Chapter 4
MS. MAAS IS here to see you, Mrs. Pearce. Mariana sounds unsteady and a lot quieter than she did in the elevator, almost like she wants to run away as fast as she can.
There’s a silent moment on the other side of the door before the frosty voice returns. You can let her in.
Mariana takes a step back and she’s about to turn away when the same voice stops her in her tracks.
I was expecting the minutes from our last meeting on my desk this morning by eight. Not eight thirty.
The words themselves might not be scary, but her tone is terrifying. She’s not yelling, doesn’t even raise her voice, but she sounds so icy and calm that Mariana goes white.
I’m s-s-so sorry, ma’am, she rushes to reply, before she turns on her heels and flees to the desk that’s closest to Karen Pearce’s office. In her scramble to put on her headset, she doesn’t notice she’s put the microphone at the back of her head.
I’m flooded with compassion for Mariana as she scrubs her hands over her face, then reaches for the large cup of coffee next to her keyboard. I swallow, wipe my damp palms on my skirt, pull back my shoulders, and step inside.
Karen has a pair of square glasses balanced near the tip of her nose and there’s a calculated look in her grey eyes.
Her straight bangs cut off abruptly just above her eyebrows and her white-blonde hair is styled in a sleek, shoulder-length cut.
Her off-the-shoulder dress is tightly fitted with a deep purple hue, and she’s wearing a chunky gold chain.
On anyone else it would look like a serious case of Hey necklace, where are you taking that poor woman?
But not on her. On Karen, it looks chic.
She’s the one wearing that necklace—not the other way around.
Good morning, I finally utter.
Karen gives me a reserved nod, then gestures at the fancy-looking leather chairs across from her. Take a seat, she says, with a look that could reverse global warming.
I squeeze my lips together to avoid launching into a monologue about the weather, my theory that Camembert is the grossest cheese ever, or any other random topic that might possibly break the tension. But I have a feeling that would be the absolute worst move in this situation.
Miranda had great things to say about you, Karen says, as she twists one of the enormous links in her necklace chain.
I sit on my hands to block myself from plucking at my skirt non-stop. Oh, ah . . . thank you, I reply.
You’re young, she decides, her expression unchanged.
Uh . . . thank you? I hesitate. I really don’t feel like twenty-nine is that young, but maybe that’s because this is the very oldest I’ve ever been? Even turning twenty felt hellish to me.
Miranda did tell me you’ve organized quite a few large-scale events with flawless results. She takes off her glasses and slips the end of one of the arms between her teeth. Unfortunately, we’re short on experienced staff here at the New York office, so . . .
A barely-visible furrow appears between her brows. It’s so minimal that I have to wonder if she’s on the Botox train. Her face looks like it’s been sitting in a freezer after she chugged a bottle of vinegar.
I think I’ll put you in the lead for a holiday party we’re managing for a big law firm, she says, before pausing for dramatic effect.
I give her an ecstatic grin. It’s taking every ounce of restraint I can muster not to leap up from my seat for a celebratory dance.
I love Christmas and everything that goes along with it.
Lights in all the trees, society’s collective desire for snow, putting up decorations, the local radio station announcing Mariah Carey’s All I Want for Christmas Is You every fifteen minutes .
. . Yep, I was pretty much born to organize holiday parties.
They’re so much more fun than dealing with brides who could send Godzilla home sobbing just two minutes into a fight.
Karen straightens her glasses and looks like she’s about to tell me I’m also getting a million-dollar raise.
It’s not just any old law firm, though, she continues. . . . it’s Lockhart & Cahill.
Her next pause is so pregnant that I’m anticipating a truly spectacular revelation, like maybe Beyoncé’s about to walk in.
When she realizes neither Lockhart or Cahill are ringing any bells, she lets out a frustrated sigh and shakes her head.
It’s only one of the most prestigious firms in the city, she snips. They handle high-profile cases with lots of media coverage. That director who assaulted all those actresses? They represented the victims in that case.
She looks irritated. She had clearly expected me to be much more in the loop on current events.
Now that she’s mentioned the case, it’s all coming back to me, though.
Not the name of the law firm, exactly, but I definitely know the actresses involved and I can still picture their tear-streaked faces as they were leaving the courthouse.
With all the subtlety of a souped-up bulldozer, Karen waltzes her way through my train of thought to dig straight into the business side of things.
Their budget is substantial, she shares. That means I want everything planned to the most minute detail. No room for error. If I can take Miranda’s word for it, you haven’t dropped a single ball in your six years with Make a Mark Events.
She arches a sculpted eyebrow as I try to stifle a laugh with a cough. This doesn’t seem like a great time to bring up the tuk-tuk snafu. Clearly, my boss back home still hasn’t traced that back to me.
That’s right, I answer instead, shuffling in my chair.
Great. She taps a few buttons on her phone.
The room fills with a buzzing sound followed by, Yes, Mrs. Pearce?
Patrice? My office, Karen says. Before removing her finger from the machine, she adds, And bring coffee.
Wow.
Here I was, thinking Miranda was a hard-ass, but Karen blows that notion out of the water. Sure, Miranda can be strict, but at least she doesn’t treat people like they’re squashed slugs still stuck to the sole of her shoe.
A slender woman walks into the office. She looks a bit older than me and her flowy burgundy dress pairs perfectly with her lipstick colour.
Her light brown hair is styled in a neat updo and she’s carrying a cup of steaming coffee that she places on the desk in front of Karen.
Taking a step back, she gives Karen an expectant look.
Karen stirs a bit of milk into her coffee and glances my way before turning her attention to the other woman. Patrice . . . You know we’re organizing the Lockhart & Cahill Christmas party, yes?
Patrice’s nod seems eager, but I get the impression that she’s a little uneasy. I look down and notice she’s struggling to stand still. She keeps lifting one foot off the ground just a little, then the other, only to put it right back down again.
Of course, Patrice replies. I’ve already put together an outline and—
Karen interrupts her, mid-sentence. Right. I’ve decided to pass that event over to Emma.
She nods in my direction and an awkward silence sets in as Patrice slowly turns toward me. If looks could kill, I’d be saying my farewells to the chocolate muffin I picked up on my way into work this morning. I’ve been looking forward to that thing for the past hour.
Stunned, I shift my gaze from Patrice to Karen. Did I . . . Did I just steal someone’s job?
Patrice cramps her hands into fists, briefly relaxes, then switches right back to a tight squeeze. To her?! she starts. But—
Karen shuts her up with a glare.
Patrice snaps her jaw shut, staring straight ahead.
That’s right. To her, Karen retorts. And I want you to help her out.
She has excellent organizational skills, but she still needs to get to know all the best locations in New York.
So, while you’ll be reporting to Emma, you’ll still have a significant influence on the final event by acting as her right hand.
I’m just not convinced that you’re ready for the responsibility of such an important client, but I’m certain you’ll be able to learn a lot from Emma.
I bite the inside of my cheek. She went too far with that last part. Patrice stares me down with the same look Cruella de Vil aimed at those one hundred and one fuzzy puppies. I’m petrified.
For a moment, I expect her to lose it on Karen. Her cheeks are scarlet red and there’s a tiny muscle spasm in her temple. But in the end, she just gives Karen a stiff nod.
Lovely. That’s that, then. Patrice, will you show Emma to her desk? I have more on my plate today than this stimulating conversation with the two of you. Chop chop.
She flaps her perfectly manicured hands, waving us toward the door. As I get up, I cross my fingers that my desk is as far away from Patrice’s as possible.