Chapter 6 #2
“Yes, it is. I think you’ll be pleased with what she’s come up with, Jane.”
So they can be on a first-name basis, but I’m relegated to last name only? It’s a virtual kick down to the kiddie table, even though I’m sitting at the head of the conference table and in charge of this meeting.
“Hmm,” Jane says doubtfully.
Yes, Jane. I might have to call her Ms. Crabtree out loud, but in my head, I can call her whatever I want, and for now, I’m picking Jane.
If this meeting doesn’t go well, maybe I’ll pick something else like Crabby Cakes McGoo, but I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt for a bit as a show of good faith. In myself.
I start my presentation on the attack, needing to prove myself and getting a clear read on Jane Crabtree.
I hammer her with prep, with numbers, with cold, hard facts while glossing over the fuzzy stuff that Jillian and I put into the presentation.
We’d planned a multi-angle approach, figuring I could adjust depending on the reactions I received.
I’ve practiced every potential ‘choose your adventure’ course this presentation might take during those dry runs.
Jane listens attentively, her eyes locked on me.
I make a point about profit structures and she holds up a finger.
I pause, and she looks to the binder in front of her, reading the statistics I just quoted again for herself.
As she reads, she absently strokes at her lips as though she can taste those profits.
Whoo-hoo, I’m getting to her.
Finally, at about ten minutes in, she cracks a small smile. “And you’re sure that your grocery stores can promote our products, especially the new offering?”
Oh, I’m sure. I’ve spent a month working the deal with AgroStar, making sure all the analytics are on point for this deal.
They want to expand their business but need Andrews connections.
We can get them the distribution, the transport, and the media coverage.
The stores will be happy, selling their great product line consistently.
And that ‘new offering’ is a basically legalized mom-crack.
Okay, not really, but it’s supposed to be some organic superfood drink that tastes like sour candy but provides a day’s worth of veggie servings, appetite suppression, and bonus energy.
I’ll be lining up to buy my own secret stash of that miracle goodness in a bottle as soon as it hits the market, and so will basically everyone else, too.
It’s a win-win-win for all concerned.
“Absolutely. By the time we’re done, AgroStar is going to be bigger than Tyson, bigger than Johnson & Johnson. Forget Bruce Springsteen, they’ll be calling AgroStar The Boss.”
Jane claps lightly, like we’re playing golf.
“Cheeky. I like it.” As she rests her hands back on the table, I notice that she scratches roughly at her arm, which looks red.
Perhaps she was scratching beneath the table?
On second thought, maybe there are pesticides or something not-so-great in that superfood drink?
Either that or she’s been moisturizing with poison ivy oil.
“Along with grocery stores, we’d want to insert your products into our restaurant brands—”
I stop at the flushed look on her face. “Ms. Crabtree, are you okay?”
She’s breathing hard, scratching at her neck now, and I wonder what the hell’s going on.
She squirms in her chair like she’s got itch powder between her thighs.
Or maybe one of those remote-control vibrators?
If that’s the case, her partner is being pretty cruel with the public orgasm in the middle of our meeting.
Hell, even Ms. Crabtree is getting more than I am.
But this doesn’t look like pleasure. It looks like . . .
“My word, it’s suddenly so hot in here. Must be a hot flash,” she jokes weakly as she fans herself. “Please . . . continue.”
Dad gives her a concerned look but shrugs my way.
I’m sure he’s not touching potential menopause symptoms with a ten-foot pole.
We all remember what Mom was like when she had hot flashes.
To say we scattered like cockroaches to stay out of her war path of destruction would be putting it mildly.
I swear I only approached her with chocolate or wine in my hand for nearly a year.
“As I was saying, our restaurant supply chain can—”
Suddenly, Jane’s entire face goes bright red. “Is it incredibly hot in here to you?”
Dad stands up, pouring a glass of water. “Jane, are you okay? Maybe some water?”
She shakes her head, “Get. Michael.” And then she falls out of her chair, dropping to the floor with her legs askew.
“Help!” Dad yells. “Call 9-1-1!”
“Got it!” Jillian answers from the corner.
I kneel down on the floor beside Jane, checking her pulse like I learned in CPR class. Like everything in my life, I like to be prepared. Outwardly, I’m calm and collected. Inside, I’m freaking the fuck out.
Oh, my God! Jane! Don’t die! Not without signing the papers first. Ugh, that’s shitty, Courtney. How about just don’t die with no clauses? Yeah, that’s what I meant!
And now, I’m arguing with myself.
Michael, the security guard, comes in. “That won’t be necessary yet. Mrs. Crabtree is having an allergic reaction. Excuse me.”
He’s chill as a cucumber, stepping around the table and pushing me aside. He pulls an EpiPen from somewhere like a magician, jabbing it into Mrs. Crabtree’s thigh and listening for the hiss of the injection.
“An allergic reaction?” my dad says, Michael’s declaration finally settling in as Jane starts to come back around. “To what?”
Michael looks around the room with narrowed eyes. Chair, table, binder, tea cup . . . he seems perplexed. Scanning on, he looks at the breakfast buffet. “Those.” He points, and I follow his finger with my eyes . . . to the beautiful flower arrangements.
“The flowers?” I ask, horror-stricken as I watch the petals tremble slightly from the downdraft of the air conditioning flowing into the room.
“We used the spider mums like on her business cards. I thought it would be a nice touch?” My voice fades, making it a question though I didn’t mean for it to be.
What is he talking about? Allergic reaction? To her favorite flower?
“Did you read the meeting notice we sent?” Michael snaps.
Jane pats his hand weakly, her voice strangled and stilted. “I’m okay. It’s okay. It happens.”
She is not okay, and this is not okay. Not in any way, shape, form, or fashion.
“I did read the notice, all twenty-three pages of it. My assistant did as well.”
That’s the truth, we did read it. We’d joked around about how Ms. Crabtree had a contract rider more demanding than any pop celebrity we’ve ever heard about.
It wasn’t quite Van Halen requesting no brown M&M’s or Mariah Carey demanding only Evian water and Cristal with bendy straws, but the contract was specific to the point of ridiculousness, with requirements about arrival times, air temperature, the specific brand of everything bagel and cream cheese Jillian ordered, and demands that Ms. Crabtree not be spoken to by anyone other than those attending the meeting.
“Page fifteen, section B, lines three through four, Ms. Crabtree is allergic to bees, peanut butter, and baby’s breath,” Michael says frostily, quoting the contract from memory.
Wait, what?
I look at the flowers with fresh eyes, horror dawning. Now that he says that, I do remember reading it. Several times, in fact, but it didn’t register when I saw the flowers this morning. In my head, I saw spider mums and checked off the box, thinking only of success.
“Oh, my God! I am so sorry, Ms. Crabtree.”
I just almost killed a woman. And not just any woman, but the first big client I was wooing myself.
What’s the punishment for attempted murder? Or is it manslaughter if I didn’t mean to do it? God, I’m just so glad she’s okay-ish.
Jillian has already removed one arrangement and grabs the other, taking it out quickly.
“Please, Jane, let’s get you off the floor if you’re feeling up to it? You can rest on the couch in my office for a moment,” Dad interjects.
Ms. Crabtree nods. “I am feeling a little better. Thank you, Morgan.”
Michael and I help her up, and then Dad steps to her side, taking her arm over his for support. As they help her out the door, I can hear her telling Michael, “Reschedule my day. I think I’ll just go home after this.”
“Already done,” he answers, glaring at me as I follow them into the hall.
“I’ve got this, honey. We can talk later,” Dad says, and my jaw gapes. He’s dismissing me outright, not letting me help Ms. Crabtree or make sure she’s really feeling better.
My first big presentation . . . utter and complete failure. But at least I didn’t kill anyone . . . barely.
I force my head up, not willing to dissolve where someone might see me, and pick up the presentation binders. I stride down the hallway quickly, not slowing at all when Kevin calls out my name this time.
Fuck!
“Oh, my God, Courtney, I’m so sorry,” Jillian says as soon as I get back to my office. Her eyes look red too, though I’m guessing it’s from tears and not more flower allergies.
If I never see another flower again, it will be too soon, which sucks considering my sister’s passion and the approximately fifteen plants I have at home. Maybe I can talk Abi into switching over to fakes? Or cacti? No, too prickly. I’d probably end up sticking someone to death. Maybe myself?
Dramatic much, Courtney?
“It’s okay,” I mutter, heading for my office. I wonder if Dad’s going to fire me or just give me the look. Right now, I’m not sure which is worse.
Jillian follows me into my office, still distraught. “The change was on the fly this morning and I didn’t even think of it with everything else going on. I saw mums and thought ‘check’.”
“It’s okay, Jillian,” I say again. “I did the same thing. This isn’t on you or Abi. It’s on me. Every bit of that presentation was my responsibility. I fucked up.”