Chapter 5
IT’S MY SECOND day at Make a Mark Events, New York.
Coffee is my new best friend—between the jetlag and my neighbour once again treating the entire floor to a dose of his virtuosity last night.
Thank goodness I found a cute little coffee place on the way from the subway to the office.
Like a real New Yorker, I stride into the building carrying three to-go cups in a square cardboard tray.
Yesterday, it took me all of ten seconds to make it onto my coworker’s Most Hated list without even uttering a single word. I’m obviously not dealing well with her silent treatment, so my urge to babble—an urge I was able to suppress in Karen’s office yesterday, thank God—is back with a vengeance.
Isn’t it such a gorgeous day? I ask, setting Patrice’s latte down on her desk.
Her glare shifts from the coffee cup to my face, before she returns her attention to her screen.
I heard it’s raining in the Netherlands this week, I continue, undeterred, as I take a seat on the edge of her desk.
So I’m pretty happy to be in New York. Back home, summers are always a letdown with lots of rain, and then everyone flocks to the beach at the tiniest hint of sunshine.
It’s a struggle to find a tiny patch of sand where you can spread out your little towel and sit cross-legged until you stop looking like you’ve been locked in a basement for ten years.
That rant still doesn’t elicit a response, so I try a change of topic by gesturing at the hot coffee on her desk. I got you an oat milk latte. I noticed you were eating a tofu salad for lunch yesterday, so I figured, ‘Maybe she’s vegan!’
Silence.
I let out a sigh of frustration. This is just business. We don’t have to become besties and I’m professional enough to remind her what her responsibilities are.
Listen, Patrice, I say in my calmest voice.
You clearly feel it’s unfair that I’ve been put in charge of this project, but it is what it is.
We’ll just have to make the most of this together.
If this is your response to Karen’s decision, I can’t help but believe she made the right call here.
You’re being incredibly unprofessional, and—
I flinch when Patrice suddenly stands up and grabs her coffee. For a second, I’m worried she’s going to toss hot liquid all over my brand new dress, but instead, she raises her cup in the air.
Thank you, she says with a smile that’s way too friendly. I just printed out a list of suitable venues that we can take with us to Lockhart & Cahill tomorrow.
I blink in surprise. Oh, um . . . excellent. Thanks.
I also pulled together some potential live bands and put the list on your desk. The options are limited this late in the game, bu—
Actually, I already had someone in mind for the live music, but I’ll take a look at your ideas. I try to sound friendly.
Patrice nods, then sways her way over to the printer, and I . . . don’t quite know what to make of this. Finally, I shrug and decide to be relieved that Patrice is taking the professional route. I hop off of her desk and walk over to mine, just a few metres away.
My desk buddy’s name is Marcel. He’s tall with short, tightly curled hair, chocolate-brown eyes, and the energy level of a toddler who was brought up on bottles of Red Bull instead of baby formula. He’s typing so fast his fingers are a blur.
I grab the last cup from my cardboard tray and put it down in front of him. Startled, he looks up, then breaks into a wide grin.
Thanks, Emma, he says in a cheery tone, before spotting the logo on his cup. Ah, I see you found Hot Beans. That didn’t take long! I think we can both agree that the machine here at the office only spits out swamp water.
He smiles a crooked smile, then takes a sip. Is this decaf? he asks with a scrunched up nose and a confused look.
I feel my cheeks flush. I, um . . . I give him an awkward shrug. No, I don’t think so, I lie. Unless they made it wrong, of course.
Hmmm, he mumbles, taking another sip. I hope you didn’t leave them a big tip.
Crap. I didn’t tip them at all. I forgot that North Americans usually tip even when they’re getting coffee to go. Let’s hope the barista doesn’t spit in my next drink. Or even worse—make it with almond milk.
Nah, don’t worry about it, I reply, before taking a big gulp of my cappuccino.
Marcel bravely commits to drinking his covert decaf as he gets back to work.
I start to pore over Patrice’s list, scrolling through YouTube in search of her suggested performers.
One of them is a drill rapper, and a quick Google search tells me the only thing he should be doing at a law firm event is securing legal representation.
A few of the artists are pretty decent, but none of them are quite good enough .
. . I really do believe my suggestion is the best one.
Ed de Vries is who I want to book. He’s a Dutch performer whose career has really taken off since winning a reality singing competition a few years back.
I’ve worked with him before and I’d be thrilled for him to get this opportunity.
But I also genuinely believe he’s the right man for the job.
He’s been working on a Christmas album and I have a sneaking suspicion he’d jump at the chance to perform in New York City.
His fee isn’t much higher than some of the other options on Patrice’s list, and the law firm’s sizeable budget means we can definitely afford him.
Patrice walks over from the printer to hand me a stack of paper.
These are the location options we need to bring along tomorrow.
She points out a stunning looking space with high ceilings and large windows overlooking the Empire State Building.
I think we should go with this one. It’s still available on December 20, so let’s hope Lockhart & Cahill make a decision quickly.
Oh, uh . . . Wow . . . Thank you, I say, a bit taken aback by all the work she’s done.
Patrice nods stiffly.
It’s great that you’ve already done so much prep work, I continue, leafing through the options.
Well, this was my project until literally yesterday, so it’s really not that surprising, she scoffs.
Marcel peers over the edge of his screen from me to Patrice and back.
Don’t stress it, Patrice, he says lightly. Karen will make you a project lead again next time around. She probably just felt like Emma was a safer choice because she’s a bit more experienced and there’s such a time crunch on this project.
Patrice takes a deep breath in and squeezes her eyes shut, then lets out a hum of agreement before turning away. She’s about to return to her desk, but she pauses and looks back over her shoulder at me instead.
Emma . . . ? she says. I’m a vegetarian, so I actually do drink regular milk. And I prefer decaf. For future reference. She taps her coffee cup with a long fingernail, then marches back to her desk.
Stunned, I watch her go and I hear Marcel whistle in disbelief.
Wowww. He shakes his head. Looks like someone missed the memo about who’s supposed to be whose assistant here.