by Lisa Daily
“I’ll make a checklist,” I say authoritatively. I make a list of the nine guys.
“Hold on,” I say. “The fish makes ten.”
“Sometimes the fish gives up his throne, or his terminal disease goes into remission,” says Sam earnestly. “That’s why the fish is worth it.”
“The checklist never works. Really, that is the worst possible way to find someone great,” says Darcy. She turns to Sam. “Who do you know on the list that we can fix Alex up with?”
Sam pulls out her iPhone and starts scrolling through her contacts.
“Oooh,” she says. “I’ve got the tantric sex guy. He takes classes at my studio. His name is Kai.”
“What, I’m supposed to just call up some stranger and ask him to have sex with me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Darcy. “Sam will do that for you.”
“Kai’s great, you’ll love him,” says Sam. “But do not let him talk you out of using a condom, and you should stay hydrated and be sure to do some good stretching exercises before and after.”
“Oh sure,” I say, matter-of-factly. “Stretching, hydration, that makes perfect sense. Are you out of your mind?”
“No.” Sam shakes her head. “Hydration is very important.”
“Set it up,” says Darcy.
“Wait,” I say, “how do you even know about the sex and the condoms? Did you sleep with him? Because I’m telling you both right now, I’m not going out with anyone either of you have dated, or slept with.”
“Kai is a client, and I never sleep with clients,” says Sam.
“Except that once,” Darcy and I chime in, in unison.
“Except that once,” says Sam. “But Kai has quite the reputation around the studio, he’s had sex with half the women there. Which is why I recommend the condom.”
“Gross. Don’t the women catch on? I mean, how does he keep finding new women to sleep with at the studio?” I ask.
“Word of mouth,” says Sam, laughing, as she does a Groucho Marx thing with her eyebrows.
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” says Darcy. “Besides, Sam’s entire freaking yoga studio can’t be wrong.”
Sam clutches her chest, “Not when it feels so right…,” she says, barely able to finish her sentence before she cracks herself up. Immediately, Darcy and I are laughing right along with her.
“My entire client list is made up of Master of the Universe types, many of whom I have slept with, so you’ll have to get over that shit.”
“I’m not sleeping with some man you’ve dated,” I say.
“First, I never date my clients. Too messy. Second, you don’t have to sleep with your nine, except your tantric sex guy. Some of them, you won’t even want to. You just have to go out with them. Besides, don’t hold yourself back on my account. If I’d thought one of these boys was the future Mr. Darcy, he’d be home decapitating rosebuds for my bubble bath, and hand-washing my unmentionables right this minute,” she laughs.
“So that’s two,” she says. “And you may not like what I’m about to say next, but I think it’s a brilliant idea anyway.”
“Don’t you think all your ideas are brilliant?” cracks Sam.
“Why, yes, yes, they are,” says Darcy. “I think we need to enlist Michael’s help in this little endeavor. We’re in the market for a quarterback, and he just happens to work at ESPN.”
“Oh no,” I say, my skin flushing with humiliation. “I can’t ask him to do that.”
“No worries,” says Darcy. “I’ll ask him.”
“No, no, no,” I insist. “Why do we need Michael’s help?”
“Where in the world are you going to get access to a quarterback in your current life?” she asks. “Are you going to start trolling the college stadiums after practice?”
“College?” I ask. “Are you kidding? I’m too old to date a college guy.”
“You’re too old to get serious with a college guy. You are not too old to go on a date with one, provided he’s of drinking age. Besides, there are a lot more available college quarterbacks around than pros. And they’re easier to acquire. Michael has unprecedented access to every QB in the country. And, he owes you.”
“Can’t I just skip that one?” I say. “I’ll go out with the other eight, I promise.”
“No skipping allowed. You want to meet Mr. Right, get married, and have babies, you’ve got to get all your rides on your ticket punched.”
19
Monday morning I wake up in the throes of a Voldemort sex dream. No, seriously.
I’m clutching the covers around my neck, my heart is beating wildly, and I have the oddest, still-hazy recollection of Voldemort serenading me with Michael Bublé songs and showing me his wicked side on top of the conference table of the very first firm where I interned in college.
This can only mean one of two things. Either I’ve completely lost it, or else I really need to have sex. With a non-imaginary non-villain.
I’m divorced. It’s early, and I’m alone in my all-mine house, in my all-mine bed, with my 50 percent–mine cat Morley sleeping on the pillow next to me, where Michael used to sleep. I wonder if Morley misses Michael like I do, or if he’s just taking advantage of available real estate. I reach over to pet him and try to bring him in for a snuggle, but he hisses at me, extends a claw, and then stretches back out on the pillow. Morley is not exactly cuddly. He’s a shelter cat, obviously abused before we adopted him, and found on the side of the road with his brothers and sisters, all far too young to have been weaned from their mother. Karmically speaking, I always felt that if I loved and took care of Morley, despite all of his social issues, that the Universe would reward Michael and me with great children. Like Morley is a test of my patience and kindness, and if I pass the test we’ll end up with a terrific family. Now my husband is gay, the clock is running out on my ovaries, and I’m stuck with a cat that crawls up on my lap like he wants some affection, but claws me like a ninja if I try to move or stroke his fur.
I snooze a little longer, not wanting to leave the quiet or comfort of my bed, but knowing I need to get moving because I’m meeting two clients today—a socialite named Olivia Vanderbilt Kensington who wants me to design the environment for a massive wildlife fundraiser, and the other a new client, a well-funded, semifamous chef named Daniel Boudreaux opening his first solo restaurant.
Work will save me.
I hit the snooze button one last time and then drag myself into the shower, a cloud of agony hanging over my head. I have to get myself together. Michael is gay. I’m divorced. Nothing is ever going to be the way it was and I need to accept that. I spent all last night trying to figure out a new plan, what I can do to get happy, and the one bright spot in my life is my work. I love my job, I love that moving furniture, playing certain music, infusing scents, hanging particular artwork, or setting things just so can cause complete strangers to feel a connection to a space, a cause, or even behave in different ways—from alerting them to danger to putting their minds at ease. Stay a little longer in your shop, don’t fall into the piranha exhibit, head to the line on the left instead of the right, peruse the pricier merchandise before heading to the cheap stuff in the back. I love my career. I love the challenge of how to affect human behavior. I love the flexibility and the power of owning my own business. Even if the rest of my life goes to shit, I feel almost certain that focusing on work will make me feel happy again. And if it doesn’t, at least I’ll have the ability to pay for the best therapist money can buy. Onward.
I put on my favorite yellow suit because I need an energy boost and yellow is the color that triggers optimism and confidence. Pulling my dark hair into a loose bun, I wonder if I should try some highlights at my next hair appointment. Or bangs. Just to mix things up a little. Digging through the jewelry drawer, I select a dramatic necklace with multicolor beads that looks both elegant and whimsical at the same time. My ring finger still looks bare without my wedding rings, exacerbated by the line of pal
e skin and slight indentation where my rings used to be. I know I’ll eventually get used to it, but I still find myself surprised when I glance at my hand and my rings aren’t there anymore. Is that weird for everyone? I hate that it’s so obvious that I’m newly divorced.
I find myself avoiding Michael’s closet. It’s empty now, but I don’t want to be reminded of that. With the whole big house to myself, I don’t really need more storage, but it feels like it would hurt too much to just leave it empty. Oh well, a problem for another day. I pull out three pairs of shoes, my favorite splurge, and stand in front of the mirror trying to decide whether I should go with the Vince Camuto strappy pewter heels, the violet Manolos, or the funky cheetah-print heels. The cheetahs are tempting, because they’re an unexpected choice and they look far better than I’d imagined they would; but given that my biggest client today is an old-school socialite, it’s probably best to go with the always chic, even in purple, Manolos.
Grabbing my iPad and keyboard, I slip them into my giant aqua leather tote, along with the notebook I use to jot down notes and ideas when I’m with clients. It would be easier, of course, to just type ideas into my iPad, but clients feel you’re really listening to them when you’re taking notes on paper, versus feeling like you’re not paying attention when you’re plugging away at a laptop or tablet. And I am all about creating the best environment for success. It’s the smallest details that matter.
I give Morley a gentle pat and a catnip parakeet on my way out the door, and he flattens his ears and howls at me in return. My Mini Cooper seems tiny all by itself in the garage, especially with Michael’s car and all his sports stuff gone. Everywhere I look are reminders he isn’t here anymore. I wonder if it was a stupid idea to keep our house. Or if trying to keep it on just what I earn will end up completely bankrupting me. I love the house. I’ll get over it.
It’s a perfect Florida day, and even though it’s February, it’s sunny and gorgeous. I put down the top on my Mini and pull one of several scarves from the glove box, tying it over my hair. I pop on my giant sunglasses, pull out of the driveway, and head down the street, feeling every inch like I’m channeling Grace Kelly.
My first meeting is at ten, with the socialite client I’ve spoken to numerous times on the phone but never met before. I’m really excited about this opportunity because I don’t usually do fundraisers, especially not at this level, and if I do well on this project it will open up a whole new line and bring me a ton of potential new clients. And since I’ve decided that building my business will be my salvation, new clients are exactly what I need.
I’m right on time, but later than I’d like because of traffic. I valet my car at the Ritz-Carlton, and hurry inside to meet Olivia Vanderbilt Kensington in the tearoom. Usually I meet clients at their place of business, but Olivia’s event will be held in one of the ballrooms of the Ritz, so we’re meeting here. The space is basically a blank canvas, but we’ll have to marry Olivia’s designs for the party with my work to create a space that will garner the highest possible donations.
The host informs me that my client has not yet arrived, and escorts me to a table near the front at my request. Since we do not know each other, I want to lower any anxiety she might feel if she had to search the entire restaurant for me—that way our meeting will get off to a smooth start.
A half hour later my client has still not arrived. And while I’ve been watching the door and smiling at everyone who might potentially be Olivia, I order a sparkling water with lime and pull out my iPad to make a few notes for my meeting that afternoon with the restaurateur. I check my phone periodically to make certain I haven’t missed a call from Olivia, and double-check the date of the meeting on my calendar, just in case I’ve screwed something up. No, today is the day.
Finally after forty-five minutes, Olivia Vanderbilt Kensington strolls into the room. She’s painfully thin, wearing a pale pink suit and what seems to be half her weight in pearls, multiple strands draped elegantly around her neck in varying lengths. I recognize her instantly after checking out her bio online, and stand as she approaches our table.
“Dr. Alexandra Wiggins?” she asks in a throaty voice.
“Call me Alex, please,” I say. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”
She looks me up and down in a way that is obviously practiced and carefully designed to evoke insecurity. She waits until the host pulls out her chair and then sits down in an elegant side motion that seems strangely choreographed.
She does not thank him, or even acknowledge him.
“Thank you,” I smile, and the host smiles back. Great smile.
“Camilla Berthrand recommended you highly. I hope you’re able to live up to her praise.” The waiter offers her a drink or a menu and she declines both.
“Camilla was wonderful to work with, and I’m flattered,” I say, ignoring the dig. “Let’s talk about your project.”
Her eyes light up at the mention of her event, although her facial features barely move. Botox most likely, or some very recent plastic surgery. Olivia is highly polished and well put together in such a way that it makes it impossible to tell what her actual age is. Maybe fifty. Maybe seventy-five. Not that it matters, I’m just curious. There’s something about her that makes her seem like she belongs in another era altogether. Perhaps that’s just how the very, very rich are. Both Michael and I come from comfortable middle-class backgrounds. So we know to put our napkins on our laps, which fork to use at most occasions, and the difference between a red-wine glass and a white-wine glass, but I always feel a little out of my league with the caviar crowd.
“I believe I mentioned on the telephone that I need your help in designing our annual Wildlife Foundation fundraiser in June. We raised eight hundred thousand dollars at the event last year. This year our goal is to raise one million dollars. Whatever psychological magic you do, this must be an elegant event. There are important people who will be in attendance and it is critical that we maintain a very high standard.”
“So my assignment here is to help you raise your donations by twenty percent,” I reiterate.
“Yes,” she says. “Without doing anything tacky.”
I’m a bit offended but I push through anyway. Does she actually think I’m going to be adding plastic table tents or jugglers or a fast-food-inspired color scheme?
“Please be assured that your event will be as elegant as always,” I say. “Most of what I do will revolve around the exhibit, bar, guest and table placement; the schedule and language of the evening; the color scheme; and the accompanying music.”
“We’ve already scheduled the orchestra,” Olivia sniffs. “The event is only four months away.”
“Of course,” I say. “I’ll just be working with them on musical selections, pacing, and timing for various hot points throughout your event.” I reach into my bag and hand her a color swatch. “This will be your biggest potential disruption,” I say. “This is Pantone Emerald 17-5641. It will need to be the anchor of your color scheme, although you’re free to work with any coordinating colors you choose to create the atmosphere of elegance you’re seeking.”
“I’m not sure I can work with green so late in the décor stage.” Olivia sighs.
“You want to raise your donation levels by 20 percent, this is how it works,” I say with absolute confidence. I hand her a few more green swatches as well as a business card. “These swatches are for your florist and other vendors, and this is a card for a table linen service that has our color anchor in linens and chair covers if the hotel or your vendor can’t provide them.”
She accepts the swatches and puts them inside a tiny Chanel pocketbook.
“Now, let’s go look at our venue, shall we?” I say, signaling the waiter for the check.
Two hours later we’ve gone over every inch of the ballroom and I rough out some notes about potential placement of various elements, and talk with Olivia at length about the Wildlife Foundation’s needs and what types of animals they are tryi
ng to raise the money for. A cute busboy pokes his head in and asks if we’ll be much longer. Nice eyes. Olivia is obviously not great with strangers, but she’s clearly taken with animals of all sorts, and bubbles over with excitement when talking about what her group has been able to accomplish with regard to various species. Olivia speaks as though she’s lost a beloved relative when talking about the loss of the Tasmanian tiger, and I put my arm around her bony shoulders as she dabs at her eyes with a silk handkerchief.
She promises to e-mail me a list of the species they’re working to save, and do her best to work with the color scheme I’ve provided. I don’t exactly see us becoming best buddies while we’re working on this project, or, ever, but at least she’s relatively pleasant when I keep her focused on the animals. We wrap things up at the valet stand, and she agrees to meet again at the end of the week.
“It was so nice to meet you Olivia,” I say, thrusting out my hand to shake hers. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”
She offers her hand up limply, like a dead fish. “I do hope our time together will be productive,” she says. A barrel of fun, that one.
By the time the valet brings my car around, it’s almost one-thirty and I’m starting to panic a little that I’ll be late for my next meeting with the chef. Luckily, his new restaurant is docked near downtown Sarasota, which is only a few minutes from the Ritz-Carlton, and so as long as I can find a place to park, I should make it on time.
20
I park my car at the marina, already a few minutes late, and try not to fall on my ass as I run down the dock in sky-high heels in search of my new client’s floating restaurant.
Oh gawd. This is it. It looks like a garbage barge. A gigantic, hundred-year-old garbage barge. The white and blue paint is peeling, and the whole thing is filthy, and covered in mucky gray film, but there are glimmers of long-gone elegance everywhere—gorgeous leaded-glass arched windows, and badly neglected but still solid mahogany. A classic red riverboat paddlewheel. Searching around for a place to board, I finally find the gangplank entry and make my way inside.
