Chapter 11
CHAPTER
I WAS GRATEFUL FOR all the distractions Mom provided throughout the weekend.
In particular, she got me thinking about something I hadn’t allowed myself to yet—buying things for my baby.
While out shopping for something to make for dinner, I allowed her to drag me into a cute little baby boutique near the grocery store.
I wandered the racks, fingering the impossibly soft baby blankets, sweaters, and onesies. It gave me a strange feeling of both anxiety and warmth. I wasn’t quite sure if I was ready to buy anything for my baby just yet—especially since I was still in credit card jail.
Mom came up behind me and put her hand on my back. “You’ll get lots of cute outfits for the baby when we throw you a shower,” she said. “But I always say, you should pick out the outfit your baby comes home from the hospital in.”
She led me over to a rack of gender-neutral outfits in shades of lemony yellow and mint green. On hanger after hanger hung adorable sets of matching onesies, hats, booties, mittens, and burp cloths.
“Sweetheart, you are going to thrive as a mother. I just know it,” she said.
“Thanks, Mom. That means a lot,” I said as I held up a tiny hoodie with bunny ears.
My heart swelled at the thought of picking out something special for my baby that came just from me. I didn’t feel ready to buy anything yet, but maybe I would soon.
As we were baking some banana bread Sunday morning, my phone chimed with a text. The mere sound sent my pulse pounding; I was starting to hate my phone. Thankfully, it was from Meredith.
Our meeting got pushed back an hour. See you at Alto a little before 7:30.
Got it, thank you, I texted back.
I had packed a change of clothes so I could head straight to the client meeting from Mom’s.
I washed and blow-dried my hair, and twisted it into a low bun at the nape of my neck.
For my outfit, I’d chosen one of my loose, brightly colored blouses and paired it with a black suit blazer, stretchy black maternity slacks, and black heels.
A little makeup, a dab of Mom’s perfume, my favorite pair of gold butterfly earrings, and I was ready to go.
The Alto Lounge, where we were meeting, was one of the most exclusive clubs in the city.
Though it had an attractive bar that was open to the public downstairs, those who paid the steep annual membership fee were allowed on the top floor, which featured wall-to-ceiling glass windows on all four sides, looking out over the Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge.
I had only seen photos of the sleek, low-lit members lounge before, which showed plush velvet booths, deep leather chairs, and impeccably dressed waiters tending to your every desire.
I was looking forward to seeing behind the curtain with my own eyes.
I found a parking spot on the street around the corner from the club and walked in right at seven-fifteen, proud of myself for being early.
I approached the podium in the corner of the bar, which blocked the entrance to the staircase up to the lounge.
An attractive man with what I thought sounded like a French accent asked if he could help me.
“Thank you, I’m a little early. I’m here for a seven-thirty meeting with the Blackwell Agency and Pedro Torres’s team,” I replied, my body tingling at how cool it felt to say those words.
“Oh—I believe you’re late,” the man said with a frown. “They’ve been up there since six-thirty.”
My eyes widened. “What? No, that can’t be right. Our meeting is at seven-thirty.”
The man frowned again and opened a thick, leather-bound portfolio that sat on the podium. All the while, my heartbeat lurched in my chest.
“He’s probably meeting with another agency before his meeting with Blackwell,” I offered.
The man slid his finger down a list until it stopped at the line he’d been looking for. “No, it’s right here. Blackwell Marketing Agency, six-thirty. Meredith Blackwell and her assistant checked in quite a while ago.”
No. This is not happening.
All of a sudden I felt dizzy. I stumbled for a second in my heels and reached out a hand to steady myself on the podium.
“They’ve …” Oh God, am I going to pass out?
“They’ve been up there meeting for almost an hour already?
” I was seeing spots behind my eyes. The text from Meredith said seven thirty!
“I’m afraid so. What is your name?”
“Savannah Mitchell.” My voice quivered. I cleared my throat and tried to get a grip. I could not burst into tears. That would make everything even worse.
“I’ll take you up so you can join them.”
I followed him up the thickly carpeted stairs and into the lounge. The walls were textured with a deep gray material that almost looked like suede. Iron sconces with fat candles lit the way. Above us glittered one of the biggest crystal chandeliers I’d ever seen.
The host led me all the way past the bar to the back of the lounge, where I saw a group of five people, including Meredith and Sam, sitting in a high-backed velvet booth.
As we approached, Meredith looked up. Her eyes flashed for just a second before she pressed her lips into a tight but professional smile.
“Ms. Mitchell has arrived.” The host presented me, gave a brief nod to the group, then turned and walked away.
I plastered an overeager smile on my face. “It’s so nice to meet you. Please forgive my atrocious tardiness. I ran into some … unexpected trouble. But I’m very glad to be here.” Sam gave me a small smile and scooted farther into the booth so there was room for me on the end.
Meredith’s smile definitely did not reach her eyes, but at least there was no immediate reprimand.
“Savannah—glad you could join us. This is Marco, Patrice, and Santiago from Pedro Torres’s team.
” The man closest to me, Marco, reached out to shake my hand politely while the other two nodded.
“We were just talking about the type of buzz they are hoping to create ahead of the restaurant’s grand opening, which is scheduled for November fifth. ”
I felt a knot in my stomach as I realized that was three days before my due date. That’s tomorrow’s problem. Right now, you have to wow them.
Marco turned to me. “I hear you were part of the team that helped promote the launch of the Tavern at Telegraph Hill a couple of years ago. Can you tell us about that?”
Meredith shot me a pointed look that seemed to say, You’d better damn impress them.
I summoned every last shred of confidence I had as I explained how the team at my previous agency had managed the Tavern’s social media accounts, ran a contest with early followers for a complimentary dinner for four at the soft opening, hired the city’s top photographers to take tantalizing photos of the menu items and décor, landed interviews for the owner and head chef with local lifestyle shows and blogs, and shot a series of videos for paid social media ads showcasing the bar staff’s impressive mixology skills.
I was relieved to see that Marco, at least, was nodding appreciatively at everything I said. Patrice, however, looked unimpressed—perhaps my experience didn’t excuse my tardiness in her book. Santiago’s stone-faced expression was impossible to read.
About fifteen minutes later, the host reappeared and announced that the next agency on their schedule had arrived. Our time was up.
Marco smiled as we all stood up. “Well, I like your ideas. We have a few more agencies we’re meeting with, but we’ll be in touch soon, once Pedro makes up his mind.
Thank you all very much for coming.” He shook all of our hands, but Patrice and Santiago merely nodded as they walked past us to the bar to refresh their drinks.
Meredith led the way downstairs to the public bar, then turned around to face me with a scowl. “Savannah, you begged me for a chance, and I gave it to you—on one of the most high-profile accounts we’ve ever had a shot at. And then you show up more than forty-five minutes late?”
I pulled my phone out of my purse. “Meredith, I’m so sorry, but I don’t understand—I got your text earlier today that the meeting had been pushed back to seven thirty. I thought I was early.” I swiped my home screen to pull up my text messages.
“What text? What are you talking about?”
“But—” I scrolled through my messages, looking for the text … and scrolled, and scrolled.
Gone. Again.
My breathing went shallow as a wave of dizziness rolled over me. “I—I’m so sorry. I must have misunderstood.”
“Thankfully you did a good job of discussing your work for the Tavern up there. But I swear to God, Savannah—if we don’t get this account, we’re going to have to have a serious discussion about your future with this agency.
I took a chance on you, after hearing about the way you left your last position.
I had hoped your … difficulties last year were an isolated incident.
But I’m starting to wonder.” Meredith swung her purse onto her shoulder.
“Sam, thank you for coming, and for being on time. I’ll see you both at the office tomorrow.
” She turned and stalked out of the bar.
Sam shot me a look of sympathy.
Now that Meredith was gone, the stable facade I’d put on was crumbling. Then a horrible thought occurred to me.
Madison. Just like the balloon and teddy bear delivery. She’s trying to ruin my career. Has she somehow figured out a way to send me fake texts from people in my contacts?
“Don’t get too upset,” said Sam. “You did a really good job talking strategy up there. I think you impressed them, even if you were late. But … forty-five minutes? What happened?”
I kneaded my forehead with my right hand. “I got a text earlier today that said the meeting had been pushed back an hour. I swear it came from Meredith.”
“What? That’s crazy! Let me see.”
I sighed with frustration. “I must have deleted the text. I’m so sorry.
I never would have been late otherwise. I really do take this job seriously, and I know I would do a really good job on this account.
” I was pleading with Sam to believe me, but it was pointless—it was Meredith I needed to sell, and she certainly wasn’t buying my excuses.
“Well, try not to worry about it too much tonight. Get some sleep. If she brings it up with me, I’ll try to put in a vote of confidence for you.”
I trudged miserably to my car, completely engrossed in my thoughts. What if we don’t get the account? Will Meredith really fire me? I’ll be in real trouble if that happens.
I was so distracted, I barely registered the sound of the blaring car alarm coming from somewhere nearby. It finally grew so loud it snapped me out of my daze—and I realized it was coming from my car.
“What the hell?” I shrieked.
My tires had been slashed, and a single, ugly word had been scratched into the passenger side door.
WHORE.