Chapter 14 - Scott
“You ready?”
“Let’s do it.”
I pick up the box of our samples. Chelsea has her laptop with the presentation. I think—hope—we have everything we need. On the subway ride uptown, I clue her in on what to expect.
“The last time I met with a lady named Marie and a guy named Ken. But I don’t think they make the final decision. But they decide whether to even tell the director of programming our idea.”
“That’s how it works?”
“I’m not a hundred percent sure,” I admit. “But it seems that way.”
Before Chelsea can reply the train comes to a screeching halt. She loses her balance and topples into me. I catch her and, for a second, I think I’m going to dump the box all over the floor, but I manage to hold onto it.
“Sorry,” she says.
“No problem.”
The lights flicker on and off.
“What’s going on?”’
“Give it a minute.”
I try to quell the panic rising in me. We can’t get stuck in the subway. What’s the longest I’ve ever been stuck? Half hour? Forty-five minutes? Would Marie and Ken understand? I mean, it happens. But they also probably think they are too important to be kept waiting.
After probably two minutes, which feels more like twenty, the train lurches forward and then starts moving again. I breathe out in relief. Chelsea looks at me.
“Are you nervous?”
“No,” I lie. “Win some lose some.”
She pats my shoulder and tells me to think positively. By the time we get there I am positive I am nervous. The same receptionist is in the lobby. She looks at Chelsea with a lot more interest than I got the last time.
“Congratulations.”
“Huh?” Chelsea says.
The woman points to Chelsea’s hand.
“You’re engaged, right?”
“Oh, yes.”
Chelsea wraps her hand around my upper arm. I look down at her and she smiles.
“Wait, you’re engaged to him? Weren’t you here a few weeks ago?”
She’s looking me up and down. Funny, I don’t remember her being the least bit interested in me last time, but now that I’m engaged…I’ll never understand women. Never.
“Scott Howell and Chelsea Mullavey,” I say. “We have an appointment.”
“Right,” she says. “Tenth floor. West suite.”
I lead Chelsea to the elevators.
“Last time I was here I was on a lower floor,” I murmur.
“Is that good?”
“I think so.”
On the tenth floor the elevators doors open with a soft ding. We step out into the most opulent office space I’ve ever seen. The receptionist on that floor shows us into a conference room. As soon as we are alone Chelsea starts frantically arranging the samples on the table. I hook the laptop up to the projector.
“Scott, hi.”
Marie comes into the room, followed by Ken and a man I haven’t seen before. We quickly exchange introductions. Bob Parker is the head of the division. He takes a seat at the head of the table and motions for us to begin.
The presentation goes smoothly. It is exactly like acting. Now that I know the words by heart, they flow out of me easily.
“When do you anticipate showing the project to potential buyers?”
The question comes from Marie. Fortunately, I know the answer.
“There are several options for that,” I say. “Definitely not until all the structural changes are made. If the buyer wanted to change the layout that would be a headache and cause severe delays.”
One thing about these shows, the timetable is key. You are not only trying to line up all the subcontractors, but the production crew. Luckily, I have my own staff so I can make this project the priority.
Any changes or delays that threaten to derail the schedule would be a huge concern. I once had a guy decide he wanted to flip the kitchen and living room after the cabinets were in. He paid for all the work, but it was a lot, and it was almost as bad as starting the project all over again. Back when I was preparing the original show pitch, I took that into consideration.
“My advice is we would wait until the flooring is about to go in,” I say. “That will keep the changes to a minimum without impacting filming.”
I look at Chelsea.
“I have several options for tile and fixtures. Scott is willing to have all of them on order.”
She smiles at me. If I had to guess I’d say she’s trying to tell me she’s impressed that I anticipated that exact question when we were rehearsing last night.
“And of course, paint is easy.”
Bob rubs his chin.
“I’d like a copy of that.”
He indicates the screen.
“Of course.”
I start towards the laptop, but Chelsea is closer. She types and then looks at Bob.
“What is your email?”
The question is directed to Bob, who is looking at his phone. He realizes that she’s talking to him and shakes his head.
“Send it to Marie. Nice to meet you.”
He’s out the door before we can say anything.
“Actually, send it to Ken.”
Marie leaves as well. Ken spells out his email and Chelsea confirms it as she types it in.
“And, sent.”
Ken taps on his phone.
“Got it, thanks. It was really great, you guys.”
He leaves and when the door closes behind him with a soft thud it seems to say, ‘Get out.’
“Okay,” I say.
Chelsea closes the laptop and unplugs it. As she slides it into her bag, I start piling the samples into the box.
“They hated it, didn’t they?”
Her voice is soft and full of sadness.
“Hey.”
I wrap my arms around her, and she buries her face in my chest.
Don’t cry,I think. I will not know what to do if she starts crying.
“Think of it as good experience,” I say, stroking her hair. “You haven’t even started school yet. And hey if we don’t get the show—”
She pulls away from me.
“Oh, Scott, we are not getting the show. They couldn’t have been less interested.”
“You don’t know that—”
She grunts and pulls away from me. Goes back to packing up. I help her. We walk out of the building in silence.
“Sorry I’m so grumpy,” she says when we leave the building.
“I’m disappointed too, but they did ask for the presentation.”
She shakes her head. I want to say something, make it better, but I can’t find the words. There’s a bitter taste filling my mouth, all of me really.
“I’m going to pay you for the design anyway,” I say suddenly while we are waiting on the platform. “And I might need your help on the project. Sometimes things come up and the design has to be changed.”
“You don’t have to do that—”
“I insist. You did the work.”
She holds her hand up.
“I guess we should take this back.”
I reach out and twist the ring around.
“Don’t flash that on the subway.” I make my voice just a little stern, but she just smiles. “Why don’t we give it a week before we give up completely?”
I say it for my own benefit as much as hers.
“I feel so bad—”
“Your designs were great—”
“Not about that, for you. You really wanted this. I can go to school, and I can still be a designer, but you…”
“I’m done. Time to give up on the acting thing.”
“That’s so sad.”
I shake my head.
“I have a lot to be thankful for.”
“But it’s not what you want.”
The train comes and we get on. There are no seats. At each stop more people squash into the car. A couple of people glare at the large box I’m holding, which is no surprise. It’s taking up prime real estate.
Chelsea ends up so close to me I can smell her hair, which is a nice change from the usual odors on the subway. When we get to our stop, I blaze a path for us to the car doors through the mass of bodies.
“It was so crowded,” she says.
“Rush hour,” I say shrugging.
“You’re lucky to be tall. You can see over everyone.”
We still don’t talk as we walk back to the house. The silence is awful. I miss her voice, I realize. She’s normally so bright and full of energy. Seeing her this down weighs on me.
“We need to shake it off,” I say decisively as we turn down Remsen.
“What do you mean?”
“We’re going out to dinner. A nice dinner. We can get started on the project…next week. We need to see this as an opportunity. I’ve been sitting on some of these apartments for a couple of years. Time to get to work.”
“You’re right. And it would be great to get a lot of the work done before I start classes. I hear the course load is insane.”
At the house we go into our own doors after agreeing to meet in a half hour. I call Henry’s End and they can fit us in in an hour and a half. We’ll go to the wine bar first.
I take a quick shower—just to rinse the stench of failure off, I guess—and go downstairs to meet Chelsea. She’s changed as well, into a pale-yellow sundress.
“Is this dressy enough?” she asks me, looking down at her outfit.
“It’s perfect.”