Chapter 17
PRETZEL?
Marcel’s pointing at a cart selling soft pretzels, hotdogs, and other street food. Gordon Ramsey would no doubt shut the thing down in seconds for food safety violations, but the food does look delicious.
I answer with a decisive and immediate yes. Marcel walks over to the vendor, who’s sporting a big, bristly moustache and stains on his shirt. He reminds me of my uncle Ronald at the end of Christmas dinner in the worst way possible.
It’s not long before Marcel returns with a massive pretzel about twice the size of my hand, plus two cups of coffee. Handing me the tasty combo, he starts to warn me. Be careful, it’s filled wi— But I’ve already sunk my teeth into the salt-sprinkled dough.
No! I cry out.
Strawberry jam—a feature I hadn’t taken into account—drips down onto my taupe coloured wool coat.
Perplexed and in disbelief, I look down at my chest. I look like I’ve been stabbed by Strawberry Shortcake and her gang.
As best as I can, I hold my coffee and pretzel in one hand and attempt to minimize the damage with the other.
It’s all for nothing, though. I’m scrubbing at the jam like my life depends on it while the pink stain on my coat slowly expands.
Once I realize I’m only making things worse, I give Marcel a wide-eyed look as he covers his mouth.
This is the second damn time this has happened to me, I mutter in frustration. These people are going to think I’m an idiot.
How about you just take your coat off before we walk in? Marcel suggests. I don’t think anyone will notice.
We’re walking through the Lower East Side, making our way to the Christmas party venue.
Grimy alleyways and outdated apartment buildings are mixed in with chic properties and the types of shops that would send Pretty Woman packing.
I saw the event space in the photos Patrice ran by me, and of course Lockhart & Cahill already okayed the decision, but I haven’t had a chance to see the building in person yet.
And I really do need to see it in person to help me visualize the decorations and other design elements I want to use.
Marcel wrapped up the event he was working on over the weekend, so now he’s helping me organize the Christmas party—and I could not be more grateful, since Patrice has been about as helpful as a flame-thrower in a wildfire.
The pictures of the location were stunning, I gush, as we turn onto the next street.
There’s a busker on the corner playing a song for some interested passersby.
It’s overlooking the East River and—
Your destination is on the left, says the robotic Google Maps voice coming from my phone.
My eyes grow wide as I look up from my phone screen to see a huge construction crane lifting a thick chain.
And suspended from the chain? My worst nightmare.
I can’t help but draw a hand to my mouth as I witness a gigantic wrecking ball crash into the building in slow-motion.
The structure collapses like a house of cards as my ears are assaulted by the racket of cement crashing to the ground and metal crunching against metal.
And for whatever reason, the busker has decided this is the perfect occasion to add Miley Cyrus’s Wrecking Ball to his repertoire.
I shoot the man in question a pissed-off glare as he continues his impressive performance. And then I bring my phone back into the mix, hoping that Google Maps was somehow pranking me before, but no: this is definitely the right address.
I’m sorry, this is the stunning location? Marcel asks dryly. I don’t think legal’s going to sign off on this. Something related to potential lawsuits from clients at risk of being bludgeoned by falling debris . . .?
Not funny! I shout. This is my job on the line! First Ed de Vries cancels on us and now we don’t have a venue! And it’s already late October! Do you have any idea how impossible it’s going to be to find a new place at this point?!
Marcel’s teasing immediately flips into empathy when he realizes the state I’m in. This is serious. You’re right. I’m sorry, he says, in a quick recovery.
The corners of his mouth drop down even more as he watches me slowly sink down until I’m sitting on the ground. It’s taking absolutely everything in me not to curl up in a fetal position and have a little sob fest.
I’ll go ask the construction workers how long this has been in the works, Marcel offers. It makes zero sense that we booked this place only a month ago and now it’s suddenly being demolished.
I don’t reply, but I watch from my spot on the disgusting sidewalk as Marcel approaches the people in helmets.
With one last swig of coffee, I lean back against the building behind me.
Here I am, sitting on the ground in a stained coat (that I probably won’t be able to replace since I’m about to be out of a job and consequently out of money), holding an empty coffee cup.
Legs zigzag along the sidewalk in front of me.
You might think this would be my rock bottom moment: slumped down on a surface that’s caked with globs of old gum while I contemplate the prospect of confessing all of this to Karen.
You’d be wrong, though. I hit my true rock bottom when a stranger stuffs a five dollar bill in my empty cup, mumbling something along the lines of go get yourself a nice meal.
Mouth agape, I stare as the man briefly looks back over his shoulder to give me a thumbs up, probably assuming my stunned expression is linked to his act of generosity.
Scrambling back up from the ground, I swat the dirt from my butt.
And that’s exactly when Marcel comes jogging back my way. I figured out what happened, he says.
Oh?
They’ve been planning to tear the building down for a while now.
I give him a wide-eyed stare. That’s outrageous! I yell. At the very least, we can sue them for damages, right? Isn’t that how you do things here? Someone doesn’t follow through on their promises so you take them to court?
Whoa! Easy, tiger! Marcel sticks his hands up in the air as if I’m holding him at gunpoint. The guys said this demolition was definitely already on the schedule a month ago. Which means we couldn’t possibly have booked this location.
But . . . But how?!
Marcel wraps an arm around me and gently ushers me back toward the subway station. I have no clue.
Once we’re back at the office and I’ve had some time to recover, I turn on my computer and start to scroll through my newest emails.
You have got to be kidding me! I shout a moment later.
Marcel gives me a bewildered look.
Flabbergasted, I point at my monitor. Ed de Vries’s management is charging us a cancellation fee—when they’re the ones who bailed on us!
Jesus, you’re having the worst luck. The Grinch must be working overtime. Marcel says, shaking his head.
There’s no way I’m letting this slide. I grab my phone and punch in the number for Ed’s management.
It takes a while for anyone to answer, but then I finally get the right person on the line. Andrea van Vliet and I play countless rounds of the blame game and part way through our unpleasant conversation, I see a new email pop into my inbox. It’s from Andrea—talk about multitasking . . .
Reading through the message, I can hardly believe my eyes:
Dear Ms. van Vliet,
We regret to inform you of our need to cancel Mr. de Vries’s December 23 live appearance. Our client has unfortunately expressed a desire to work with a different performer. Our sincerest apologies for this inconvenience.
Kind regards,
Patrice Gellar
See?! I told you! The woman is practically wheezing in my ear, seemingly out of breath from our spirited argument. That’s your cancellation email. Don’t you dare try to blame us for this. We were all looking forward to this partnership, but I can’t say I’m impressed with your attitude at all.
Holy shit.
Ma’am? Ma’am . . .? she says, when I’ve been silent for about a minute.
Oh! I’m sorry. You’re absolutely right and I want to apologize for my inappropriate outburst, I jump in, still staring at Patrice’s email.
I will speak with the person in question to get the full story and of course we will be covering the cancellation fee.
Is there any chance Ed is still available on the twent—
NO. It’s a loud and clear answer that will keep ringing in my ears until long after we wrap up this conversation.
It was Patrice.
I roll back my desk chair and waltz over to Patrice, who looks up in shock when I slam my hand down on her desktop. For the first time since meeting her, I spot a touch of fear and doubt in her eyes.
Patrice? I ask in the friendliest tone I can muster, even though it feels like there’s lava pouring from my throat. Can I speak to you for a minute?
Well, actually . . . she starts.
Right now, I say, sounding so authoritative that I could probably even get Karen to bring me a coffee.
I’m enraged, and that rage has pushed away any concern I once had for what Patrice might think of me. My uncontrollable need to people-please has its limits, and Patrice just ran into a dead end.
With all the enthusiasm of a Labrador heading to his first post-neuter check-up at the vet, she shuffles along behind me.
Once we’re in an empty office, I roll down the privacy blinds, plant my hands at my waist, and stare at her with such fury that she lowers her eyes to the ground.
Something tells me she knows exactly what this is about.
Why, Patrice? I ask her, my voice shaking. Why are you trying so hard to sabotage this party?
Patrice exhales as she wipes her hands on her dress a few times. Her gaze shifts from the closed blinds shielding us from nosy coworkers, to the view of New York’s high-rises on the other side of the room. Her eyes dart in every direction, never settling on me.
I’m so sorry, she finally admits in a trembling voice. She’s found the courage to look directly at me now. Her expression is sincere and there seem to be tears welling up in her eyes.