“No, I . . .” Kevin tries to correct Jillian, but she’s dragging me down the hall.
She shuts the conference room door behind us, panting like we just ran a mile. “Holy shit, Court. I told you to get laid, but not by . . . that! What were you thinking?” She throws her voice high in what I think is supposed to be a mimicry of me, “Coffee? Drinks? Ohh . . . uh . . . Kevin, of course!” She makes a Pfft sound, spitting into the coffee I was still planning on drinking.
“I wasn’t going to say yes! I was trying to figure out how to say no nicely,” I explain. Her brow lifts, and I dutifully add, “Thanks for getting me out of there.”
She nods her head as if I’m royalty.
“Okay, bullet dodged. You’ve got the floor. Show me what we’ve got.”
“Printouts.” She points to the three binders on the table. “Projector.” She picks up the remote, showing me how to hit the on/off button like I’m an idiot. I follow along closely, just in case I am. The screen at the front of the room illuminates, the Andrews logo on the left and AgroStar logo on the right. “Push this button to go forward, this one to go backward. If you have any problems, I’ll be right here to handle them.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to my needing tech help if I’m suggesting that this woman give millions of her dollars to us. That would not exactly instill confidence,” I quip dryly.
I forget that I’m not supposed to drink my spit-laced coffee and lift it to my mouth. As soon as I take a swig, Jillian’s eyes go wide. “No! Bad boss lady! Spit that out!”
Mouthful of hot coffee burning my tongue and feeling like a chastised pet, I have no other option. I spit the coffee back into the cup in a brown stream of grossness. “Ugh!”
Unflappable, Jillian trades me the ruined coffee for a paper napkin and I wipe my mouth. After doing a lipstick check for me, she continues.
“Everything bagels and salmon-infused cream cheese—God, can you imagine what her breath must smell like after that? Fresh fruit, Earl Grey tea with lemon,” Jillian says, pointing at the small spread on the table at the back of the room. “And Abi’s delivery person brought the two fresh flower arrangements this morning. Mums like her cards, though they’re yellow and orange, not white. They were unavailable, but these colors seem happy. If you can call spindly spider flowers happy.”
It’s one of the little details I planned specifically for Mrs. Crabtree. Her family goes back generations to noble roots, and she uses spider chrysanthemums on her business cards as a nod to her family crest. And with my sister, Abi, owning a specialty flower shop, it was a no-brainer to add that detail.
I look at the arrangements, in awe of Abi’s work. She is an artist with flowers, the only one in our family to flip her middle fingers to basically everything the Andrews name stands for and strike out on her own with nothing more than her creativity and belief in her abilities to build on. She’s always marched to the beat of her own drummer, and mostly, we love her for it.
“I thought putting them on the breakfast bar would be nice because the air conditioner vent will help move the fragrance around the room without their being in your face on the table.” She holds a hand up directly in front of my nose, and I blink in surprise.
I nod, pleased. “Well done. We thought of everything, didn’t we?”
Both of us look around once more, but even after my Terminator-like scan, I think we’re ready to tackle anything. And just in time, because I see my father escorting a middle-aged woman this way. Ms. Jane Crabtree. A young guy in a suit follows them, eyes on Ms. Crabtree the whole time. Her assistant or security, I guess?
Jillian disappears into the corner, throwing me a thumbs-up and a smile before sitting down, tablet in hand to take notes.
I give Dad a nod as he enters, noting that he’s wearing his power meeting suit, black with tiny gray pinstripes, and a silvery tie. He looks good, happier and thinner than I’ve seen him in years. I hope it’s because I’m handling things now as a VP. Ross used to give our father gray hairs by the bushelful, but those days are over now. Both because Ross is settled down and because he’s not representing Andrews Consolidated anymore but himself. Dad’s proud, though I don’t think he tells Ross that.
I offer my hand to Ms. Crabtree. “So nice to meet you, ma’am.”
She shakes my hand like a limp fish, barely touching me with her cold fingers. “Ms. Crabtree will do fine. Ma’am makes me feel like my mother . . . old.”
I chuckle politely as though she told a joke.
Truthfully, she is a few decades older than me but younger than Dad. I’d put her age at mid-fifties, but she’s had good maintenance work done and looks spectacular, with barely a line creasing her face. And I can spot an expensive haircut, designer clothing, and custom jewelry at one hundred yards, and Ms. Crabtree has every hallmark of being a wealthy woman.
Jillian sets a cup of Earl Grey tea at the spot furthest from the door and we all sit. Except for the assistant-slash-security, who excuses himself silently, closing the door behind himself. I don’t see him walk down the hall, so he must be standing directly in front of the door, a live-action blockade. Likely, security then, I decide.
It hits me in a whoosh of excitement. Playtime’s over and I’m on the pitcher’s mound of the big leagues now. This is everything I’ve been working for. It’s going to be my signature on a deal that will net the company millions of dollars in profit.
This is my chance to show everyone, especially Dad, that I’ve got what it takes. This meeting is the proof in my pudding.
“This is your daughter, Morgan?” Ms. Crabtree eyes me as though I’m a creature at the zoo, talking about me as if I can’t understand her.
“Yes, it is. I think you’ll pleased with what she’s come up with, Jane.”
So they can be on a first-name basis, but I’m relegated to last name only? It’s a virtual kick down to the kiddie table, even though I’m sitting at the head of the conference table and in charge of this meeting.
“Hmm,” Jane says doubtfully.
Yes, Jane. I might have to call her Ms. Crabtree out loud, but in my head, I can call her whatever I want, and for now, I’m picking Jane. If this meeting doesn’t go well, maybe I’ll pick something else like Crabby Cakes McGoo, but I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt for a bit as a show of good faith. In myself.
I start my presentation on the attack, needing to prove myself and getting a clear read on Jane Crabtree. I hammer her with prep, with numbers, with cold, hard facts while glossing over the fuzzy stuff that Jillian and I put into the presentation. We’d planned a multi-angle approach, figuring I could adjust depending on the reactions I received. I’ve practiced every potential ‘choose your adventure’ course this presentation might take during those dry runs.
Jane listens attentively, her eyes locked on me. I make a point about profit structures and she holds up a finger. I pause, and she looks to the binder in front of her, reading the statistics I just quoted again for herself. As she reads, she absently strokes at her lips as though she can taste those profits.
Whoo-hoo, I’m getting to her.
Finally, at about ten minutes in, she cracks a small smile. “And you’re sure that your grocery stores can promote our products, especially the new offering?”
Oh, I’m sure. I’ve spent a month working the deal with AgroStar, making sure all the analytics are on point for this deal. They want to expand their business but need Andrews connections. We can get them the distribution, the transport, and the media coverage. The stores will be happy, selling their great product line consistently. And that ‘new offering’ is a basically legalized mom-crack. Okay, not really, but it’s supposed to be some organic superfood drink that tastes like sour candy but provides a day’s worth of veggie servings, appetite suppression, and bonus energy.
I’ll be lining up to buy my own secret stash of that miracle goodness in a bottle as soon as it hits the market, and so will basically everyone else, too.
It’s a win
-win-win for all concerned.
“Absolutely. By the time we’re done, AgroStar is going to be bigger than Tyson, bigger than Johnson & Johnson. Forget Bruce Springsteen, they’ll be calling AgroStar The Boss.”
Jane claps lightly, like we’re playing golf. “Cheeky. I like it.” As she rests her hands back on the table, I notice that she scratches roughly at her arm, which looks red. Perhaps she was scratching beneath the table? On second thought, maybe there are pesticides or something not-so-great in that superfood drink? Either that or she’s been moisturizing with poison ivy oil.
“Along with grocery stores, we’d want to insert your products into our restaurant brands—”
I stop at the flushed look on her face. “Ms. Crabtree, are you okay?”
She’s breathing hard, scratching at her neck now, and I wonder what the hell’s going on. She squirms in her chair like she’s got itch powder between her thighs. Or maybe one of those remote-control vibrators? If that’s the case, her partner is being pretty cruel with the public orgasm in the middle of our meeting.
Hell, even Ms. Crabtree is getting more than I am.
But this doesn’t look like pleasure. It looks like . . .
“My word, it’s suddenly so hot in here. Must be a hot flash,” she jokes weakly as she fans herself. “Please . . . continue.”
Dad gives her a concerned look but shrugs my way. I’m sure he’s not touching potential menopause symptoms with a ten-foot pole. We all remember what Mom was like when she had hot flashes. To say we scattered like cockroaches to stay out of her war path of destruction would be putting it mildly. I swear I only approached her with chocolate or wine in my hand for nearly a year.
“As I was saying, our restaurant supply chain can—”
Suddenly, Jane’s entire face goes bright red. “Is it incredibly hot in here to you?”
Dad stands up, pouring a glass of water. “Jane, are you okay? Maybe some water?”
She shakes her head, “Get. Michael.” And then she falls out of her chair, dropping to the floor with her legs askew.
“Help!” Dad yells. “Call 9-1-1!”
“Got it!” Jillian answers from the corner.
I kneel down on the floor beside Jane, checking her pulse like I learned in CPR class. Like everything in my life, I like to be prepared. Outwardly, I’m calm and collected. Inside, I’m freaking the fuck out.
Oh, my God! Jane! Don’t die! Not without signing the papers first. Ugh, that’s shitty, Courtney. How about just don’t die with no clauses? Yeah, that’s what I meant!
And now, I’m arguing with myself.
Michael, the security guard, comes in. “That won’t be necessary yet. Mrs. Crabtree is having an allergic reaction. Excuse me.”
He’s chill as a cucumber, stepping around the table and pushing me aside. He pulls an EpiPen from somewhere like a magician, jabbing it into Mrs. Crabtree’s thigh and listening for the hiss of the injection.
“An allergic reaction?” my dad says, Michael’s declaration finally settling in as Jane starts to come back around. “To what?”
Michael looks around the room with narrowed eyes. Chair, table, binder, tea cup . . . he seems perplexed. Scanning on, he looks at the breakfast buffet. “Those.” He points, and I follow his finger with my eyes . . . to the beautiful flower arrangements.
“The flowers?” I ask, horror-stricken as I watch the petals tremble slightly from the downdraft of the air conditioning flowing into the room. “We used the spider mums like on her business cards. I thought it would be a nice touch?” My voice fades, making it a question though I didn’t mean for it to be.
What is he talking about? Allergic reaction? To her favorite flower?
“Did you read the meeting notice we sent?” Michael snaps.
Jane pats his hand weakly, her voice strangled and stilted. “I’m okay. It’s okay. It happens.”
She is not okay, and this is not okay. Not in any way, shape, form, or fashion.
“I did read the notice, all twenty-three pages of it. My assistant did as well.”
That’s the truth, we did read it. We’d joked around about how Ms. Crabtree had a contract rider more demanding than any pop celebrity we’ve ever heard about. It wasn’t quite Van Halen requesting no brown M&M’s or Mariah Carey demanding only Evian water and Cristal with bendy straws, but the contract was specific to the point of ridiculousness, with requirements about arrival times, air temperature, the specific brand of everything bagel and cream cheese Jillian ordered, and demands that Ms. Crabtree not be spoken to by anyone other than those attending the meeting.
“Page fifteen, section B, lines three through four, Ms. Crabtree is allergic to bees, peanut butter, and baby’s breath,” Michael says frostily, quoting the contract from memory.
Wait, what?
I look at the flowers with fresh eyes, horror dawning. Now that he says that, I do remember reading it. Several times, in fact, but it didn’t register when I saw the flowers this morning. In my head, I saw spider mums and checked off the box, thinking only of success.
“Oh, my God! I am so sorry, Ms. Crabtree.”
I just almost killed a woman. And not just any woman, but the first big client I was wooing myself.
What’s the punishment for attempted murder? Or is it manslaughter if I didn’t mean to do it? God, I’m just so glad she’s okay-ish.
Jillian has already removed one arrangement and grabs the other, taking it out quickly.
“Please, Jane, let’s get you out of the floor if you’re feeling up to it? You can rest on the couch in my office for a moment,” Dad interjects.
Ms. Crabtree nods. “I am feeling a little better. Thank you, Morgan.”
Michael and I help her up, and then Dad steps to her side, taking her arm over his for support. As they help her out the door, I can hear her telling Michael, “Reschedule my day. I think I’ll just go home after this.”
“Already done,” he answers, glaring at me as I follow them into the hall.
“I’ve got this, honey. We can talk later,” Dad says, and my jaw gapes. He’s dismissing me outright, not letting me help Ms. Crabtree or make sure she’s really feeling better.
My first big presentation . . . utter and complete failure. But at least I didn’t kill anyone . . . barely.
I force my head up, not willing to dissolve where someone might see me, and pick up the presentation binders. I stride down the hallway quickly, not slowing at all when Kevin calls out my name this time.
Fuck!
“Oh, my God, Courtney, I’m so sorry,” Jillian says as soon as I get back to my office. Her eyes look red too, though I’m guessing it’s from tears and not more flower allergies.
If I never see another flower again, it will be too soon, which sucks considering my sister’s passion and the approximately fifteen plants I have at home. Maybe I can talk Abi into switching over to fakes? Or cacti? No, too prickly. I’d probably end up sticking someone to death. Maybe myself?
Dramatic much, Courtney?
“It’s okay,” I mutter, heading for my office. I wonder if Dad’s going to fire me or just give me the look. Right now, I’m not sure which is worse.
Jillian follows me into my office, still distraught. “The change was on the fly this morning and I didn’t even think of it with everything else going on. I saw mums and thought ‘check’.”
“It’s okay, Jillian,” I say again. “I did the same thing. This isn’t on you or Abi. It’s on me. Every bit of that presentation was my responsibility. I fucked up.”
“I understand if I’m fired . . .” Jillian starts again, trying bravely to hold her composure, but it’s too much and her face crumbles. She pushes her glasses up onto her head and pulls a handkerchief from her cleavage. Dabbing at her eyes, she murmurs, “Sorry. So sorry.”
“You’re not fired,” I tell her sternly. “But I might be. It’s my fault, my fuckup. Seriously.”
Jillian swallows back her tears and wipes at her cheeks. “No, w
e’re not going out like this. I promise we’ll make it up. What now?”
She rallies, ready for me to dish out orders like some four-star general, but I have no idea how to fix this.
What now . . . good question. I know Dad’s furious and disappointed. I could see that much in his eyes. It’s not that he expects us to win every proposal, but to lose because I nearly killed someone? That has to be a first.
“I don’t know yet. Can you give me a minute, please?”
Jillian eyes me warily. “Do you need anything? Coffee, scotch, a vending machine Reese’s?”
“God, no peanut butter!” I moan. “Just a moment to think this through.”
Jillian nods and closes the door softly. I count to five and then give in.
Tears come hot, burning behind my eyes. Trembles shiver through me at what could have happened due to my lack of diligence, at what I might still lose.
Slowly, the tears come less hard and fast, more of a sprinkling than a deluge as I run out of liquid in my body. With a few sniffles and a good nose blow, I try to pull myself together.
Fix this. You are Courtney fucking Andrews, and you don’t let anything get you down. Yes, this sucks ass, and not in the good way. But everything is fixable.
I look at the presentation binder, disappointed that I didn’t send one with Ms. Crabtree. Maybe when she’s feeling better, she could look through it again?
I snap my fingers. That’s what I’ll do—send a heartfelt apology letter with a bottle of good wine and the presentation with a note that I would be happy to address any questions she has. I scribble a Post-It note, reminding myself to read the contract again and make sure that Ms. Crabtree can have wine. And Post-It notes, and ink, and everything else.
My phone buzzes. It’s Jillian. “Sorry to interrupt your mental breakdown, Court, but Mr. Andrews would like to see you. Now.”
My Big Fat Fake Engagement Page 7
