Chapter 33
HAVE THE ICE sculptures arrived? I ask into my headset mic as I carefully scan the venue.
We set up an enormous Christmas tree in a prominent position in the room and it’s being loaded up with lights and ornaments as we speak.
Icy blue, white, and silver baubles shimmer beneath the lights.
We sprayed the branches with faux snow and the entire thing looks like a fairy tale.
It wouldn’t look out of place in a wintery landscape.
Um, yeah, Marcel says, his voice coming through my headset. But, uh . . . Santa’s belly got a little too close to the heater so now he looks like he’s been on a crash diet for the past few months. The rest of them look great, though.
Seriously?
Afraid so.
I squeeze my eyes shut in frustration. Since we’ve already had more hard knocks than your average professional boxer, I was hoping the rest of this event would run a little more smoothly.
Fine, I decide. Let’s put the other ones in their designated spots. Santa’s uninvited from this party. He’s a lost cause at this point.
Buzzkilled, the band I scouted with Rudy, is setting up gear and running through a soundcheck. The DJ’s wearing headphones over at his console, nodding approvingly as he adjusts a few controls. Between the band and the DJ, we’ll be covered for music all night long.
The ice sculptures roll into the room under Marcel’s watchful eye. He’s shouting slightly panicked instructions at the folks manoeuvring the dolly, clearly worried that the remaining sculptures might take a last-minute nose-dive.
Our caterer has been hard at work setting up a number of kiosks surrounding the room.
Each of the little roofs is trimmed with evergreen branches, all decorated in the same style as the main Christmas tree.
Every one of the kiosks offers a different type of food, prepared and presented by a chef, starting with sushi all the way to more traditional Christmas recipes, including hot chocolate with whipped cream and freshly baked brownies and pies.
At one side of the space is a massive open bar with a whole team of sharply dressed bartenders and servers.
They’re pouring champagne into coupe glasses and placing them on serving trays.
An enormous champagne pyramid makes for an impressive focal point at the centre of the bar.
The balcony—with a stunning view of the Brooklyn Bridge all lit up—is ready to go, with a number of fire pits alongside tables with marshmallows, chocolate, and graham crackers for some winter s’mores.
Despite all our obstacles along the way, I’m starting to feel quite pleased about the outcome. The place looks classy, with a touch of cozy intimacy. Exactly what I’d envisioned for a prestigious law firm’s Christmas party.
It’s really starting to come together, an approving voice says next to me.
Sebastian has arrived, looking handsome in his expensive suit and shiny dress shoes, blonde hair neatly parted to one side.
He takes in the room, his face beaming. Hats off to you.
After all those setbacks, I wasn’t exactly sure what to expect.
That’s wonderful to hear, thank you, I say proudly.
And you look lovely, too, Sebastian adds with a wink.
I look down. I’m wearing a long-sleeved wrap dress with silver sequins that sparkle festively as I move. My hair is styled in an elegant high bun and I’ve matched my makeup to my dress: silver eyeshadow and a swipe of lip gloss.
A few months ago, that kind of compliment would have made me blush, but for a change, I don’t get all awkward over a few words of admiration from an attractive man. Instead, I thank him kindly, then shift to giving Marcel instructions about the decorations near the entrance.
It’s still too bad you couldn’t get New Dawn on board. Sebastian looks on as Kristen, Buzzkilled’s lead singer, wrestles with a knot in her microphone cord. Looks like they’re really starting to go places. They even had that interview with Jerry.
I tighten my grip on the pencil I’ve been using to check things off on my clipboard.
Uh-huh. Why did he have to bring this up?
I take it you two didn’t work out? he fishes.
I push the tip of my pencil so hard into the clipboard that it breaks off.
You watched the interview, didn’t you? I reply sharply, before squeezing my eyes shut as I rub my forehead. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. What I meant was: no, we didn’t work out. Why—did you think we had? I thought Rudy was pretty clear in the interview.
I mean sure, but . . . I don’t know. I’m not blind. I saw the way he looked at you that night we went to their show . . . And then at the coffee shop . . . I just figured there might be more than the interview let on.
I look up and Sebastian meets my gaze with curiosity. I wouldn’t be surprised if he actually had a gossip magazine tucked inside the morning newspaper he reads on the subway.
Nope, sorry to disappoint you, I reply, as I muster my most convincing smile. We’re just . . . neighbours.
My stomach twists into another knot. Neighbours. We’re not even friends anymore.
I decide this is the perfect time to excuse myself so I can join Marcel who’s shivering by the dance floor after dealing with the ice sculptures.
I think we might be ready, right? I say when I reach him.
I gaze around the venue with a sense of satisfaction. Fragrant aromas drift over from the food kiosks, and the delicious scent makes my stomach growl. I can barely suppress the urge to race over to the baked goods station to see if they might need a taste tester for the brownies and pies.
With the twist of a remote switch, Marcel dims the overhead lighting, allowing the Christmas lights to take centre stage. Ready, he finally replies. Bring on the guests.
The dance floor is packed with lawyers who work an average of seventy hours a week and are now finally getting a chance to let loose.
And they’re definitely letting loose.
The open bar is doing more business than a water faucet in the desert.
The DJ spins one Christmas song after the other—all songs he’s put his own twist on.
Even Mr. Cahill, one of the partners at the firm, is letting his hair down.
When he first walked in, he seemed like a very strait-laced, put-together man whose natural charisma (and excellent suit) commanded awe and respect.
Now, though, he’s whipping his tie around over his head, attempting to lasso a woman in a red dress.
Shaking her hips to the beat, she gives him a seductive smile.
I make a mental note to keep an eye on this Mr. Cahill. As a general rule, a sour whiff of vomit in the restrooms at the end of the night is a pretty good indicator that a party was a hit, but there’s nothing like one person peaking a little too early to ruin the fun for everyone.
Servers slalom through the crowd carrying trays full of champagne and any time one of them passes within a three metre radius of Mr. Cahill, he swaps his empty glass for a full one.
His dance moves are getting looser by the second, so when Jingle Bell Rock comes blasting through the sound system, he busts out some pretty suggestive movements every time the little bells jingle in the song.
Mr. Cahill is wasted, Marcel chuckles through my headset. Look at him go!
The woman in the red dress is now twerking up against Mr. Cahill’s own jingle bells as he makes slapping motions with his right hand, never quite coming into contact with her ass.
That’s not one of his employees, is it? I ask with concerned curiosity.
Oh, thank God, no. That’s his wife. Looks like they’re still quite happily married.
I cover my mouth as I watch this middle-aged man grind up on his wife like he’s an extra in a hip hop music video.
I have to tell Rudy all about this when I get home.
As soon as that unwelcome thought floats to the surface, I give my head a violent shake, hoping to get rid of it right away.
Rudy won’t be there when I get home, so I won’t be telling him anything.
Maybe one day, once I’m off this emotional roller coaster and I can look at him without wishing he would wrap his arms around me.
Is there a wasp in your hair or something? Marcel chuckles in my ear.
I stop my aggressive shaking and look over, directly into his sparkling brown eyes.
Um, no . . . I just really love this song.
Hmmm, in that case, you might want to borrow some dance moves from Mariana.
Gee, thanks.
Yikes, Cahill’s going for another glass. This seems like a bad idea.
Mr. Cahill wobbles as he throws back his umpteenth drink of the night.
Annnnd . . . he’s on the move. Emma, can you deal with him? I just got word that Buzzkilled needs a hand backstage.
On it.
I steer myself as elegantly as possible through the crowd of dancing people, as their movements become more and more unhinged.
I keep having to duck away from out of control hands swishing in my direction, or from people almost stomping on my feet.
Mr. Cahill is staggering through the venue, pausing for a few exaggerated hugs on his way.
The crowd around him is wildly whooping and clapping as a few people capture the whole thing on camera.
When I notice where Mr. Cahill has decided to stop, my heart skips a beat.
Oh shit. Not the Christmas tree.
I’m not sure what he’s planning exactly, but when he starts to tug at his fly, I finally get the gist of it. Thank God he’s too drunk to get his zipper down and treat the tree to a golden shower.
The music dies down, signalling the changeover from the DJ to the live band, and the room is filled with laughter and conversation.
Mr. Cahill! I shout as loud as I can in an attempt to get him to stop whatever he thinks he’s doing.
He slowly looks over at me, hiccupping a little, then blinks his eyes like someone changed his operating system to slo-mo.