Chapter 2
Chapter Two
EMILY
As the plane continues to rattle and lurch, weeks of color-coded, cross-referenced, laminated perfection explode across Premium Economy and into the back of First Class.
“No,” I mutter, stomach bottoming out as I reach for my seatbelt. “No, no, no!”
Before I can unbuckle, the plane does its best broken elevator impression, dipping down so quickly, the entire cabin lets out a collective gasp, and my bottom actually leaves my seat.
Wow! Okay.
Unbuckling is not the play right now.
Not unless I want to know what it feels like to be smashed against the ceiling along with that Gantt chart I spent hours perfecting…
I’m forced to stay put, clinging to my armrests as the chaos intensifies. Soon, my presentation is spreading like a Type A plague intent on infecting the entire plane, and people rows ahead are batting away airborne vendor quotes.
After the longest three minutes in the world, we stabilize—much to the relief of the woman begging the Mother Mary to spare her life somewhere behind me.
The second we’re permitted to unbuckle, I dive into the aisle on my hands and knees, coffee-soaked pencil skirt riding up as I hurry to rescue crumpled papers from beneath seats and shoes.
“Sorry, could you please lift your… Yes! Thank you, sorry! Yes, that’s mine, so sorry.” I army-crawl toward first class, where I’ve spotted one of my mood boards wedged under a Gucci loafer. “Oh my God, my color story,” I whimper, throat tightening as I scuttle faster.
Suddenly, the first-class stewardess materializes in front of me, ready to defend her territory against incursions from the slobs in the back. “Ma’am, please return to your seat.”
“I just need to grab my mood boards,” I beg, still on my hands and knees. “The sunset rose fabric swatches are irreplaceable! It’s a unique lot made of recycled fast fashion. Please, I’ll be so quick, you’ll hardly notice I’m there.”
With a curl of her lip that assures me I look as disastrous as I feel, she moves aside, and I crawl on.
Five minutes later, I’m back in my seat, clutching the tattered remains of my perfectly prepared presentation.
Some pages are coffee-stained. Others bear shoe prints from passengers who accidentally trampled my dreams. Still others managed to fold themselves in half sometime during the G-force attack.
And to top it all off, my favorite blue pen exploded while I was trying to make a “How to Clean Up this Mess” list.
I look like I murdered a Smurf with my bare hands and am kind of wishing someone would throw me in Smurf jail, if only to spare me the anxiety of figuring out how to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.
I spend the rest of the flight running damage control with wet wipes, my lucky Sharpie, and the fabric glue I keep in my purse for fashion emergencies.
The nice flight attendant brings me extra napkins and a fresh coffee—with a lid on it, this time—and even the guy in 12B looks like he’s rooting for a happy ending for me and my binders.
But by the time we prepare for landing, I’ve accepted that my backup plans now look like they were mauled by a T. rex with a caffeine addiction.
Then, as if the universe feels compelled to remind me that my career isn’t the only one on the line, Maya texts during our taxi to the gate.
Maya: How was the flight? Are you safe and sound on the ground yet? Did you get any sleep?
Me: I didn’t, but it’s fine. I’ll sleep when I’m dead.
And I will.
And hopefully, I’ll get to carry this binder disaster to the grave with me.
I can’t tell Maya the truth. At least not right now. There’s nothing she can do to fix the problem, and sharing the bad news will only make her even more stressed out than she is already.
No, this is something I have to carry—and problem solve—on my own.
Inside the terminal, Heathrow Airport greets us with all the warmth of a maiden aunt who never wanted children, the passages chilly and nearly abandoned, even though it’s not quite seven o’clock.
I shuffle through Passport Control, trying to look like a sane, professional human being despite the ink stains and coffee splatters.
Still, the immigration officer eyes me suspiciously. “Business or pleasure?”
“Business,” I say, a little too aggressively, as if I’m trying to convince us both.
He arches a dubious brow, but eventually grants me a stamp and opens the gate. “Right then. Welcome to London.”
Baggage claim is where my travel dreams often go to die, and tonight is no exception.
My infamous bad luck with bags is why I always pack spare outfits in my roll-on, but still!
A red sweater with dress pants, underthings, a single pair of pajamas, leggings, a sweatshirt, and the suit I’m currently wearing are not nearly enough to get me through several weeks in London!
I watch the carousel turn, willing my bag to appear. Around me, everyone else reunites with their luggage like long-lost lovers while I stand there, increasingly alone, watching the same lime-green suitcase go around seventeen times.
Finally, I have to admit that my Big Blue Baby isn’t coming.
The Stella McCartney dress I couldn’t afford but bought anyway. My happy Christmas holly skirt and matching sweater. My entire capsule professional wardrobe. They’re all missing in action, lost to the aviation gods who hate me nearly as much as the technology ones.
The baggage attendant hands me a claim form with the pitiless gaze of someone who deals with despair so often she’s grown numb to human suffering.
“We’ll text you as soon as we locate your bag.
If you haven’t heard anything in a week, feel free to call customer service.
” She gestures vaguely toward the bottom of the slip.
“Be sure to keep your claim number handy.”
A week. Great.
If they’re saying a week, it will probably be two, and that’s if it turns up at all.
Looks like I’ll be doing some shopping I can’t afford as soon as the stores open tomorrow.
I briefly consider popping into the airport bathroom to change before my evening meeting with Belinda, the florist, but it’s looking sketchy out there—dark and blustery with plenty of snow.
I don’t know how backed up traffic will be in this kind of weather, and it seems best to get to where I need to be first and worry about the Smurf murder/coffee stain situation later.
Hopefully, I’ll be able to change when I get to the pub, and if not…
Well, punctuality is more important than appearances.
Right?
The taxi ride is another qualifying event in the Travel Drama Olympics, as my cabbie careens wildly along the slick streets in the driving snow. London cabbies are usually the safest, classiest drivers in the world, but this man seems determined to keep my fight or flight response fully activated.
Still, I can’t help admiring the view as the city streaks by.
London is even more charming in December.
Every building is draped in strings of lights, and Christmas markets and tree stands seem to pop up on every corner.
It’s everything the movies promised—garlands wrapped around lampposts, shops full of nutcrackers and Father Christmas figurines, and the smell of roasted chestnuts somehow penetrating through the closed windows.
This is the Christmas I’ve dreamed about since I was a kid. All my favorite holiday movies are set in London—Bridget Jones’ Diary, Love Actually, The Muppet Christmas Carol, with honorable mention to The Holiday, even though it pops back and forth between the U.S. and the U.K.
If I live through the night, I’m looking forward to wandering the streets in the daylight, soaking up the incomparably festive atmosphere.
But the way this ride is going, living isn’t something I’m taking for granted.
By the time we reach the suburb where I’m meeting Belinda at a pub, I’m sweating despite the chill and have already stress-eaten half the Cadbury Dairy Milk I bought at the vending machine near the taxi station.
“First time in London, love?” the driver asks, probably because I haven’t stopped gasping every time he swings around a blind corner.
“No, I’ve been here before. Lots of times.” I sip in a breath, refusing to gasp again as he zips through an intersection, barely avoiding a man in a wool cap walking his dog.
“Aw, then you know how much fun we have at Christmas,” he says cheerfully, as if he hasn’t just narrowly avoided a vehicular manslaughter charge. “Grabbing a pint is a brilliant way to start your holiday.”
“I’m actually here on business,” I clarify, clinging to the door handle when his next right threatens to fling me across the seat.
“Starting at the pub. I’m meeting a woman who’s already there.
Also, on business. It’s an all-business night.
No pints. I-I mean, probably not. Unless she wants to have one, I guess. But mostly business. Primarily.”
Nailed it.
Definitely should have forced myself to take a nap on the flight.
The driver nods slowly, the way you do when you suspect a stranger might not be all there. “Right. Sounds like you’ve got it all sorted. Here we are, then!”
He slows in front of a Tudor-style building draped in white lights.
Its wavy glass windows glow warmly on the otherwise darkened street, and a massive wreath hangs beneath a sign that reads “The Crown and Thistle” in a gorgeous gold font.
It looks like a place where Christmas miracles happen all the time.
I feel my spirits lift. Surely, this is where bad travel days go to die and beautiful new beginnings are practically guaranteed! I swear, as I pay the driver and step out into the winter chill, I can feel my luck turning around.
My reflection in the darkened dress shop window next door assures me I still look like an electrocuted hedgehog in a wrinkled suit, but it’s late, and I just got off a long flight. Belinda will understand.
Heck, we might even share a laugh over it.