Chronicles of a Lincoln Park Fashionista

by Aven Ellis

  I bite down hard on my tongue as I reach for the creamer. “Well, that was a preliminary idea,” I say sweetly, forcing myself to sound extra nice. “I’ve really fleshed it out since that meeting, as you’ll see in my presentation.”

  Rebecca smiles condescendingly at me as Creepy Spence strolls up next to her.

  “I think that’s wonderful that you’ve had the time to expand on an idea like that,” Rebecca coos, touching my arm with mock affection. “I, unfortunately, don’t have the luxury to work on an idea that’s already been rejected, with me being swamped with my current approved projects.”

  “I totally agree,” Creepy Spence chimes in, sneaking a peek down at Rebecca’s scooped-neck sweater. “Who has time for rejected ideas?”

  Blah! I hate both of them. I once again fantasize about throwing stale Danish at each of their heads, but decide this wouldn’t be good timing, considering the fact that I’m about to do the biggest presentation of my life.

  I take a sip of coffee and decide I’ve had enough of Rebecca’s martyr routine.

  “Well, I don’t consider that a luxury, Rebecca. I think it’s all about time management, don’t you agree? And since this proposal is important to me, I budgeted my time and made it a priority. I’m sure you understand how to do that, considering how busy you are.”

  Then I turn and leave them standing there, mouths open, as I return to my seat. I flip open my notebook and review my notes, looking unaffected although my heart is now thumping against my ribs.

  I probably shouldn’t have said that to Rebecca. She’s superior to me in the department and—

  “Nice move, Fashionista,” Deke says, interrupting my thoughts. “I couldn’t have said that better myself.”

  I look up and see him standing next to me. Oh, shit! I totally forgot that he was on headset and could pick up anything on my mic.

  I instantly begin to blush. “I . . . I shouldn’t . . .”

  “Forget that,” he says, shaking his head. “You were brilliant. As you’re going to be in a few minutes, too.”

  I stare up at him and see the belief shining in his eyes. And as I gaze into them, belief rises in me, too.

  “Thanks,” I say quietly. “That means a lot to me, knowing you think that.”

  Deke stares at me for a moment. Then he clears his throat. “Well, I should get some water and get back over there. We’ll do the one-on-one interview after the presentation, just so I can capture the moment as it happens, okay?”

  I nod. Deke heads over to the refreshment table and picks up a bottle of water.

  I refocus my attention to my notes. After one final review, I go up to the front table for my presentation.

  People begin straggling back into the room, looking like they’d all rather leave for lunch instead of hearing my presentation.

  It’s okay, I reassure myself, trying to ignore the bored expressions on their faces. Once you start talking, you can win their full attention. Passing around the sample baskets should help—

  “Are you ready, Avery?” Craig asks me, taking a seat next to where I have my laptop set up.

  “Of course,” I quickly squeak.

  Oh crap. Did that sound as hideous as I think it did?

  “Great,” Craig says, nodding. Then he clears his throat to get everyone’s attention.

  “Everyone, if you would please be seated, we’ll get started,” Craig announces.

  People quickly get back to their seats. I swallow hard, as all eyes are on me now. Everyone is waiting for me to speak. And in the case of the Chicago team, say something more profound than I did last month at the Spa Service brainstorming meeting.

  “Good morning,” I say. I slip behind the podium and notice my knees are shaking together, but luckily my voice has remained even and calm. “My name is Avery Andrews, and I’m an assistant in the Marketing Department at headquarters in Chicago. I’d like to present to you an idea to enhance our in-flight Spa Service, and that’s specialized spa baskets as part of our amenities package.”

  I look out into the audience. Okay, good. Only Rebecca and Creepy Spence are passing notes to each other, but everyone else is paying attention. I haven’t lost them yet.

  I pick up the remote control for the PowerPoint and click it to bring up the presentation on the screen behind me.

  “As you can see-” I stop speaking. Why is the screen blue? My first slide was supposed to come up.

  I click it again. The screen is still blue.

  Don’t panic, I will myself. Do not panic now.

  “Uh, as you can see—” I start again, hitting the button.

  But the fucking screen is still blue.

  Now panic takes over as I click the remote over and over, but to no avail. Oh God! Where the hell is my presentation?

  “Toggle,” someone yells out.

  “Why don’t you hit . . .”

  “Do you need to reboot?”

  “I always have this problem—”

  “Have you checked the cord?”

  ACK! Suddenly it’s like being in the showcase showdown on the Price Is Right, where everyone is screaming what you should bid but you can’t hear anything over the sea of noise.

  “Uh, one moment, please,” I gulp, going back over to my laptop. And as I frantically hit the keys to get the PowerPoint up, my inbox comes up. And an e-mail from Sasha flips open on the screen for everyone—and everyone who will be watching this on TV—to read:

  From: sashagreen@flashmail.net

  To: avery.andrews@premierairlines.com

  Date: July 2nd

  Re: YOU OWE ME MONEY

  Avery, I fully anticipate you will pay me in full on Friday for that Burberry scarf you “had to have” before going to San Francisco. Keep in mind my last day at Saks is on Sunday, so if there are any other designer items you “must get” with my discount that normally you would never be able to afford, you need to plan accordingly.

  Sasha

  Damn it, I hate Sasha sometimes. Although all I saw was “pay in full” and “never afford,” I know the e-mail makes me out to be an idiot who can’t manage her money. Mortified, I quickly close out of e-mail and hear some snickers around the room as I do. Then, by the beloved mercy of God above, my PowerPoint slide finally appears. Everyone begins to applaud, and I feel like my face is raging like an inferno.

  I look around the room. Can I do this? How can they take me seriously now, when I’ve just shown I’m completely inept at even getting a slide to come up on a screen?

  I want to flee. To say, “Never Mind!,” wave my hand in goodbye, and run straight up to my room to hide.

  But then my eyes rest on Deke. He stares straight at me, and ever so slightly, inclines his head at me.

  He still believes I can do this, I think in amazement.

  “See, Avery, that’s why I have a team around me,” Craig says, interrupting my thoughts. I look at him, and he’s smiling at me. “They know I’m worthless when it comes to working the computer.”

  Everyone laughs, and I feel myself relax a little bit.

  “Well, I think we are good now so I’d like to begin,” I say, making eye contact with everyone seated before me. “I initially proposed this spa basket idea back in June, and in the meantime, I’ve done a lot of research on the viability of pursuing this idea. For example . . .”

  I go on to walk through my presentation. I talk about my ideas, my research, the sample products I’ve discovered online, and how I matched them up with our big vacation routes. I pass around the two baskets—one for arrival use and the other for nighttime—and happily watch as some of the women begin poking around in them, smelling the products, and appearing to get into it.

  Finally I close my presentation and open the floor to questions.

 
Rebecca’s hand instantly shoots up into the air.

  I force myself to acknowledge her. “Rebecca?”

  “Yes,” Rebecca says, frowning. “I thought we gave very specific examples of why this idea wouldn’t work back in June. And I fail to see how your presentation changes the fact that this is extra work for provisioning. Or that people really care about specialty toiletries in the first place.”

  “I totally agree,” Creepy Spence chimes in.

  Of course you do, I think angrily. But I’m ready for this question. And I’m not letting my spa basket idea go down without a fight this time.

  “Rebecca, I’m so glad you’ve given me the opportunity to answer your question and expand on it,” I say brightly. And I almost laugh aloud as Rebecca’s mouth drops open in shock.

  “First of all,” I say, my confidence brimming, “the extra work for provisioning is loading the baskets into the aircraft. Is that really that different than loading food on board for an overseas flight? Or bed linens, or magazines, or anything else we need to pamper our guests in flight?”

  I glance around the room and see other heads nod in agreement. Encouraged, I draw a breath of air and continue.

  “And—although I already pointed this out in my presentation, I’m happy to review it again—if people don’t really care about toiletries, then why the explosion in bath products in the past decade?” I ask, remembering that Rebecca was busy writing notes when I went over this topic in PowerPoint. “People are more into well-being and aromatherapy than ever before, and the baskets tie in directly to this consumer trend.

  “But the bottom line is,” I say, feeling like I’m rolling up to my big finale, “does Premier Airlines want to be an innovator? Or a follower? I think the Spa Service shows we want to innovate. But I think if we do offer innovative service, we need to carry the idea through on all levels. No detail is too small. And that includes our amenities kits, too.”

  The room falls silent. Rebecca and Creepy Spence are glaring at me, but a few others nod in approval. But what is Craig thinking? I glance at him, but his face is unreadable. Suddenly my heart is pounding inside my chest. My throat is dry. Oh God. What if he thinks my presentation sucked? What if he’s about to tell me a list of 100 reasons why this idea is stupidest thing he’s ever heard?

  “Are there any more questions for Avery?” Craig asks.

  Not a hand in the room goes up. And suddenly I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.

  “Thank you, Avery,” Craig says.

  I nod and go back to my seat as everyone politely claps. Craig rises and goes to the podium, and my palms begin to sweat in nervousness.

  “I’d like to give all of you my feedback on Avery’s presentation,” Craig says, taking a quick sip of mineral water.

  Oh God. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I don’t even notice the arctic temperature in the room. I just wait for Craig to speak.

  “First of all, I know some of you were surprised that I let Avery, who has only been with Premier Airlines since May, present an idea at our retreat today,” Craig says in that deep voice, the one that commands attention the second he speaks. “And that is because she has fresh eyes. Avery hasn’t been immersed in our world day in and day out. She brought something to my attention that I never even considered before.

  “And more to the point, Avery had conviction in her idea. She was passionate about it. She wasn’t afraid to pursue it, to think outside the box, even after we told her no. I like that. More importantly, I like her idea, too.”

  I nearly gasp aloud in shock. Craig Potanski likes my idea?

  “Therefore, Avery, I’ll put you as point person on this project, with you reporting directly to Lindsay and me every step of the way on it so we can guide you. You’ll coordinate with provisioning and airport and in-flight merchandising for a trial run on our Chicago to Milan runs. If it’s a hit, I’ll expand it to all the routes we plan to offer Spa Service on.”

  Oh my God. I can’t believe it. I’ve locked it down and have a start to a career as a result.

  “Congratulations, Avery,” Craig says, smiling at me. “Well done.” Then he turns back to the group. “And with that said, let’s break for lunch. I expect everyone back here at 1:30 sharp.”

  People suddenly start coming up to talk to me. And as I’m being congratulated on my idea, my head is dizzy with happiness and an overwhelming sense of achievement. This incredible buzz, this energy I’m feeling inside—is something I never thought I could feel from working.

  And as people are talking to me, I realize they don’t see me as a mindless fashionista searching for a husband. They see me as an equal. They see me as someone who has brains, as an employee who has something to offer the marketing world of Premier Airlines. And as I realize this, my heart soars inside my chest.

  But even as people are talking to me and asking me questions, there’s only one person that I’m absolutely desperate to talk to.

  Deke.

  I glance over at him from across the room. He has the camera turned on me, still shooting and capturing the biggest moment of my new career on video. The second my eyes lock with his, he flashes me a smile. And my spine tingles with warmth as I notice his eyes have crinkled up in the corners.

  “Avery, I’m really looking forward to working with you,” Eileen McDonald, the director of Airport and In-Flight merchandising, says, commanding my attention away from Deke. “I’m in town all next week, so let me know when you want to meet with provisioning to get started.”

  “I will,” I say excitedly, already wanting to dig in on my first project.

  After chatting a few more minutes, everyone eventually filters out of the room. Now it’s just me and Deke, and it’s all I can do to keep from running over to him, throwing my arms around him, and hugging him to thank him for everything he has done for me.

  “Don’t talk to me yet,” he instructs, setting up the backdrop I’ll sit in front of for taping. “I want to get your reactions for the camera first.”

  “Sure,” I say, my heart flinching from his words. How I wish it could be different, I think wistfully. How I wish he didn’t have a camera or a job to do and we could just talk to each other like we did at The Top of The Mark the other night.

  But it’s not like that, I remind myself sternly. Nor will it ever will be.

  “Here we go,” Deke says, motioning for me to stand in front of the backdrop. “We’re ready.”

  I stand where he wants, and he begins asking me questions. I answer each one in detail, my excitement for my new project taking over as I relive the moment for him on camera. Finally he turns off the camera and tells me to take off the mic.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” he says. “I’m good here.”

  “Right,” I say, slowly unhooking the mic as he packs up his gear. I bite my lip, staring at him. Isn’t he going to say anything to me? Doesn’t Deke want to at least talk to me about this as a friend?

  Deke stands up and comes back over to me. He takes the mic from my hand and sets it down on the conference table behind him.

  “Now we can talk,” he says, smiling at me. “I needed to get your initial reaction for the camera first, so I could capture your enthusiasm as you answered the questions, but now I get to congratulate you. You were brilliant, Avery. There was no way in hell Potanski wasn’t going to give you this project after that presentation.”

  Happiness fills me, and Deke’s eyes crinkle up in the corners as his smile grows.

  “Thanks,” I say modestly.

  “You locked it down,” he says softly. “And I really shouldn’t call you a fashionista anymore, Avery Andrews. Because you are far more than that.”

  I can’t help it. I begin to laugh, and Deke furrows his brow.

  “What?”

  “Are you saying
that you might have had the wrong idea about me at first?” I tease, thinking of the first day he shot at my apartment back in May.

  Deke laughs in the way that makes my spine tingle.

  “Well, you still have some fashionista traits. Like an infinite amount of designer dresses in your closet.”

  I instinctively reach over and playfully punch his arm. “That’s called good wardrobing, Deacon Ryan.”

  “Good wardrobing,” he repeats, grinning wickedly at me. “I stand corrected on that.”

  We both laugh, but then I look at him seriously.

  “Deacon, I couldn’t have done this without you. You motivated me to want to do more with my life. You bring out things in me I didn’t even know existed.”

  “That has nothing to do with me. All of that is inside of you. You would have discovered it sooner or later.”

  “I don’t agree,” I say quietly. “I needed you to push me. And I needed you to believe in me, too. So I want to thank you for that.”

  Neither one of us speaks for a second. I can feel my heart pounding wildly against my ribs. All these feelings—of affection, of want, of need for Deke—are raging inside me with a force I have never known before.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he finally says. “I . . . I’ve never really had this kind of impact on anyone before.”

  His modesty touches my heart. I hesitate for a moment before speaking. “‘You’re welcome’ is enough for me,” I say.

  “Then you’re welcome,” he says softly.

  Oh God. I really want to kiss him.

  Deke clears his throat, interrupting my thoughts.

  “I need to let you go,” he says quietly. “You need to grab lunch before the meetings start back up.”

  “Right,” I say, not moving an inch.

  “And I have enough footage that I can set you free for the rest of the conference,” he says. “I’m going back to Chicago. You won’t have me hanging around and tailing you through the final day tomorrow, so you can relax and enjoy yourself. I know it’s hard to do that with my camera light always in your face.”