by Angela Terry
I overhear Eric take the man’s order in a perfunctory manner as he also asks for a scone. “Seeing that you’re offering them for free.”
“Of course,” Eric says smoothly. “First scone is on the house. Gotta get my new customers hooked.” He glances my way, a twinkle in his eye.
Luckily “Mr. Busy and Important” just orders a large black coffee, and I don’t have to wait next to him at the barista counter. When the same bearded hipster from last time hands me my coffee, he shakes his head. “Never mind that guy. He doesn’t know you’re engaged, and so he’s just jealous that you weren’t flirting with him.”
I nod and give the barista a nervous smile. Even though I’m no longer wearing my ring, my engagement is none of his business, and so I simply thank him and then head home to deal with the mess my ex-fiancé has left for me.
ONCE HOME, I take my time showering, put on makeup, and armor up in my work clothes complete with heels. Get up, dress up, show up: Take Two. Even though the vendors won’t be able to see me, I somehow can’t “face” them while sporting old yoga pants and a scrunchie. It’s already too sad.
Most are professional and discreet and don’t ask for a reason; the band, florist, and makeup artist all seem as uncomfortable as I am with the whole conversation. However, the larger the price tag, the larger the huffiness factor, and the venue proves to be the biggest example of that.
“But that’s less than three weeks away! That’s a huge loss for us since we can’t possibly fill that large of a space within that time,” says Pierre, the hotel’s special events manager. Preempting my next question, he continues, “I’m very sorry for your situation, but at this late date we can’t refund any portion of the payment.”
His cold concern about the hotel’s bottom line makes me want to tell him where he can shove that payment, but then I remember that we booked the hotel with Neil’s credit card.
“I understand,” I say, ever-so-sweetly. “Please go ahead and charge the full amount to the credit card on file.” I smile wickedly to myself imagining Neil’s expression when he opens his credit card statement this month.
Pierre’s tone softens, and I realize that this isn’t his first rodeo and he must regularly deal with deranged ex-bridezillas demanding full refunds. “I’m so sorry about your wedding,” he says, sympathetically. “If there’s anything we can do for you in the future, I’d be happy to take care of it. Room discounts, thirty percent off in the restaurant, complimentary drinks at the bar, please do not hesitate to call me.”
“Thank you. I might take you up on those comped drinks.”
After hanging up with Pierre, every ounce of graciousness and bravery has left me. I’m sure there will be repercussions when Neil sees the charges on his card, but maybe he should have thought of that before sleeping with Stacey.
There is only one more call to make, but I can’t do it. Like my ring, the other thing I can’t face losing is my wedding gown. I still have my final fitting, where the full payment will be due. And I want that fitting. I want to see how my dress looks on me after it’s been hemmed and altered to perfection. While I might not have a job to pay for it, dammit, I want that dress.
I’m surprised to find that it only took a couple hours to undo months upon months of planning. The beautiful wedding I so carefully orchestrated is no more, and I’m not sure what’s more upsetting—losing my fiancé or losing my wedding. I know the rational answer, but I’m not feeling very rational these days.
Tonight I’m meeting Jordan for a drink after work—her work that is—but that’s still hours away. In the meantime, I still have to get through the afternoon and time seems to be moving so slowly. I should start informing guests the wedding’s off, but decide to give it another day. I could call the recruiters, but I don’t want to harass them this early in the game. A quick online search doesn’t show any new job postings. I debate whether to post to LinkedIn or Facebook saying I’m looking for a new job, but that would invite questions—questions I’m not emotionally prepared to answer.
So what am I supposed to do now with this lonely stretch of afternoon? Did I really not have any hobbies or interests other than working out, work, and wedding planning? And isn’t this the free time where people say, “I wish I could just take a week and get my life in order?” Although the big things in my life are horribly out of order, the little things aren’t, and I suddenly wish I had a junk drawer to declutter or that my closet needed purging. My computer files and contacts are up-to-date and organized. My pantry and spice drawer are in order, which is easy enough since I rarely cook. There’s no mail to sort since I go through it as soon as it arrives. The wedding gifts are waiting to be returned, but they can wait a little longer. I appear to be the model of efficiency and organization—except for the fact that my life is a complete mess.
With a sigh, I lie down on the sofa and decide to indulge in my new favorite hobby—falling asleep while watching television—and set my alarm to meet Jordan at six.
Sitting at the bar under an antique chandelier at a cozy River North wine bar, I’m two-thirds of the way through my first glass of sauvignon blanc as I wait for Jordan. I’m ten minutes early, and of course, she will be ten minutes late.
“Hey, lady,” Jordan says as she hugs me. “The sauv?” she asks.
“Yep.”
I catch the bartender’s attention and do a “peace sign” signaling that we’d like two more. Meanwhile, Jordan dumps her computer bag on the floor, hooks her purse under the bar, and slings her jacket on the back of her chair. By the time she’s shed her lawyerly accoutrements, there’s a glass of wine in front of her.
After a quick clinking of our glasses, “Cheers,” and first sips, Jordan asks cautiously, “So how was today?”
I shrug and take another sip of my wine before responding. “Not better, but not worse.”
“Any job news?”
I shake my head. “Nothing from the recruiters and no new listings.”
“Too bad, but give it time.” She pats my shoulder reassuringly.
I nod in agreement, though I’m not sure I believe her. “So I’m sick of talking about myself and my problems. Tell me about you. How was your day?”
“Eh? It was a day.” Now it’s her turn to shrug. “The client is a pain in the ass, and I hate everyone I work with. But, that’s why they pay me the big bucks.” She rubs her thumb and forefinger together in the universal gesture for money and comes across looking more like a mob boss than a corporate litigator.
“Is it really that bad? Have you ever thought about switching firms?”
“All the time,” she drags out flatly. “But it’s the same story at every firm, and what else am I going to do?” She takes a rather large sip of her wine.
I shake my head in sympathy. While at times I’ve hated parts of my job and some days were better or worse than others, overall I’ve never had much cause for complaint. Sure, when I was starting out I probably took on more grunt work than necessary, and while I may have grumbled a bit to friends, I knew that it was just a rite of passage to bigger and better things in my career. Jordan though has been complaining since Day One at her firm.
“Have you ever just thought of changing careers?”
“Every day,” she says solemnly. “Every. Single. Day.”
“So?”
“So? Like I said, what else am I going to do? I don’t know how to do anything else. Plus, now I’m used to the golden handcuffs and a certain standard of living.”
“Yeah. I can appreciate that.” Although I received a severance, I’m still nervous about finances and have put a moratorium on new purchases.
“And I hope this doesn’t sound too insensitive, but I’m kind of jealous of your situation.”
“Are you serious?” I put down my glass and stare at her in disbelief. “It doesn’t sound insensitive, it sounds crazy! What’s wrong with you?”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry. What you’re going through is the worst,” she backtrac
ks. “But you have this freedom right now to do anything you want. No significant other tying you down. No more wedding planning. And I’m sure this next sentiment is insensitive, but let me just say, Thank god.” She slaps her hand on the table and I give her a friendly eye roll.
When she first met Neil, she said to me, “Ugh. Really, Allie? He’s just so Wrigleyville bland.” But when she realized he wasn’t going anywhere, she kept her opinions to herself—until now.
“And, anyway,” she continues, “knowing you, your condo is probably paid off and I bet you have some healthy savings saved up on top of your severance. You can do whatever you want right now.”
While she’s wrong on the mortgage, she’s right in that I did manage to save money by living with Neil for four years; and with the generous severance, my current savings, and canceling the wedding vendors using Neil’s credit cards, my financial circumstances aren’t too dire, yet.
“That’s a positive spin. Maybe you should be working in the marketing department?” I jokingly jab her in the shoulder with my index finger.
She rolls her eyes back at me. “I know you’re looking for PR jobs, but have you thought about totally changing course? Reinventing yourself?”
I shake my head. With everything that happened a week ago, I’m still just getting over the blow. Polishing up my resume and sending it out was the one concrete thing in my control, and so that’s what I did.
“So if you could have any job, what would it be?” Jordan looks at me expectantly.
“I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”
Being an English major (a default major since I followed my peers into college but with no clue what I wanted to do with my life), I took the first job that was offered, which happened to be an assistant at PR Worldwide, and then two years later I was promoted as a junior account executive and the rest is history. Suffice it to say, I’m not much of a deep thinker. I tend to think about what needs to get done in the moment and focus on excelling in that. In school, it was about grades, and at PR Worldwide, it was getting the job done.
“Okay, then just for fun,” Jordan muses, “what would you do if you could do anything and not worry about money?”
“How about … absolutely nothing?” I laugh, and then reflect out loud, the wine hitting me. “Get a massage every day. Hang out with my friends. Shop. Work out. Travel. Live in luxury hotels with everything catered to me.” I don’t mention how I just realized today that I don’t have any hobbies; but I think with this list, it’s pretty obvious. Luckily, my wine buzz prevents me from getting too depressed about this fact.
“Okay, okay.” Jordan laughs and holds up her hand to stop me. “I meant more in the way of being a productive citizen and contributing to society; but I get it. Same here, which is why I’m stuck being a lawyer.” Sensing that I’m hopeless, Jordan asks, “Have you reached out to any of your contacts in the PR world?”
I play with my wineglass stem and sigh. It’s hard to network when I don’t want to talk to anyone. “Not yet. Gossip spreads so quickly. I’m hoping to get another job before any word gets out. Plus, I’m worried if I call anyone, the whole story about Neil will come out and I’m not ready for that either.”
“Yeah, well, they’re going to find out when you have to call and cancel their invites. Or is your mom doing that?”
I groan. “No, she’s still hopeful that there’s going to be a wedding. It would be one thing if he had cold feet … but he cheated on me. With my maid of honor! There’s no recovery from that.”
“That bastard should be the one calling.”
“Agreed.” And remembering Neil’s brief email from this morning, I twist my fingers angrily around my wine stem. “So I canceled most of the contracts today.”
“Oh, wow. I’m sorry, sweetie.” Jordan wraps her arm around me for a sympathetic squeeze. “So what’s left?”
“Just my dress.” I sigh heavily. “My beautiful, beautiful dress.”
“Oh,” Jordan says quietly, giving the moment the reverence it deserves. “It is a beautiful dress.”
When I had tried it on at the bridal shop, as I walked out of the dressing room toward the pedestal, the first person I locked eyes with to see their expression was Jordan. In what was a typical Say Yes to the Dress experience, everyone that day had an opinion and an agenda, and I kept hoping for Randy to show up to take charge of the situation. My mother wanted something with more beading. Stacey was trying to push two-hundred-pound ball gowns that made me look less like Cinderella and more like the pumpkin. And Kate just typed away on her iPhone barely participating unless asked a direct question. Jordan’s was the only objective opinion that day.
“That dress is you,” she said.
And it was.
In that moment, I drowned out everyone else’s opinion and listened to my heart. I loved the simple elegance of the dress—I wasn’t hidden by layers of fluffy tulle or weighed down by pounds of heavy satin or outshone by sparkles and intricate beading. When I looked in the mirror that day, the first thing I saw was not the dress, but myself.
“What are you going to do with it?” Jordan asks now.
“I want to go to the last fitting.” I wrinkle my nose, already anticipating her judgment. “I want to see what it looks like after being altered to my exact measurements. Is that bad?”
“No.” She pats my hand reassuringly. “It really was gorgeous. But if you do that, won’t you have to pay full price for it?”
I cringe again. “Probably.”
She nods with understanding in her eyes. “It’s probably not the best idea, but you’ve had a rough couple of weeks. Let me know if you want company.”
“Aww … Thanks, Jor.” I jump off my stool to hug her and then we promptly order another round.
WITH THE WEDDING canceled, now comes the humiliating task of informing our guests. Since I can’t stand wondering if Neil is ignoring my calls, I type him an email.
Neil –
Yesterday I canceled all the vendors and the venue for the wedding. The only item left is to contact everyone to explain that the wedding is off. Since I handled the contracts, it only seems fair that you handle the guests.
Let’s set up a time ASAP to talk regarding this matter.
Allison
The impersonal tone of the email and not signing it “Love” depresses me. Luckily, I don’t have time to dwell on this since as soon as I hit send on my email to Neil, I receive an email from a recruiter wanting to set up a time to chat on the phone. That can only be good news. I quickly type back to say that I’m available whenever she wants to talk. While I wait for our appointed call, I settle in with a cup of coffee and my book on harnessing the power of social media to prepare for whatever job interview the recruiter has found for me.
THE RECRUITER, JULIE, calls me at two on the dot.
“Hi, Allison. How are you today?” There’s no emotion in her voice. Some of the other recruiters have seemed a little too cheerful, a little too wanting-us-to-be-besties. Julie, though, is all business.
“Hi, Julie. I’m great, thanks. How are you?”
“Good and good.” Pleasantries out of the way, she continues, “So I’ve reached out to all my PR contacts, and frankly the news isn’t good.”
My heart sinks. “Am I too expensive?” I ask. Swallowing my pride, I say, “I’m willing to take a lower paying position for the right opportunity.” It can’t be my experience, so it must be a money issue.
“You mentioned that you were let go at PR Worldwide because they were consolidating accounts.”
“That’s right.”
“It seems though that you were the only person let go. Why do you think that is?”
“Oh?” It’s a question. “I don’t know. That’s what I was told.”
“Have you talked to anyone from there since you left?”
“No,” I say guiltily. “I’ve had some personal matters going on.” No need to tell recruiter Julie the details of my love life. “
I was waiting for the dust to settle before reaching out.”
“I see.”
There is a second of silence on Julie’s end as she’s probably trying to determine whether I’m hiding something or simply naïve.
Finally she says, “Okay, listen, I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Word on the street is that your clients were unhappy.” She isn’t going to sugarcoat it because she’s realized she’s not going to make a commission off of me. This is bad. “I want to help you find a new position, but my hands are tied if there’s a rumor going around that you were fired because you were losing accounts.”
What the? My heart begins to race. “But that’s not true! I didn’t lose a single account.”
“Be that as it may … the thing is, in business and in life, your reputation is everything. My advice is that you get in touch with someone you trust at Worldwide and try to find out the source of this rumor and squash it. You’re a PR pro, so do what you do best and spin the situation. And then please let me know what you find out, so then I can do what I do best and find you a new job.”
Julie’s dire words and advice make my ears ring. “Got it. Thank you.”
Now I know why the other recruiters aren’t calling me.
Although Paige said clients had complained about my efficiency and costs, I never actually lost an account. Plus, my firing was the first and only notice that I even had any unhappy clients after a run of twelve years.
Julie is right. If I have any hope of another PR job, then I need to find out what happened—ASAP.
I ARRIVE AT The Godfrey’s rooftop bar early, but Suzy is already there drinking her usual dirty martini. As soon as she sees me, she waves wildly, and when I reach her, she pops off her chair to give me a big hug. “Oh, Allison! It’s sooo good to see you.”
I hug her back. “Same here. It’s been too long.”
“That it has.” She settles back onto her chair and signals the bartender. “Let’s get you a drink.”
It felt too soon to reach out to anyone at Worldwide, so instead I texted Suzy Weitzman, a PR friend I usually hang out with at events. Suzy works for a competing PR firm and knows everyone and everyone’s business. Whatever people are saying about me, she’ll know.
