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Sadly, the sledgehammer isn’t my go-to for a reason.
The pinched look dissipates, replaced by one of haughty derision.
“Is that so? Well, if I had a dollar for every hair-brained assistant to some second-string mogul who came to me demanding a better seat, I’d have enough cash to spend the rest of my life sunbathing in the Canary Islands. So I will tell you what I tell all of them — the seating chart is final. And, not that it’s any of your business, but I’ve just taken an offer to organize the Templeton Conference in July. So I think I’ll be fine despite your best efforts.”
“Sloane Westing arranged the seating herself. Over a week ago,” I say. “It’s been altered. So apparently it’s not that set in stone.”
“If that’s true, she can make a complaint.”
Miranda turns away from me sharply, indicating with her back that the conversation is over, and begins directing the mob of people who lined up behind her as we talked.
This is unideal. In a perfect world, I would call Ms. Westing on the phone and she’d rain holy hell across the conference until the problem is fixed, knowing all the while that I am perfectly capable and deserving of her respect. Although I suppose if I were as capable as I’d like to be, I would have this problem fixed already. And have snagged another coffee.
Okay, Liz. Compartmentalize.
I leave the conference room quickly, but not in defeat. Not yet.
On a whim, I Google who’s in charge of the Templeton Conference this year. Unsurprisingly, it’s Paul Morgan. That, apparently, was Miranda’s price for fucking up the seating chart. I hope it was worth it because she just made an enemy, if not a powerful one at the very least a crafty one.
A plan forms instantly. Switch the placement cards. That wouldn’t be too difficult, right? There’s too much going on in the room for Miranda to double-check everything. It would probably go unnoticed.
But wait. It wouldn’t just be the placement cards. It’d have to be the board on the stage too. I’ve worked enough conferences to know how it works: unlike what Miranda said, seating charts are very much in flux all the way up until zero hour. Then, right before the doors open, the seating attendants make their list off the master board.
I sneak a peek back into the conference room. The stage is still chaos, but not enough for me to take a step onto it without Miranda pouncing on me immediately. I need to distract her. But how…
Again the answer comes directly to mind, but this time I try to ignore it. There has to be another way! I really do not want to ask Rhett to help me with anything, especially in a plan that involves acknowledging his attractiveness. Besides, why would he even say yes? I look again at Miranda. Never mind. I can think of two big reasons.
Lacking a more appealing alternative and with the clock winding closer and closer to dinnertime, I shove my reservations aside and go off to find Rhett.
He’s not hard to find.
I hope to discover him brooding in the hotel bar, maybe reflecting on himself or his impending fate as a “normal person”.
Instead I find Rhett leaning against the bar, a rocks glass in one hand, a tit in the other. The tit is attached to a woman who is teetering on five-inch heels and crammed into a tight red dress. Two other women, similar in dress and beauty, giggle off to the side.
“It’s purely medical interest!” Rhett insists, which only makes them laugh harder. “You’re right. They do feel real.”
“Top dollar job,” the woman says proudly.
I have to admit, for a boob job, they do look very natural. This, however, does not change my disgust at Rhett.
“Ooo,” I say. “Can I feel?”
Rhett’s reaction is instantaneous and would be funny if I weren’t so annoyed. He straightens so quickly that the dark liquor in his glass sloshes over onto the woman’s red dress. She jumps back with a shriek. Rhett doesn’t even notice. He’s staring at me with a look that is both guilty and bewildered.
“Meeting the locals?” I ask. The women have moved down the bar and are pushing napkins on their friend while throwing scowls my way.
“They started talking to me,” he says defensively. Then he shakes his head and slouches back against the bar. “I don’t need to explain myself,” he says, almost to himself. His thick eyebrows contract and he takes a sip of his drink as if to do something. “Why do you care anyway?”
“I don’t care!” I exclaim, a bit too heatedly.
My obvious irritation is enough to bring that teasing smile back onto Rhett’s face.
“I don’t,” I insist. I search wildly for a reason why seeing Rhett surrounded by gorgeous women in a bar would make me incensed. I land on: “What if Marie Alencar walked in here and saw you feeling someone up? How would that look?”
He shrugs. “Maybe she’d like to get in line. She is getting divorced, after all.”
“Shut up,” I hiss, glancing around. I grab Rhett’s surprisingly thick forearm and drag him down the bar. “Are you actually insane?” I ask. “Nobody is supposed to know that and there are reporters everywhere. And ears!”
