Chapter 17 #2
“And for added magic,” I continue, blood rushing with that presenter’s high that sets in when you know your audience is with you, “Hidden LED strips make the flowers seem to breathe. Subtle. Romantic. Like being inside a music box made of petals.”
I click to slide fifteen. “All with an eye toward sustainability, of course. In addition to actual florals, we’ll use recycled fabrics and found elements from London parks for the installation.
And when the party’s over, the flowers will be donated to local care homes, courtesy of Fletchers, bringing holiday cheer long after the gala ends.
” I smile as I add, “And goodwill toward their favorite place to shop during the holidays, of course.”
A knowing smile curves James’s lips, and Christoph shoots me a subtle thumbs up beneath the table.
I’ve just finished with slide twenty-three—the custom menu designs—when James calls for a short break.
“Brilliant work so far.” He stands, glancing down at his phone.
“Let’s take five before we move on.” He lifts his cell with a sheepish smile as he moves toward the door at the back of the room, “It’s my daughter.
She’s about to go on as Clara in the Nutcracker at her school and needs a pep talk from Daddy. ”
Heart melting, I make happy shooing motions. “Of course, no need to apologize. That’s fantastic. Please tell her to break a leg for me.”
“Yes, from all of us!” Cristoph agrees, rising with a wink. He squeezes my arm before adding in a softer voice, “So good, Emily. I have chills. Seriously.”
“Thank you,” I say, beaming.
“Can I get you a coffee now?” he asks. “Or tea? We have a fantastic smoky Earl Grey.”
I wave him off. “No, thank you. I’ll get one when I get back. I’ll just pop down to the loo while we’re waiting.”
He nods and lifts a hand. “Of course, no rush. You’re so organized, we’re running way ahead of schedule.”
My knees only shake slightly as I push back through the main doors into the hallway, heading for the bathrooms I spotted on the way in.
Things are going so well! They’re engaged, excited, and seem to love my ideas. I just need to make sure I don’t lose my momentum during the last inning, and this might really happen. I might land the Fletchers’ gala and pave the way for more UK business sooner than I ever imagined!
I use the facilities, wash my hands, and reapply a light coat of lipstick before starting back, only to find a man in a gray jumpsuit busily mopping the marble floor in front of the boardroom doors.
From behind her desk, the receptionist shoots me an apologetic glance.
“Sorry, it’ll be slick.” She motions to her left. “If you go this way and turn at the first hallway, you can go in the back.”
I smile, taking the turn, she indicated. “Of course, no problem. Thanks so much.”
I’m halfway down a much smaller, more intimate hall, running through my mental list of what’s still left to cover, when I catch a conversation drifting from an alcove up ahead.
A voice that sounds like Christoph’s says, “especially for an American,” and my steps slow like I’ve hit wet cement.
My stomach drops, but before I can decide whether to cough to alert them to my presence or go back to the entrance to the hallway and make more noise on my way in, I hear the silver-haired woman—Anne, I think her name was—trilling, “Oh, I know! She’s just delightful.
I couldn’t be more impressed. And everything’s so finely woven together with the theme, down to the last detail. ”
I bite my bottom lip, face flushing with happiness even as a panicked voice in my head warns to get out of here before I’m caught eavesdropping.
“So creative,” the other secretary, Tabitha, agrees. “Though, I must say I’m a bit surprised.”
“Oh, stop,” Christoph says. “You saw what she did with that wedding. I’m not surprised at all. I knew she’d knock it out of the park.”
My head is at serious risk of growing at least one size this day when Tabitha adds, “No, I just meant that most people don’t try so hard when they know the job is already in the bag.”
My smile freezes, then swiftly begins to fade.
In the bag?
What is she talking about?
As if answering my question, Anne flutters, “Oh yes, quite. That boy we were made to hire for the Summer Sale promotion certainly didn’t put himself out, did he? But if your father’s well-connected…”
“It doesn’t matter,” Tabitha finishes. “And remember when Lord Gentry forced Thomas to showcase his daughter’s winter collection on the design floor?”
Christoph groans softly. “Don’t remind me. Those graffiti gowns with the holes in the pits? Hideous. An embarrassment for everyone involved. But Ms. Darling is different. She was invited to pitch ages before Featherswallow called to bully James into giving her the job.”
My eyes go so wide they start to sting.
What?!
I must make a sound—a wheeze, possibly, or my jaw cracking as it drops in shock—because suddenly the voices hush and Christoph swings out of an open door just ahead.
His face shifts quickly from surprise to guilt to a “nothing to see here” grin as he spies me.
“There you are, Emily,” he says, his warm smile back in place. “We were just talking about what a wonderful job you’re doing. We couldn’t be more thrilled with the presentation.”
According to what I overheard, it’s the truth.
But it isn’t the whole truth, and we all know it.
My smile is wobbly at best, and my “Thank you so much” sounds like I’m apologizing for existing. “The receptionist told me to come this way. A man was mopping and…”
I trail off, silently willing the floor to open and swallow me whole.
Or for time to unwind, take me back five minutes, and ensure I get back to the main doors before the mopping starts. Or that I never went to the loo in the first place.
I didn’t have to go that badly! And if I hadn’t left, I never would have heard…
I wouldn’t have to know…
Tabitha and Anne emerge next, both of them looking even guiltier than Christoph. Anne, clearly the mother hen of the group, apparently feels compelled to apologize.
“We shouldn’t have been gossiping, sweetheart,” she says, patting my shoulder as they herd me back toward the boardroom. “I’m not sure what you heard, but we didn’t mean a thing by it.”
“Only good things,” Christoph assures.
“Exactly,” Tabitha agrees. “Lovely things.”
“And no one gets anywhere in this city without connections,” Anne adds. “There’s no shame in using them to open doors. If I had a connection to a Viscount’s family, you can bet I’d have much better seats at the opera.”
“And I’d have a standing invitation to that polo party they throw every summer,” Christoph says. “I can’t get enough of short men on horses.”
Tabitha titters. “Oh, me, either. But that’s probably because I’m not much bigger than a Hobbit myself.”
I force myself to laugh along with them, pretending to move on as I resume my place at the table, but inside I’m spiraling as every success of the last week rearranges itself in my mind:
Belinda suddenly being willing to see me again after I turned her baby Jesus into petal confetti?
Oliver’s doing.
The meeting slots with those “impossible to get” caterers that miraculously opened like the Red Sea?
Oliver again.
The way Christoph brushed aside the scandal as soon as I explained that Oliver and I were dating?
Well, that was all Oliver’s idea, too.
And yes, my PowerPoint is perfect, and they all seem genuinely impressed with my work, but would that have mattered if I didn’t have the fifth in the throne pulling strings for me in the background?
Would I still be on the verge of landing this job if it were just me, Emily Darling, the American party planner, being judged on my own merit?
Or does this win really belong to my fake boyfriend?
The fake boyfriend who lied to me—again—and made mortifying phone calls behind my back.
Why did he do this?
I thought he believed in me?
But maybe all that’s a lie, too…
James returns with an update on his daughter—ready to take the stage like a champ—Christoph dims the lights once more, and I pick up where I left off.
But the magical flow state is gone. I feel outside myself, like I’m watching the woman in the red sweater present from the ceiling along with the ghost of my professional dignity.
I fumble the remote, nearly dropping it, and click too fast through the budget breakdown. And then, there goes slide twenty-eight without its carefully planned transition or my joke about accountants. My voice sounds thinner than it did before, like someone let half the air out of a balloon.
But they don’t seem to notice the change in my energy.
Why would they? This isn’t a real evaluation. It’s theater, and everyone knows their lines but me.
Finally, it’s time for slide thirty-seven—my big finish, the final rendering of the transformed space. James actually applauds. Applauds.
I just wish I could believe his enthusiasm was real.
“Brilliant,” he says, exchanging a pleased glance with Christoph and the others. “Absolutely brilliant. I think I speak for the committee at large when I say we’re thrilled to offer you the contract.”
The others murmur agreement like a Greek chorus, and Christoph assures his boss that he’ll have the contract drawn up immediately. We briefly discuss timeline concerns, and the date I’ll need to submit my budget for approval—things that should have me doing an inner victory dance.
But it all feels hollow.
Embarrassing, even.
More handshakes. More congratulations, and Christoph walks me to the door with a final assurance that he’ll be in touch before I fly out, so we can finalize the contract in person before I leave.
I wave, keeping my smile firmly fixed until I’m down the hallway.
And all five flights of stairs.
I make it to the lobby, through revolving doors that feel like they’re trying to trip me, and around the corner to where a row of black cabs wait like patient beetles.
Then, I run.
My sensible heels click against pavement, probably destroying the leather— definitely destroying my ankles—but I don’t care. I need to move, to put distance between me and that boardroom, between me and the truth that’s burning a shameful hole in my stomach.
Two blocks. Three, and then a small park appears. I try the gate, breathing a sigh of relief when it opens beneath my hand. I close it, wrapping my coat tighter around me as I find a brown bench hidden behind the hedge.
I sink down on it with a sigh, fighting tears as I pull my cell from my briefcase.
I’m supposed to text Oliver, but I have no idea what to say—
I got the job…but only because you rigged it without telling me
How could you embarrass me like this, Olly? How could you go behind my back that way? When you know how much I hate lies?
Do you really think I’m THAT inadequate?
How can I ever trust you again?
I turn the phone off instead.
And sit.
And shiver.
And do my best not to sniffle.
After a while, a mother pushing a stroller passes by on her way to the gate, shooting me a very British look of concern—worry mixed with a strong desire not to get involved.
But I can’t blame her.
I probably look like I’m on the verge of a breakdown. I feel like I am, but I don’t know what’s making me more upset. Losing the satisfaction of a job well done…
Or losing my trust in Olly.
“Congratulations, darling Darling, you did it,” I whisper to the empty park, mimicking his posh, lying voice.
The words taste sour in my mouth.
I close my eyes, and for the first time since I landed in London, I admit the truth…
I don’t belong here.
And I never will.