice. Then she burst into a fit of giggling. It was like hanging out in the loony bin, drinking with this girl.

“I think Monica is sleep deprived,” I said in her defense.

“Plus she’s had three glasses of champagne to our one,” Shari said.

“I think we’re all sleep deprived,” Mikki said, rubbing her eyes. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.” Christophe rubbed her back, protectively. I wondered if they were sleeping together yet. Not that they would have had the opportunity in this pseudomilitary compound, but we could all see it was imminent.

“Here’s to us, the winning team!” I said, optimistically, even though
I was teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Our table was the best. No question. But what other secret factors would influence the decision? I knew we
should
win, but obviously, that didn’t mean we would win.

“Five minutes!” As we all
ran around making last minute changes, Shari ordering everyone around, Christophe meekly obeying, Mikki starting to get annoyed at Shari, we could hear the other team biting one another’s heads off. “You idiot!” Andy screamed. I couldn’t tell who it was directed at, but at this point, it could have been anyone.

When Sybil Hunter came into the room at noon, the other team was still moving things around on their table. Sybil was flanked by her dog, Alice, and Ian, with Harris lagging behind, looking nervous. I got shaky suddenly. I’d almost forgotten about him, but there was no denying his presence now. Sybil stood back, crossed her arms, and looked at Andy’s table for a long time. Nobody spoke. Andy looked like he might vibrate right through the floor. Katie looked disgusted, her arms crossed defiantly. Finally, Sybil cleared her throat.

Andy jumped in. “We decided on a… a harvest theme,” he said. Sybil raised her eyebrows. “As you can see, we created an impressive and dramatic centerpiece out of gourds and cornucopias and … and… fish.” He looked humiliated. “We chose the burnt-orange-and-gold china, and over here on this sideboard, we built a crystal tower to display desserts.” A stack of empty platters wobbled on the rickety sideboard, next to an old lamp. Andy stepped nervously in front of them, probably hoping Sybil wouldn’t notice the bad craftsmanship. As if. He held up the menu cards. “The dessert buffet items are listed right here.”

She looked down her nose at him. “Hmm,” Sybil said. “I see. And tell me, what did each person do?”

“Well,” Andy stuttered, talking too fast, “Katie, Sadie, and Nadine created the centerpiece.”

“I wanted to do a fish theme,” Katie chimed in, “but some people on the team weren’t in the mood to get along.”

“What do you mean?” asked Sybil.

“I mean,
some
people wanted to do a stereotypical cornucopia that doesn’t match the fish theme at all,” she said, glaring at Sadie, who was apparently obsessed with all things vegetable.

“This is a Thanksgiving theme,” Sadie said, pulling nervously on her long braid. “I wanted the centerpiece to reflect the abundant harvest with a display of organic vegetables and local flowers, and I didn’t see where stupid gold fishscale fabric and fake seaweed fit into that theme at all.”

“It sounds like you had some disagreements,” Sybil said.

“I tried to get everyone to see the other’s point of view,” said Nadine, haughtily, her faux English accent on full display. “But I found our team to be sorely lacking in basic manners.”

“That’s a laugh,” said Linda, towering above her teammates, her Chicago voice booming. She stood almost as tall as Sybil herself. “Talk about everybody behind their backs and then lecture us on etiquette. That’s a good one. Nadine didn’t do any of the manual labor. I was painting and building and sanding and staining, and she just stood around and criticized us. She really dragged our team down.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Nadine, standing up very straight as if she were trying to match Linda’s height. “I arranged everything in this room, including the centerpiece.”