13. Sabrina
13
Sabrina
Eleven months later...
M ia Grace Taylor is currently conducting a high-level symposium on the structural integrity of her Sophie la Girafe toy in her playpen. The symposium mostly involves enthusiastic drooling and intermittent shrieks that could shatter glass.
Or my concentration.
Whichever comes first.
Almost twenty months since Vegas. Twenty months since…
Nope, not going there.
My apartment, now officially Taylor Strategic Communications, Global HQ (and daycare center, and laundromat, and occasional cereal-for-dinner bistro), feels… cozy. That’s the polite PR spin. The reality is, my ergonomic office chair is currently wedged between a laundry basket overflowing with tiny onesies and a bookshelf threatening structural co llapse under the weight of both marketing textbooks and ‘Goodnight Moon.’
The glamour is, frankly, underwhelming. Or overwhelming, depending on how you look at it.
Remember that sleek downtown office? Floor-to-ceiling windows? Actual colleagues? Yeah, that’s now filed under ‘Pre-Baby Fantasies’ along with ‘uninterrupted sleep’ and ‘wearing non-stretch fabrics.’
Needless to say, running a PR firm while simultaneously keeping a tiny human alive is a lot more work than I ever imagined.
Client meetings are still exclusively Zoom, a carefully curated head-and-shoulders view that strategically hides the baby gate, the explosion of primary-colored toys, and the faint but persistent smell of diaper cream.
Professionalism, thy name is a well-angled webcam and aggressive air freshener.
Whenever I’m on the phone, half the time I’m frantically prayer that Mia’s nap lasts longer than the call, or at least that her inevitable shrieks sound vaguely like enthusiastic agreement.
It’s exhausting, honestly.
Not pregnancy-exhausting anymore, but the bone-deep, soul-crushing exhaustion of chronic sleep deprivation layered with the constant mental gymnastics of managing client crises while simultaneously preventing a tiny human from ingesting floor fuzz or mastering the art of unplugging the wifi router at critical moments.
It’s a miracle my entire operation hasn’t imploded like a poorly handled damage control campaign.
My laptop beeps then, mocking me with an unanswered email from a potential new client I snagged through a referral from Jess. Bless her philanthropic heart. I should be crafting a killer proposal, showcasing my unique blend of crisis management expertise and marketing savvy. I should be dazzling them with ROI projections and synergistic brand strategies.
Instead, I’m staring blankly at the cursor, contemplating whether teething rusks can double as adult sustenance (verdict: sadly, no) and trying to discreetly adjust the waistband of my postpartum leggings for the fifth time this hour.
Mia lets out another shriek, this one hitting a decibel level usually reserved for pterodactyls. Or something.
“Eloquent, darling,” I murmur, dragging my eyes back to the screen. “Truly insightful commentary on the giraffe situation.”
My phone rings, a jarring interruption to the relative chaos. Unknown number. Probably spam. Or worse, my mother, calling to offer unsolicited parenting advice gleaned from a daytime talk show.
I shouldn’t be so hard on her. She raised me , after all. She knows a thing or two...
I let it go to voicemail.
Except it rings again. Immediately.
Okay, persistent spam.
Or… a persistent potential client?
Fine.
I take a deep breath.
Activate professional mode.
“Sabrina Taylor,” I answer, injecting warmth and competence I absolutely do not feel.
“Sabrina, Luca Briggs here.” The voice is smooth, confident, tinged with an accent I can’t quite place. Italian maybe?
Briggs? Luca Briggs? The name tickles something in the dusty archives of my brain.
Finance guy?
Tech bro?
Someone Tatiana mentioned?
“Mr. Briggs,” I reply, shifting into full PR mode. “Thanks for calling. What can I help you with today?”
Translation: Whose reputation just torpedoed, and how fast do I need to repair it?
“Heard great things,” he says. “Your name came highly recommended for… delicate situations. We’ve got a bit of a… perception issue brewing at…” He pauses, and there’s a crackle on the line, or maybe Mia timed a shriek perfectly, because the company name sounds like a garbled mess. “...umble Briggs Investments. Needs some expert handling.”
Something-umble Briggs Investments? Okay, clearly missed that. Probably should ask him to repeat it, but interrupting a potential client mid-flow? Bad PR 101.
Besides, the company name isn’t super important. The client name is. In my appointment book, for company name, I type in Luca Briggs.
“Understood, Mr. Briggs. Delicate situations are my specialty. Happy to discuss how Taylor Strategic Communications can assist.”
God, I sound like a robot. A very tired, slightly nauseous robot.
“Excellent. We need discretion. And results. Yesterday, preferably.” Of course, he does. They always do. “Your downtown office address is still the one listed on Google, yes? I can have my car swing by this afternoon? Say, three o’clock?”
My stomach clenches. The downtown office. Right. The one that’s now occupied by a very confused yoga studio.
“Ah, actually, Mr. Briggs,” I say, forcing lightness into my voice. “The Google listing is a bit outdated. Since having my daughter eleven months ago, I’ve transitioned the firm to a more flexible model. Taylor Strategic Communications is now operating remotely.” I gesture vaguely at my living room, though he can’t see it. “I conduct most meetings via Zoom, or at my home office for select clientele. It allows me to provide dedicated focus without the...”
Diaper explosions? Existential dread? Mountain of laundry?
“...overhead.”
Nailed it.
There’s a brief pause. I can practically hear him recalculating.
Home office? Is she serious?
“Home office,” he repeats, sounding intrigued rather than dismissive. “All right. Adaptable. I like it. Your place then. Three o’clock works.”
“Actually, I prefer Zoom for most business. It’s—”
“Like I said,” Mr. Briggs interrupts. “We need discretion. I don’t trust Zoom security, sorry. Please text me your address for three o’clock.”
Pushy, isn’t he?
I suppress a sigh. “All right, I’ll pencil you in for three o’clock.”
“My assistant, Vivian, will coordinate,” he replies smoothly. “Looking forward to it.”
He hangs up.
I stare at my phone. Luca Briggs. I should Google him properly.
But first, damage control.
Operation: De-Babyfy Apartment is a go.
I have approximately three hours to transform this place from ‘lived-in chaos’ to ‘chic, minimalist work- live space.’
I quickly text him my address, then send another text to my goto babysitter, asking if she can make three o’clock. She has a “spare” this afternoon, if I recall.
Just as I’m mentally cataloging stray toys and plotting strategic furniture rearrangement, my phone buzzes again. It’s a text from Mrs. Gable, my usually reliable, sweet-as-pie college student babysitter.
So sorry Sabrina! Woke up w/ terrible bug. Can’t make it today. Feel awful! :( :( :(
Panic, cold and sharp, claws its way up my throat.
She cannot be serious! Today? Now?
I type back frantically: Oh no! Feel better soon!
Liar.
I want to scream, not wish her well.
Her reply is instant: Thx, just need rest. So sorry again!
I sink onto the arm of the couch, the phone slipping from my hand. No babysitter. A high-stakes client meeting in less than three hours. At my apartment. With an eleven-month-old who is currently attempting to gum her way through the bars of her playpen.
Okay. Okay, Sabrina. Crisis management. It’s literally your job.
What are the options?
1. Cancel the meeting.
Nope. Looks unprofessional. And I need the business.
2. Reschedule.
Also looks bad. He emphasized speed.
3. Meet him somewhere else.
Too late. Already agreed to home.
4. Find another babysitter in three hours.
Ha. That’s funny.
5. Have the meeting with Mia home.
Oh. My. God .
Can I actually do that? Can I pitch a PR strategy while simultaneously preventing my daughter from eating questionable fluff she found under the couch or having a meltdown because Sophie la Girafe committed treason?
But what choice do I have? I need this client. Since shutting the downtown office, cash flow has been… tighter than these damn leggings. A big retainer from this Briggs character could mean the difference between thriving and needing to ask my disapproving mother for a loan.
The horror.
I decide I’ll tuck Mia away in the other room during the meeting. Shouldn’t be too hard to move the crib there. I’ll just have to hope she doesn’t erupt into a screaming fit while the client is present.
I get to work on cleaning up the apartment again.
Somewhere along the way I get a text.
Hello, this is Vivian, Luca’s assistant. Are we still good for three o’clock today?
I stare at the phone for a long moment. I glance around my half-cleaned apartment, then at Mia. She’s finally abandoned Sophie and is now staring intently at her own chubby feet, a look of profound concentration on her little face. Her eyes, those impossibly, startlingly green eyes, blink slowly.
I text back: We’re good!
Famous last words.
I just need to stay calm. Project confidence. Control the narrative.
Right. Rule number one. Control the narrative.
And the narrative here is: I am a competent single mother running a successful business.
Mia is my daughter .
End of story.
I look around my apartment. Yeah, I still have a lot of cleaning to do.
Mia coos, reaching a hand towards me. I walk over and lift her out of the playpen, holding her close. She smells like baby powder. Doesn’t need changing, yet.
“Okay, little one,” I whisper, burying my face in her soft curls. “Looks like Mommy is going to be a little busy this afternoon.”