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On Monday morning,I’m back at work, sitting in an early morning team meeting. Olivia is briefing us on a new event we’ll be coordinating—the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Beckett School in Hillsborough. The Beckett School is one of the most prestigious academies for boys—impossible to get into, and yet an education at Beckett ensures lifelong success, if not due to personal achievement, then due to the extremely loyal network of alumni.
Olivia is enthusiastic. Even though her African-American Georgia-born father, Terrell Dempsey, would never have been allowed within a hundred feet of socially restrictive Beckett, Olivia embraces old money. But to be fair, she also embraces new money. To Olivia, money is opportunity.
Olivia is one of the reasons City Events is so successful. Olivia isn’t just an event planner; Olivia is the company’s top account executive. She’s not afraid to go after business, not afraid to ask for what she wants. She’s smart. Tough. Teflon coated. She’s learned to separate herself from her work, learned that rejection isn’t personal, and that just because someone says no now, it doesn’t mean they’ll say no later.
I wish I could be smart like that. Not to mention a lot more Teflon. I still can’t say what I want, what I need. I don’t ask. Instead I’ve hoped that being good, being just, being fair would reward me.
I’m not so sure anymore.
“How did you get the account?” Sara, the fourth person on Olivia’s team, asks, Olivia’s team consisting of Olivia, Josh, Sara, and me.
Olivia nods at Josh. “Josh’s connections.”
We all look at Josh. He shifts uncomfortably. “My dad went there,” he said after a moment.
“Josh did, too.” Olivia’s sitting on the edge of her desk, and we’re facing her like kids in a schoolroom. “He’s third generation.”
We’re all still staring at Josh. Tuition to Beckett is around seventeen thousand a year. And we’re all thinking approximately the same thing: does that mean Josh’s family is loaded? And if so, why is Josh working here? A job at City Events is creative and diverse, but it doesn’t pay. You don’t really start making anything until you’re a director, like Olivia or Tessa.
Speaking of Tessa, I saw her summon her staff together earlier this morning for their weekly meeting, and I prayed she’d had a brainstorm over the weekend about how to save the ailing Leather & Lace Ball. Somebody needs to save the ball—
“Holly?”
The sharp edge in Olivia’s voice brings me back, and from the expectant faces facing me, I know I’ve missed whatever they’ve been discussing.
“You have anything to contribute?” Olivia asks, and as I look at them—blonde, pixielike Sara; silent, gender-neutral Josh; vivacious, alluring Olivia—I see us all fast-forwarded into the future; I see a story that hasn’t yet been written, but the ending is the same. We all will age. We’ll all get sick. None of us shall live forever.
And I know I must do something about the Leather & Lace Ball. Not because I’m heroic, but because I’m afraid. When I’m ill and dying, preferably when I’moldand ill and dying, I don’t want to be alone. I hope someone will be there for me the way David was there for Tony.
“I’m good,” I say, and I am, because I know I’m going to get involved with the ball, and I know it must be kept quiet. Olivia and Tessa are at odds lately, and I don’t know why, but I’m not going to go there. This isn’t about Olivia or Tessa. It’s not even about David. It’s just me.
Back at my desk, I get on the phone, call the Beckett School’s administrative office to request their alumni database. Planning an anniversary celebration for a school is a lot like planning a reunion. Putting on the actual event is easy. No one needs to be sold on the school. It’s more a matter of letting everyone know the where and when, and the more advance notice, the better.
Olivia and Sara head out at lunchtime for an appointment with the Palace Hotel off Union Square. Sara was in charge of a wedding being held at the Palace Hotel on Valentine’s Day, but the wedding, although still six and a half months away, is way over budget, and the father of the bride is panicking, and the bride is covered in hives, and Olivia is stepping in to see if she can’t get a handle on the costs before the bride’s hives turn into full-fledged eczema.
With Sara and Olivia gone, I’ve got a good opportunity to speak with Tessa. She’s in her own office—she and Olivia and David having the only private offices with doors and windows—and I approach, knock gingerly on her open door.
She looks up, her red hair cut in a spiky bob, her short bangs dyed a magenta hue, and as she looks up, she runs one hand wildly through the spikes. “Yeah?”
She knows I work for the other team.
“Do you have a minute?”
“No, actually.” She folds her arms in front of her, and she looks at me long and level. “Besides, your director won’t want you in here.”
“She’s not here.”
“I’m not interested in any complaints ’bout her.”
“I’m not here to complain. I love working with Olivia.”
“Then…?”
Tessa makes me feel like a beetle-bug, and I’m afraid she’s going to jump up and squish me any second. “I wanted to offer you my help.”
“I don’t need help.”
“David says—”
