Chapter 14
DAMN, GIRL. CHECK you out working those curls! Marcel adds his signature finger snap as he hypes me up from behind his screen. Looks like you got up extra early to put your curling iron to the test? Looks great! Definitely worth repeating!
Thanks! But I actually didn’t do anything to it this morning for a change, I reply.
Sitting down at my desk, I run my hands through my hair.
It feels a bit unfamiliar and somehow naked.
I can’t remember the last time I wore my hair curly like this, but between Rudy’s compliment last night and the fact that I snoozed my alarm for forty-five minutes this morning, this seemed like the right day to make an exception.
Marcel looks over at me as he takes a sip of the coffee I brought for him.
Seriously, girl, he says. You should be praising the genetics gods for that perfect curl. How dare you insult Mother Nature by ever using a straightener? This look makes you a total hottie.
I’m about to thank him again, when Patrice suddenly appears at my desk. It’s never a treat to see her, but I’m getting extra foreboding vibes from the look in her eyes right now. This is about to be a Bad News conversation . . .
She cuts to the chase to confirm my dark suspicions. Completely stone-faced, she declares, Ed de Vries cancelled on us.
What?! I stare at her in shock. But having a live band was one of Lockhart & Cahill’s most important asks! Ugh, now we’re just left with those dorky Santa Claus ice sculptures Sebastian wanted.
Yeah. Bummer. If only you’d listened to me in the first place, instead of pushing your own agenda, we would have been perfectly fine with a reliable American band. But no, you insisted on flying in your Little Dutch Boy for the gig.
I shoot daggers her way. Could you at least try to hide how much you’re enjoying this? This setback affects you too, you know.
Oh, I’m not the one in charge of that Christmas party, she snarks. You pretty much own this problem. That’s the downside of running the show, I suppose.
I clench my jaw shut and take a deep inhale through my nose, trying to keep my cool. Just as she’s about to turn away, I stop her in her tracks.
Patrice!
Yes?
Can you book the other band that the Lockhart & Cahill team liked?
Oh, I already called them. As I expected, they’re booked for that date. It’ll be challenging to find a performer this late in the game. It’s Christmas in New York, after all. You should probably start putting together a Spotify playlist instead.
But—
Let it go, Emma! She turns abruptly to walk back to her desk. There’s a triumphant little skip in her step that makes me want to strangle her.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck! I weave my fingers into my hair and tug at my curls in exasperation. When I give Marcel a helpless look, he returns my stare with softness in his eyes.
I’m so sorry, sweetie, he says. I think she might be right though, I’m afraid. I doubt you’ll still be able to find a great live performer with Christmas songs in their repertoire.
Fucking Patrice, I grumble in frustration.
I know it’s not her fault, but this is one case where I’d feel absolutely fine shooting the messenger. I put my tired brain to work running through all the possible fixes.
Jeez, Emma. Think you can dial down the volume on your brain gears? You’re messing with my concentration, Marcel teases. Try not to dwell on it. Things are going to work out. Stuff like this happens all the time, he says, trying to comfort me.
I just don’t get how this happened. This isn’t like Ed at all. We’ve worked together so many times before and he’s a super reliable guy. His management is always on top of things, too . . . It just doesn’t make any sense.
How about a DJ? There’re only a few things I know about the Netherlands: clog dancing, tulips, and windmills. But don’t you guys have excellent DJs, too?
I chuckle. That could be fun, but I don’t think it would solve our problem. Lockhart & Cahill was very specific about wanting a live band, so I’m going to have to come up with something.
As I keep buzzing through our options, I open up my inbox and discover a nugget of good news: the final quote from the caterer we booked is miraculously lower than we’d expected.
That ends up being the only positive development of the day.
Mariana spends most of our lunch break complaining about chafed nipples and she seems about this close to whipping out a boob to give Marcel and me a live update of the situation.
The place ran out of pizza so I’m working my way through a chewy chicken salad sandwich instead.
Meanwhile, Mariana has launched into a slightly different subject: all the ways her intense labour and painful breasts have been affecting her sex life.
I’m serious, she laments. It’s like tossing a hotdog down a hallway down there.
Marcel snorts his tomato soup out through his nose. Thanks for the vivid imagery, he chuckles, as he wipes up all the red splatters with a napkin.
Mariana shrugs. Sorry, but I do believe in being honest about these things. I love Rory more than life itself, but man, this has been such an assault on my body. Everyone’s always going on about the miracle of birth, but it honestly felt more like a car crash to me.
She rips into her slice of pizza. I really did love our night out last week.
That was the first time in a long time that I finally felt a little more like myself again.
Can we go again on Friday? I hope that band’s there again, I thought they were amazing.
Isn’t it wild that a talented band like that isn’t playing bigger shows or at least popping up on the radio?
Especially with a lead singer who looks like that.
Unbelievable that he just lives in your building.
She gives me a glare that looks almost accusatory.
It’s criminally offensive that you’re living next door to a rock god, but your sex life is somehow in more of a shambles than mine.
I give her a mocking look. Being his neighbour isn’t exactly a free pass to jump him and rip off all his clothes, I lecture her. He’s not even my type anyway. And I don’t think I’m his either.
Marcel chuckles. That makes sense. He’s a total bad boy with brooding, sexy vibes and you . . . you’re just a few talking mice away from becoming a Disney princess.
Hey! I shout, feeling insulted.
You know what I mean. You’re sweet and kind to everyone you meet and he . . . has zero fucks to give.
Mariana takes a gulp of her drink. Excellent point. But you know what they say about opposites . . . And even though he’s ‘not your type,’ I don’t believe for a second that you don’t have a soft spot for gorgeous men with incredible voices.
Marcel looks sunken in thought. She’s not wrong.
I mean, I usually have more of a thing for men in suits, but I still wouldn’t kick this guy out of bed.
If he was just a little more famous, he’d have hordes of groupies following him everywhere.
Maybe we should call in a tip to that record company we planned the anniversary event for.
His vocal cords deserve a record deal. Marcel scoops another spoonful of soup from his bowl.
Pounding my hand on the table in triumph, I make Marcel choke on his lunch for the second time today.
What? he coughs out.
You’re a genius! I shout. I can get Rudy to play at the Lockhart & Cahill party! He’s perfect! He might be even better than Ed de Vries.
There’s a brief moment of silence before Mariana and Marcel explode into overlapping chatter. Their enthusiasm is undeniable, already picturing the whole thing. Marcel even wonders out loud what Rudy might look like in a latex elf costume.
Hold on, though, Mariana interrupts the verbal mayhem. Doesn’t he hate Christmas? How are you planning to convince him to say yes?
I think he’s actually starting to like me . . . I hesitate. As friends, I quickly add when their expressions turn to delight.
Hmmm. Do you really think you can convince the Grinch to play a Christmas show in front of a few hundred people just by being nice to him for a little while? Mariana muses.
I’ll obviously be offering him a huge pile of money, I say, clarifying my strategy. He works as a barista. I imagine his hourly fee for that party is going to be a lot higher than what he’s making at the coffee place.
Oh yeah? Marcel laces his fingers, resting his chin on his linked hands as he stares at me with great interest. Which coffee place?