Straight from the Hart

by Tracie Banister

  “So she’s the bitch?”

  “No, I mean, yes, since the only reason she dumped us was because she got a ‘deal’ . . .” He makes air quotes and rolls his eyes simultaneously, which shows an impressive amount of skill. “. . . from this upstart. The woman’s husband directs action films and is worth a mint. Why does she need a deal on anything?”

  Rich people are often miserly, which is probably how they stay rich. I am surprised that Calliope would jump ship like this, though. She’s been my client since I first opened the doors of Straight from the Hart.

  “It would have been nice if she’d at least let us pitch her some ideas. If she didn’t want to spend a lot, we could have worked within her budget.”

  “That’s what I told her!” Cole throws his hands up in exasperation. “But she said she liked the idea of trying someone new.”

  “Well, that’s disappointing, but not the end of the world. Straight from the Hart is a thriving enterprise; we can certainly afford to lose one client.”

  “It’s not just one,” Cole informs me with a dour look. “I started to feel paranoid after speaking with Ms. Miller, so I called some other clients who had expressed interest in working with us in the coming months. The Broughtons and Annalise Monroe have also defected.”

  Uh oh. Time to start panicking . . .

  “All to the same concierge? Who is this person and why is she picking off our clients? How does she even know who they are?”

  Instead of giving me a name, Cole grabs my laptop, turns it around to face him, and quickly types something on the keyboard. “See for yourself,” he says, pushing the computer back across the desk.

  I look down to see a very pretty and professionally done website in gold and various shades of purple, which gives it a regal look and is also good branding because the colors are suggestive of class and wealth. The name of the company the site is promoting is spelled out in a beautiful, flowing script at the top of the home page . . . Quinntessential Romance. It’s a great name, but isn’t quintessential spelled with one ‘n’?

  I scroll down the page to see a large, soft focus headshot of the romance concierge who’s poaching my clients and gasp in shock. “No way!”

  “Yes way!” Cole confirms. “Quinn Maddox, the woman formerly known as your assistant is now your competition.”

  “But Quinn told me she was leaving to pursue other opportunities.” And her departure had been very amicable.

  “Uh, yeah, she wanted to pursue an opportunity to take everything she learned while working for you and turn it into a business for herself, the ungrateful, backstabbing witch. For the record, I never liked Quinn. She always had a shifty look in her eye.”

  “You couldn’t have mentioned that before?” I query in a dry tone.

  “She was my immediate superior up until the day she quit, so it wasn’t my place to cast aspersions on her character. Please tell me you had her sign a non-solicitation agreement so that we can sue her.”

  I grimace.

  “I should have, but Straight from the Hart had only been open a few months when I hired Quinn. So there wasn’t anything to steal at the time.” Professor Satler, who taught the course on Business Law I took at grad school, is shaking his head and tsking somewhere.

  Cole heaves a dramatic sigh and flops down in one of my guest chairs. “Great. We have no legal recourse then.”

  “I really don’t want to get lawyers involved anyway. Maybe I should just talk to Quinn.”

  Cole snorts with derision. “And what are you going to say? ‘Stop being a meanie, Quinn!’”

  “I think I can couch my request in more professional terms, but before I reach out to her I need to review everything on her site to see how flagrantly she’s been copying me.” Narrowing my eyes at the computer screen, I ask, “Is it my imagination or has she used the same font for her company name as I did for Straight from the Hart?”

  He concurs with a nod. “And she totally ripped off your company being a play on your name. Hate to say it, but hers is more clever.”

  “Hey!” I protest even though I kind of agree with him. Dammit! “We also need to make a preemptive strike so that we don’t lose any more clients. Quinn stopped working here five months ago, so any clients we’ve acquired since then should be safe.”

  “And there are four I talked to this morning who said they’d been contacted by Quinn, but they all told her they were staying right where they were . . . with you.”

  “That’s good to hear. We’ll have to do something nice for those true-blue clients. Come to think of it, we should do something special for all of our clients so that they know how much we value their business, and also to remind them how our services are superior to everyone else’s. Why don’t you round up Aubrey and Carmen and meet me in the conference room in fifteen? We’ll have a brainstorming session.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  I’m vaguely aware of him standing to leave as I skim through Quinn’s bio on her website. “Oh, hell no!” I shout when a line in the first paragraph catches my eye. “Did you see that she uses my credentials to substantiate herself?” I gape at my laptop screen. “What a . . .,” I trail off, trying to think of a good descriptor for my treacherous former employee.

  “The word you’re looking for is the one I used earlier . . . bitch.”

  “I don’t call other women that, but in this case, I might need to make an exception. This is really a bridge too far.” Jumping to me feet, I push my chair back and say, “I’m going over to her office right now and set her straight about a few things.”

  “Too bad she doesn’t have an office. Or actually, that might be a good thing since it makes her look less legit than us. She says on her site that she’ll come to a client’s home or meet anywhere that’s convenient for them, which makes her sound like she’s being accommodating when the truth is girlfriend has no support staff and can’t afford an office.”

  “Ugh.” I plop back down on my chair. “I was all fired up to confront her too, but I guess it’s better that I don’t go off all half-cocked. How am I supposed to contact her?” I click on the appropriate tab on her site, then make a face when I see that Quinn’s got a form with boilerplate questions for prospective clients to fill out. So much for the personal touch!

  “There’s a phone number on the site, but I got voicemail when I called.”

  “You didn’t leave a message, did you?” If Cole already told Quinn off, she’s not going to be open to a sit-down with me.

  “No. I didn’t want to deny you the pleasure.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  Scooping up my cellphone, I tap in the number of Quinntessential Romance. The husky and seductive recorded voice that answers the call sounds more like a woman working a phone sex line than my one-time assistant. When I hear the beep telling me it’s time to leave my message, I affect a pleasant, but authoritative, tone, “Hi, Quinn. It’s Vanessa. We need to talk. Let’s meet for coffee at Rubies + Diamonds tomorrow morning at nine. Please call or text to confirm. I look forward to catching up.”

  I disconnect the call and see Cole frowning at me from across the desk. “That was too nice. Where were the threats and curse words?”

  “They wouldn’t have gotten me anywhere. I needed to lure her into a face-to-face.”

  “And then you’ll pounce and scratch her eyes out?” Cole curls his fingers into claws and pretends to attack.

  “No. I’m hoping I can reason with Quinn and make her see the error of her ways.”

  Cole pouts. “That’s no fun.”

  “Perhaps not, but I have to keep my emotions in check and do what’s best for the business.”

  That’s the goal anyway. I honestly don’t know how I’ll react when I see the traitorous word-I-don’t-call-other-women. To think I saved Quinn from the drudgery of peddling eyewear at Sunglass Hut!

  CHAPTER 10

  It’s only four miles from my apartment to the coffee shop on Sunset where I’m meeting Quinn, b
ut it’ll take me at least twenty minutes to get there at this time of the morning. Good thing I have my juice to drink and Dr. Hart to listen to!

  Mom just did some live couples counseling with Micah and Ron who were on the verge of breaking up over the latter’s bad habit of spraying toothpaste all over the bathroom mirror every time he brushed and never wiping it off. Neat freak Micah thought this was a sure sign his partner didn’t care about his feelings, and why would he want to be with someone who was so heartless and cruel? Meanwhile, Ron said he was tired of being cockpecked by his impossible-to-please boyfriend who never had a kind word for him. My mother quickly determined that their fight wasn’t about toothpaste at all, but their shared anxiety over cohabitating, which was new to them. She advised creating places in the house where they could each retreat for alone time and told Ron to hire a maid to come in once a week so that Micah wouldn’t be so resentful about having to clean up his messes. They kissed and made up on-air and thanked the doctor for saving their relationship.

  “But whyyyyyyyyy would Brian do this to me?” blubbers Noel, a thirtysomething who’s been carrying on for several minutes about her lout of a fiancé who drained their joint bank account and moved out of their apartment, taking the TV, bedroom furniture, and her beloved cat, Squeakers, with him, while she was at work.

  “It doesn’t matter because there’s no valid reason for doing what he did.”

  “What if it’s my fault?” she tearfully asks. “Maybe I drove him away. He did say my new bangs call more attention to my big nose, and . . . and my meatloaf could never compare to his mom’s.”

  Yikes! What a jerk! Hearing stories like this makes me glad I’m single. I take a sip of my all-green juice, which is supposed to be good for relieving stress, and wince because it tastes like a clump of grass with the dirt still attached.

  “Noel,” my mother says the caller’s name in her most soothing tone, “I want you to listen to me and take these words to heart. There is nothing you could have done that would justify Brian’s hurtful behavior. You trusted this man, and he betrayed you.”

  With a trembling voice, she replies, “That’s true, but I can’t help it, Dr. Hart. I still love him.”

  “You know what I’m going to say to that, don’t you, Noel?”

  “You’re better than that,” I say the title of my mother’s book along with the caller, who’s a lot meeker about it than I am.

  “With more conviction,” the doctor urges.

  “I’m better than that!”

  “Yes, you are, and to prove it, you’re going to do two things. One, stop thinking of Brian leaving you as a bad thing because it’s not. By showing you how weak his character is before the two of you got married, Brian did you a huge favor. Imagine if he walked out after you’d exchanged vows, bought a house together, had children? The pain and embarrassment would be a hundred times worse than what you’re feeling now.

  “Two, don’t keep texting or calling Brian because he’s too much of a coward to respond. To get the closure you crave, you’ll have to confront him in person. Go to his work or favorite hangout where he’ll have no choice but to hear what you have to say, especially if there are other people around. And hold him accountable for what he’s done! Don’t ask, ‘Why did you leave?’ because that’s a moot point now. Demand that he write a check for the money he took from you and give your property, that means the furniture and Squeakers, back to you. If he says no to either request, you pull out your phone and tell him you’re calling the police.”

  “But I don’t want to have him arrested!” Noel wails.

  “That’s good because the police will advise you to hire a lawyer as it’s a civil matter. However, Brian doesn’t know that and the threat of involving the authorities will likely scare him into returning what he stole from you. Then you’ll be able to take back your power and move on with your life with no regrets.”

  The caller sniffs. “That would be nice because all I have are regrets now, and I feel stupid for letting any of it happen.”

  “Stop blaming yourself, Noel. You’re . . .”

  “. . . better than that?”

  “It shouldn’t be a question; it should be a declaration.”

  “I’m better than that! And I am going down to Brian’s office and stand up to him right now! Well, as soon as I wash my face and put on some makeup.”

  “Get him, girl!” I cheer Noel on as I pull up to the valet stand at the lot a few doors down from Rubies + Diamonds.

  As I get out of my BMW and hand the key fob to the valet, it occurs to me that most of what my mother said to Noel applies to my situation with Quinn, who’s a betrayer and thief like Brian. I’m confronting Quinn in person in a public place just as Mom suggested Noel do with her ex, so I feel validated as to how I’m handling this. Now I need to be firm with Quinn and establish some boundaries so that she knows her current way of doing business is not acceptable.

  Clutching the handles of my Prada tote bag, I walk at a brisk clip up the sidewalk running parallel to Sunset. Sandwiched between SUGARFISH and sweetgreen, the former a great place to get sushi and the latter a haven for grain bowl lovers, Rubies + Diamonds has a very nondescript, concrete exterior with a steel-trimmed, glass door and windows. But when you open the door and step inside, you find yourself in a very luxe establishment with a glitzy chandelier made of golden rods hanging overhead and modern art displayed on the clay-colored walls. A bar runs the length of the left side of the room and behind it are sleek, top-of-the-line coffee makers along with a gold-plated tap system.

  I get in line, intending to order drinks for both Quinn and myself. Since I invited her, it should be my treat, right? I remember she liked the Sea Salt Cold Brew the few times we came in here together and I’m a fan as well. The creamy concoction is sweet, salty, and delicious, plus it packs a powerful caffeine punch, which I could use since I’ve got so much on my agenda today.

  As soon as I have the iced coffees in hand, I make a beeline for the closest free table and take the seat facing the door. Pulling out my phone, I check the time . . . 9:05. Quinn is late, but then she never was very punctual, something I lectured her about on numerous occasions when I was her boss. I guess running her own business hasn’t changed that.

  With nothing else to do, I check my e-mails. After our staff meeting yesterday, Carmen whipped up a gorgeous flyer for the seasonal promo our think tank came up with, which is appropriately titled “Spring Into Romance.” We’re offering four different packages at a special price for our existing customers featuring: a private picnic in the rose garden at The Huntington in San Marino, a gondola ride through the canals of Newport Harbor complete with a serenade by the gondolier, stargazing and an al fresco dinner at Mount Wilson Observatory, and a sunset horseback ride on the beach in Malibu.

  As of midnight, we had thirty takers on the promo and I see we’ve got six more positive responses this morning, which is exciting. This means we’re going to be crazy busy for the next two months, putting these promo packages into play in addition to all the romantic plans for clients that were already on the calendar. I’m confident my team and I are up to the challenge, though. I dash off some quick replies to the new messages, glance up to confirm my former employee still hasn’t arrived, check the time and see that it’s 9:14, then fire off a text to Cole while continuing to keep an eye on R + D’s front door.

  ‘Quinn’s not here yet.’

  ‘She’s making you wait on purpose. That’s straight out of Power Plays for Wannabe Boss Ladies.’ #getoveryourself #minorleague

  ‘I don’t have time for this nonsense today. She’s got five more minutes, then I’m bail—’ My fingers freeze above my phone when I see a striking woman stride into the coffee shop and note that the head of every single man in the place is swiveling in her direction. She’s not who I’m expecting, but there’s still something vaguely familiar about—

  Oh my god! It’s Quinn, but not the Quinn who worked for me up until five months ago. That
Quinn was a slender, naturally pretty brunette who wore little makeup, her hair in a pony, and a wardrobe that mostly consisted of solid-colored shirt dresses and flats. The woman moving toward me with a phone attached to her ear is a walking advertisement for the Hollywood holy trinity of plastic surgery: lips, boobs, butt—all inflated by means of fillers, silicone, and fat injections. She now has a permanent pout on her heavily made-up face and her body is reminiscent of Jessica Rabbit’s. And she’s wearing a short, tight outfit to show off all her new curves—a wine-colored moto jacket that’s all buckles and zippers with an ivory knit top beneath that exposes a bit of tanned belly along with a faux leather micro mini in a snakeskin print.

  The irony of a snake clad in snakeskin is not lost on me. Neither is the fact that the woman who was never fashion-conscious when she worked for me is now sporting an ensemble of designer pieces that looks like it was put together by a stylist. Doing a quick calculation in my head, I estimate that her outfit cost a cool grand. Oh, wait, I forgot her shoes—a pair of strappy Jimmy Choo stilettos in the same color as her jacket. That’s another eight hundred dollars to add to my tally, plus her hair, which has been transformed by the popular ecaille (tortoiseshell) color technique done in LA’s ritziest salons. Gone are her blah brown tresses and in their place are long, wavy strands of warm honey mixed with rich caramel and dark mocha. Where did Quinn get the money for this major makeover? She just started swiping my clients, so it’s not like she’s been in business long enough to be making this kind of profit.

  Having reached my table, Quinn says into her phone, “I’ve got a meeting, babe. I’ll have to call you back. Smooches.” She makes some loud, smacking noises with her puffed-up lips, then disconnects the call.

  “Hey, girl,” she greets me as if we’re old friends, leaning down to give me a two-cheek kiss, which just adds to this new phony image she’s projecting.

  “Hi.” My response is polite, but tepid. “I was here early, so I got you a Sea Salt Cold Brew.” I gesture at the iced coffee that’s perspiring heavily because it’s been sitting there, waiting for her, for fifteen minutes.