The Next Best Thing (6 page)

Not a minute later, Sean chuckled as if it were nothing more than a big misunderstanding. “Look, I apologize for all that,” he said. “Can we start over?”

I looked at him through narrow eyes, not exactly sure where this weird sonofabitch was coming from.

“Hi, I'm Sean,” he said, offering a handshake.

“Tori…” I replied, shaking his hand reluctantly.

When Sean said “start over” he wasn't kidding. For the next forty minutes, I was forced to feign interest as he told me his life's story from start to present.

I learned all about his whorish mother and abusive step-father. The five-year bid he served in the early '90s “on some bullshit.” The nervous breakdown (brought on by his recent, nasty divorce), his finances (which are in bad shape because of the divorce), and his bitch of an ex-wife (who hasn't let him see the kids in almost a year because of the restraining order).

Blahdy Blah Blah…

During the time Sean was rambling on and on, he kept ordering and downing drink, after drink, after drink.

Now, I'm all for people having a good time, but three Budweisers and four double shots of Hennessey in less than an hour is a bit much.

And the more alcohol Sean consumed, the more he talked.

The more he talked, the more agitated he seemed to get.

“So, what is it that you do again?” I asked, trying to steer the conversation in a lighter direction.

Sean glared at me as if he resented the question, and said, “I was in sales, but I'm transitioning at the moment.”

“Transitioning? That's just a fancy way of saying you're unemployed, right?”

I didn't mean anything by it. It was just an innocent remark to keep the conversation going, but Sean took such great offense that he stomped off to the restroom without even excusing himself from the table.

Oh. My. God.

I was sitting at the table by myself wondering if I was caught up in the
Twilight Zone
or
The Matrix
, when Erin called on my cell phone with a question about the Carousel of Hope benefit next month. Right in the middle of telling Erin to contact the caterer to finalize the gourmet hors d'oeuvres selection, Sean came back from the restroom with a pee-pee track down the front of his pants. His fly was also unzipped, exposing the fact that he was not wearing boxers or briefs.

I couldn't help it. I burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

“What in the world is going on with you?” Erin asked, over the phone.

It took almost a full minute for me to catch my breath, and I had to struggle to say, “I'll call you later…”

After ending the call, I looked over at Sean, who was staring at me with crazy all in his eyes.

It was a look somewhere between excitement and agitation, which confirmed for me that this man was indeed a couple electric shock treatments away from having a full deck.

“That is so goddamn rude,” he said with cold disdain. “You could at least wait until we part ways before you start bad-mouthing me to your fucking friends.”

“Wait a minute now,” I said, keeping my voice low so that Sean would take the hint and do the same. “That phone call wasn't even about you. Actually I was laughing because—”

“You know, you independent, highfalutin broads are all the same.” He sneered. “Always putting a brother down instead of trying to lift him up.”

I had no idea how to respond to that.

What do you say to a profoundly unstable man while he's on an alcohol-fueled tirade?

“I wasn't putting you down,” was all I could think of, but Sean was so far gone, he just kept babbling as if he hadn't heard me.

“…A man makes a few coins less than you do, and he ain't shit in your eyes. He's dispensable. And that attitude right there is why the majority of y'all are gonna die single, and why you bitches don't have no one to cuddle up to at night besides your goddamn vibrators.”

I was offended on so many levels. First of all, I have never even owned a vibrator. Second, this mother-skunk just called me the b-word.

“Wait a minute, who are you calling a
bitch
?” I exploded, with Queen Latifah ferocity. “You
must
be off your fucking meds!”

The noise level in the room went down several notches as people turned to watch the unfolding ghetto drama.

“As a matter of fact, I am off my meds…” Sean said sarcastically. “
Bitch!
”

That was it. I was so done.

After emptying what was left of my drink on top of Sean's head, all eyes were on me as I grabbed my purse and headed for the exit.

Refusing for my exit to be viewed as a walk of shame, I pretended I was on a catwalk and treated the gawkers to my best Naomi Campbell impression: Chin up, with a my-shit-don't-stink strut, and a wry, kiss-my-ass smile.

Just inches from the door, I was horrified to see Roland's brother, Gary, and his wife, Carlotta, sitting at a table near the entrance.

Shit!

I got to keep the wine collection, the red leather Natuzzi living room group, the contemporary art collection, the sixty-inch high-definition plasma TV, and even the state-of-the-art entertainment system, but what I did not get to keep was the handful of Roland's relatives that I had grown to love. Like his grandparents, Aunt Jean, Uncle Pee-Wee, and sister-in-law Carlotta.

We were all close at one time, but I have not seen or heard from any of them since everything went down, which is understandable.

With any breakup, friends have to choose sides. And I'm not surprised Carlotta chose Roland. After all, they are still family. And to keep the peace she has to fall in line with the rest of the clan, who have suddenly taken to treating me as if I have the bird flu. Like
I'm
the one to blame for this whole sordid mess.

Now here my ex-future-in-laws were, having a huge laugh at my expense.

That's just fucking great.
It might as well have been Roland himself sitting up at that table because I had no doubt they would go back and provide blow-by-blow details of this whole fiasco.

What to do?

I smiled and waved at Gary and Carlotta, and didn't even break my stride.

I left Union Station, and sped south on Main Street like a demon was on my tail. I didn't think Sean was following me, I just wanted to put as much distance between him and me as possible.

Congratu-fucking-lations, Tori! You are officially back out there.

How ironic was it that my first date in many years, turned out to be
the worst
date I have ever had in my life?

I just hoped this was not a forewarning of what was to come.

This is what Sean's profile would say if he had written the whole truth about himself.

I felt robbed. Like somebody owed me an hour of my life back.

On the way home, I called Yvette. “Good looking out,” I said sarcastically, when she answered the phone.

I relayed the whole ordeal, which prompted Yvette to suddenly remember that Sean may have, kinda sorta been a
little
bit bipolar back in the day.

“But I thought he'd gotten over that,” she said in her own defense.

“Yvette, being bipolar is not something you get over like a fucking cold!” I said through clenched teeth.

“So y'all going out again?” Yvette asked.

“What? Girl…bye!” I said, and hung up the phone in her face.

 

Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

FRIDAY

And the lessons for today are:

 

1) Internet dating be damned! No matter how good their profile sounds

2) Yvette's taste in men absolutely cannot be trusted

What was I thinking, allowing Yvette to choose a man for me when she can't even find a decent man for herself?

After all, this is a woman who is so desperately seeking a husband that she's giving multiple dates to guys who should never have even gotten her phone number in the first place.

Damn it!

If things had worked out as planned, I would just be returning from my honeymoon in Aruba; tan, well-rested, and possibly pregnant. Instead, I'm here dealing with an alligator-in-ninety-degree-heat wearing, schizophrenic bozo that can't even piss straight.

Well, starting off this badly means things can only get better from here. They damn sure can't get any worse.

At least I hope not.

My team arrived at the Max Mara boutique at six o'clock this morning to get things ready for the grand opening scheduled for later this afternoon.

Event days are the culmination of months, and sometimes a year or more, of hard work and preparation. These days are what I live for, because it is so rewarding to see the client's fantasies come to life.

The headaches started right away.

The first mishap of the day came when two low-level members of the design team, broke one of the glass display cases while moving it during the setup.

“I'll take care of it,” I sighed.

Three hours and many phone calls later, I was finally able to locate a glass company who could rush right over and replace the broken glass display case before the event started.

Next, I had to contend with Erin, who was having a major meltdown and could not focus on the tasks at hand. Apparently, she went home last night to find that her boyfriend John had just upped and hightailed it back to Omaha, taking the cat and most of her furniture along with him.

Erin wasn't the only one having problems at home, either. Demetrius, our in-house florist, had been on the phone arguing with his life partner, Burt, for half the day, but at least he was getting his work done, which was more than I could say for Erin.

“It's exactly like that old Gladys Knight song…” Erin sobbed, to no one in particular.

“Which one?” Steve, the lighting guy asked from across the room.

“The one where the guy couldn't make it in the big city and he had to go back to his old life with his tail tucked between his legs,” Erin said, just standing around, not even pretending to be working.

“Oh, you mean “Midnight Train to Georgia?” asked Inez, a member of the design team.

“Yeah, that's it. I mean, there is absolutely nothing in Omaha, which is why we moved to Kansas City in the first place,” Erin said. “What kind of life is he going to have now?”

Finally, I had to pull Erin's ditzy ass aside and remind her that this was not the time or place for her personal issues. “Erin, do you remember that conversation we had a while back, about emotions in the workplace, and what's appropriate and what's not?” I asked.

“Yes…” she said, wiping her tears with the back of her hand.

“So let's concentrate on kicking ass with this event,” I said. “And afterwards we can go out for drinks and talk about John, okay?”

Erin sniveled, nodded, and got to work.

Jeez…

My specialty is behind-the-scenes chaos management.

Although I do know a few design tricks, Martha Stewart and B. Smith have nothing to worry about as far as I am concerned, because decorating is not my forte.

For years, I have worked hard on enhancing my skills in that area, but I have come to accept that I am not the type of event planner who can take two pieces of wood, some string, and a can of spray paint and turn them into something fabulous and beautiful. That is just not what I do.

But when push comes to shove, I can create stunning centerpieces, hot-glue appliqués, and dress a beautiful dinner table with the best of them. But that is where it stops. And that's okay, because at SWE we have design specialists for all of that—let them worry about décor.

I do the detail work of putting the whole thing together, and once it's game time I oversee everybody. Making sure everyone is on track, on target, and on time. I am the conductor in this zany orchestra filled with florists, wait staff, bartenders, electricians, lighting people, caterers, production people, and the list goes on and on. Depending upon the size of the event, I manage a cast of hundreds, and sometimes thousands.

I have been called a demanding, by the book, high-strung perfectionist, but I really don't see that as a negative. Usually, the only people who feel that way about me are the ones who fail to hold up their end of the bargain.

Despite the rocky start earlier in the day, the grand opening started on time.

I had instructed the production team to build an elevated catwalk right in the middle of the store, facing the front door, so window shoppers and passersby could see the goings-on inside. And what was going on inside, was a hot fashion show featuring killer summer fashions worn by gorgeous, ninety-eight-pound models strutting their stuff to hits like Jay-Z's “Change Clothes and Go” and “Beautiful” by Snoop Dogg and Pharrell.

The energy was high, and the cash registers were ringing.

Throughout all the activity, I had my eye on a woman who I instinctively knew was going to be trouble from the minute she walked in wearing generic jeans, a nondescript blouse, Payless shoes, and a platinum blonde weave that contrasted sharply with her dark skin.

Erin was outside greeting customers and working the guest list, but somehow she let this one slip through.

Gate-crashers and freeloaders are the pests at just about every event, and I know one when I see one. Sort of like roaches.

I went outside to school Erin on her mistake. “You see that?” I said, pointing the woman out to Erin. “That's what you call a liability. Just watch her for a minute.”

Erin and I both watched from the storefront window, as Blondie pretended to shop for about two minutes, then went right to the food station where she grabbed two plates and piled them both high with gourmet hors d'oeuvres. After that, she went over and parked her behind at the bar where she started guzzling watermelon martinis like they were going out of style.

“See what I'm talking about?” I said to Erin. “Every cocktail and every single hors d'oeuvre has a monetary value. Nothing personal, I'm sure she's a nice woman, but if she consumes a hundred dollars' worth of food and drink and doesn't buy anything, what does that make her?”

“A liability,” Erin said.

“Right! That's why you have to learn how to read people when you're working the door,” I said. “Now what you should have said was
Sorry ma'am, this is a private event, invitation only. Please come back tomorrow when the store is open to the public.
”

“Got it,” Erin said, sounding disappointed that she had failed at yet another simple task.

I turned on my heels and went back inside Max Mara's, where Blondie was now causing a ruckus.

“Where mine at?” she shouted at a passing sales clerk, who looked terrified and unsure of how to handle the situation. I went over to help out.

“What seems to be the problem, ma'am?” I asked pleasantly.

“The problem is, all these other heifers in here walking around with these cute little bags full of goodies. Where mine at?” Blondie said, sucking food out of her teeth.

“Ma'am, the gift bags come with a minimum seventy-five dollar purchase,” I said quietly. “Now, if you want one, you can start by paying for that.”

A red silk blouse was not so discreetly tucked into Blondie's fake Louis Vuitton Murakami bag.

“How you know that ain't mine?” she snapped.

“Because the tag is sticking out for all to see, and it says Max Mara, one hundred and twenty-five dollars,” I said.

“I can't stand bitches like you,” said Blondie, nostrils flaring. “What the hell difference does it make to you, anyway? It ain't like it's your damn store!”

“It is for the day. And I understand the anger, sweetheart,” I said with great sympathy. “But listen, why don't you click your heels two times and you just might find yourself back in Walmart. Okay?”

“Fuck you, bitch!” Blondie tossed the shirt in my face, and then stormed out of the boutique as if someone had done her wrong.

I love my job.

 

It took three hours for my team and me to put the Max Mara boutique back in its normal order. When we were done, we all went out for cocktails at Tomfooleries, our usual watering hole.

“I wanna propose a toast to Tori,” said Inez from the design department. “The best senior event coordinator Sophie Wilkerson Events will
ever
see!”

“Hear, hear!” they all said in unison.

“Well, I just want to thank you guys for all of your hard work,” I said. “Your creativity and input is invaluable to me in putting these things together, and I appreciated each and every one of you.”

“Awww, we love you too!” Steve teased, which got a big laugh.

We were all seated around a large table. Erin was to my left, and had been talking my ear off for the last twenty minutes about John, her nutcase of an ex-boyfriend who, truthfully, she should be glad packed up and left.

“I mean, hopefully it's like Katherine Hepburn said in her A&E biography,” Erin droned on. “‘I saw you could be happy, successful and loved without a husband.'”

“Yeah, well that is easy to say when you're being loved by someone else's husband.”

“What do you mean?”

“The love of her life, Spencer Tracy, was a married man.”

“He was?” The astonished look on Erin's face reminded me of the time I broke Junior's heart by telling him the Easter Bunny did not exist.

“Yeah, sweetie, he was.” I patted her hand, hoping that I looked genuinely sympathetic. “And I know exactly what you're going through, but the thing is, you simply cannot dwell on it. The best thing to do is completely immerse yourself into something positive, and one of these days you'll wake up and say: John who?”

“That's right!” Erin said, suddenly optimistic. “I mean, look at you.”

Yeah, look at me. Still faking it until I make it.

Colin, my caterer, came over and sat on the other side of me, putting an end to that conversation. Thank God.

“Excuse me, ladies, but did we kick ass today, or did we kick ass?” Colin asked, helping himself to my bacon cheddar-cheese fries.

I raised my glass in a toast. “As always, the food was the star of the show,” I said.

“Yeah, great job, Colin,” said Erin.

“A few appetizers are no big deal,” he said modestly. “But getting to work with you, now, that's the icing on the cake for me.”

“Well, I appreciate that,” I said. “But you know I just love you and your staff to death. You guys make my job so much easier.”

Colin and I have had a great working relationship for years, and he is a terrific guy who has come through for me in a pinch, time and time again.

In fact, Colin created the menu for the wedding fiasco, and was remarkably accommodating when things changed at the last minute. He certainly did not have to repack everything and send it all over to my place at the twelfth hour, but that is what makes him one of the most phenomenal chefs in the business. One who, at that moment, was flirting with me with no shame whatsoever.

Colin kept brushing his hand across my knee, leaning in extremely close, and staring into my eyes.

I have to admit that I have always found Colin attractive. A man who cooks well has always been a serious turn-on for me, and it doesn't hurt that he reminds me of Tupac with those gorgeous lashes and soulful eyes.

“Would it be too forward of me to ask to come up to your place tonight?” Colin asked softly in my ear.

“For?” I asked, being coy.

He licked his lips like L. L., and said, “My serving platters and chafing dishes.”

I blinked, having no idea what he was talking about. Then I remembered. “Oh! From the day of—okay!”

Colin grinned at me, and the look on his face read
Gotcha!
when actually, the joke was on him.

Unfortunately, my guests took most of his serving platters and chafing dishes home after the packing party, and not one person has bothered to return them. Luckily, though, I still had a few of them to give back. I think.

 

I left the bar a full fifteen minutes before Colin, so as not to arouse suspicions of impropriety among my co-workers. I didn't plan on any hanky-panky with Colin, but I also didn't want to provide ammunition for someone to later be able to use against me. That is exactly how careers and reputations get ruined.

“Nice place,” Colin said, examining my collection of hand-carved African statues that adorn the mantle over the fireplace.

“Thanks,” I said, heading into the kitchen to search for the few things of his that I still had left.

It took awhile, but all I could manage to round up were three stainless steel platters, four chafing dishes, and the Sterno units that go with them. Oh, and about eight serving tongs.

Pitiful, considering that Colin had brought over at least fifty of each.

I was in the kitchen trying to formulate just how to break the news, when Colin crept up behind me and grabbed a handful of my ass.

Before I could even utter a word in protest, he braced his hands on the counter and started smothering the back of my neck with full, sensual kisses. I made a feeble attempt to move away, but Colin had me hemmed up against the counter so I couldn't get far even if I really wanted to, which I didn't, because it felt so damn good that my knees were buckling.