Chapter 21
EARTH TO EMMA.
Patrice waves a hand in front of my dead eyes.
We’re walking through Chinatown toward the Two Bridges neighbourhood to see the new venue we’re scouting for the Christmas party. It has a view of the Brooklyn Bridge, and the lights along the bridge should add an extra festive touch to the party atmosphere.
Chinatown is made up of tall apartment buildings with fire escapes along the facades.
It’s a bit like Greenwich Village in that way, aside from all the shops and restaurants located at street level.
I’m not sure what most of the store signs say—they’re all covered in Chinese characters I can’t read.
There are shops selling herbs or offering acupuncture treatments.
The aromas of Asian cuisine float out to meet us from the countless little restaurants along the way, and there’s another powerful scent I can’t quite place.
It smells a bit like a town square after an early-morning fish market.
Patrice is still staring at me, her eyes inquisitive, and I realize I haven’t given her an answer as to my mental whereabouts.
Oh, um, nowhere . . . I lie.
Rudy is all I can think about since Saturday night.
The way he pressed his soft lips to mine.
How his warm thumbs caressed my chilly cheeks.
How he pulled me onto his lap. The way he looked at me.
And then I think about Kate, and how she gave me the cold shower I so desperately needed.
I’m scared to imagine how far I would have let things go if she hadn’t decided the afterparty needed some white wine to go along with the keg of beer.
I haven’t seen him since that night. I’ve been avoiding him since our awkward goodbye, when I rushed to shut the door before he could finish speaking.
He messaged me on Sunday to see if I wanted to watch some Money Heist, but I told him I was hungover and not feeling great.
Partly an excuse to not have to face him, and partly so he’d assume our Saturday night tryst happened because I’d had too much to drink.
It was a lie.
I might have the body mass of a bamboo skewer, but I can easily outdrink the bulkiest of people. I was very aware of what I was doing on Saturday night. And I loved it. Way too much.
Patrice has resorted to snapping her fingers in front of my face.
Rolling her eyes, she scolds, If I got violently kidnapped right this very moment, you wouldn’t even notice.
I get that you don’t want to tell me, considering .
. . you know, what I did to you. She gives her head a sad shake.
I still feel awful about that, by the way, she adds. She’s been saying that a lot lately.
We’re walking through Two Bridges now and the arches of the massive bridge are starting to come into view.
Almost there now, Patrice continues.
She’s no longer trying to hide her growing belly under oversized clothes. She’s dressing her bump with pride these days in fitted maternity dresses, like the one she’s wearing today.
It’s nothing important, really. I wave away her question with a flick of my hand. Just some guy troubles.
That sucks, she says, patting my shoulder. I’m afraid I can’t help you with that one.
When I give her a puzzled look, she holds up her left hand. There’s a set of sparkling gold rings on her ring finger. Married to my high school sweetheart.
Wow. That’s not something you hear much these days.
I’m one of the lucky ones, she replies with a smile before stopping in front of a tall, modern looking building. Here we are.
As you can tell, we have a stunning view of the Brooklyn Bridge here, says Malcolm, a man who’s dressed like he came here directly from his own wedding.
He leads us to a set of windows that takes up nearly an entire side of the room.
That’s Brooklyn right across the East River there.
Ten years ago, I wouldn’t have been caught dead there, but I have to admit it’s in much better shape than it used to be.
Even so, there’s nothing quite like Manhattan, if you ask me.
I love that you have a stage in here, I say, looking behind me. We’re hoping to get a live band for the event.
Patrice is listening intently as the building owner launches into a passionate monologue about the dressing rooms behind the scenes.
Meanwhile, I stroll through the enormous event space.
I can already picture the ceiling covered with garlands of lights and a massive Christmas tree at one end of the space, decked with white and silver ornaments.
I imagine the ice sculptures glistening under the twinkling lights as the Lockhart & Cahill employees tear up the dance floor to Rudy’s renditions of Christmas songs.
I still haven’t given up on that option, though it seems more impossible than ever after Rudy flat-out told me no.
And of course I’ve been avoiding him since Saturday.
But this place is perfect. This is our venue.
. . . and all of that for just twelve hundred dollars an hour, I hear the man proclaim as casually as if he were reading off this week’s two-for-one deals over the PA system at a local supermarket.
I whip around. Excuse me?! I shout, giving Patrice a wide-eyed stare.
Sure, we have a pretty big budget, but it’s not that big. There’s plenty of other stuff to pay for, like catering, drinks, decorations, and wait staff. And our salaries.
Patrice seems shaken, too, and shoots Malcolm an indignant look. You told me on the phone it was eight hundred an hour, she sputters. That’s a serious jump.
You’re right. We initially dropped our regular hourly rental fee since we were dealing with a cancellation.
We weren’t really expecting to find a new renter on this short of a timeline.
Most events of this size have locked in their venue by now.
Malcolm bounces up and down a little in his expensive loafers with the tiny tassels.
Unfortunately, you’re no longer the only interested party for that date, which puts us in a position to return to our standard pricing.
He claps his hands. I’m afraid it’s take it or leave it.
I’m flabbergasted, just like Patrice, who keeps twisting her wedding ring around her finger.
I’m afraid we’ll leave it, I say, folding my arms in front of my chest. You just increased your price by fifty percent.
Patrice walks over to me and nods. You can offer it to the other interested party.
At that, we stalk toward the elevator, followed closely by Malcolm as he mutters an insincere apology.
And that’s when it happens: Patrice clamps her fingers tightly around my lower arm and before I know it, we’re both on the ground.
I let out a frightened scream. Patrice has landed on her behind and I feel a stabbing pain in my side.
She sticks out her right leg, revealing a pump with a snapped stiletto dangling from the heel.
When she turns to look at me, her eyes are wide with fear, but then I see her expression transform.
She gives me a sneaky conspiratorial glance, before dropping to her side with a moan.
Ow! My baby, my baby! she cries, as Malcolm and the cleaner—the person responsible for the wet floor—come running.
Where’s the caution sign?! Malcolm asks, sounding angry.
As the cleaner apologizes profusely, Malcolm watches Patrice with eyes like saucers. The performance she’s delivering is truly Oscar-worthy.
While Malcolm gives the cleaner a serious talking to, I help Patrice get back up.
Can you take me to the hospital, Emma? she asks in a pitiful tone, before turning to face Malcolm. It’s completely ridiculous that you didn’t have a sign set up here. I could sue you, you know.
Malcolm’s expression turns even more concerned. He’s running his hands through his hair over and over again, making a total mess of his look.
Surely we can work something out? he pleads, sounding pathetic, as he continues to shoot furious glares at the apologetic cleaner. I could . . . offer you the venue for a thousand dollars an hour?
Completely in sync, Patrice and I each let out a dramatic sigh. Crossing our arms, we give Malcolm a calculated look as we slowly shake our heads.
Did you see his face?! Patrice bursts into laughter, tears rolling down her cheeks. Can you believe we scored a killer location for four hundred dollars an hour! Who would have thought that was possible this close to Christmas?
I’m stuck wiping the tears from my face, too. My stomach hurts from laughing so hard. Don’t you feel a tiiiny bit guilty for exploiting your unborn child like that?
She shrugs. They already messed up my promotion. Saving my job is the least they can do, she replies, gently patting her belly with a delighted twinkle in her eyes.
I open my mouth to argue, but she stops me with a shake of her head.
I know it wasn’t Pickle’s fault that I lost that promotion. Karen’s the bitch who screwed me over.
Pickle?
She chuckles, tucking a strand of hair behind one ear. I always hated pickles, but ever since I got pregnant . . . I’m pretty sure pickle stock is up these days. So we’ve been calling the baby Pickle.
I laugh as we make our way back to the subway station. Are you sure we don’t need to stop by the hospital? You know, just to make sure everything’s okay?
Patrice waves off my concern. Nah. I just caught a fright. This pregnancy weight has added some padding to my ass. Everything’s just fine. Pickle is kicking up a storm in there—want to feel?
She gives me a big smile and before I get a chance to reply, she’s grabbed my hand and pressed it to her belly. I can feel the little thumps against my palm.
I can’t help but laugh. This little human who just saved our jobs is throwing a tiny party-for-one inside their mom’s belly.
Thanks, Pickle, I whisper.