the idea for the ad.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well.” She squinted at the poster. “The name of the company is Bags to Riches, not BTR.”
“Right,” I said. “Well, that’s another thing. I think Bags to Riches is a little … off. See, it implies that someone’s getting rich off this, and while I’m sure that’s quite true—” everyone but Muriel laughed “—I think we should abbreviate.”
“I doubt my father will go for that,” Muriel said, scribbling something in a notebook. “Moving on, Callie, do you have anything else?”
I glanced at Mark, who was looking at the surface of the table. “Yes, I do, Muriel,” I said. “Female demographic.” I moved to the next comp, something I was quite proud of. It was a stock photo of a woman rock climbing somewhere in Bryce Canyon, dangling from a precipice, teeth gritted in concentration, dripping with sweat. “Redefining ‘bag lady.’ BTR Outerwear.”
“Oh, that’s fantastic, Callie!” Pete cheered.
Mark nodded approvingly. “Bull’s-eye,” he murmured.
I smiled. “Now, I’m not sure how much we can afford, but I’d love to use a couple of celebs who champion the environment—Leonardo DiCaprio, for example.”
“Why would we use him? Does he hike?” Muriel asked.
I paused. Looked at Mark again, who was suddenly engrossed in doodling. Glanced at Damien, whose eyes were very wide. “Well, if we get a well-known face, especially one associated with a cause, we brand BTR—”
“Bags to Riches,” she corrected.
“Right.” I paused. “Okay, well … people want to be like celebrities, right? That’s why J. Crew sells out of whatever Michelle Obama’s wearing.”
“J. Crew is not our competitor, Callie,” Muriel said condescendingly. Leila winced.
“I know that,” I said. “What I mean is, the First Lady has influence. Which is true in any ad campaign that uses celebrities, whether they’re hawking milk or Nikes. So if we had Leo in a BTR ad, I’m sure we’d see a bump in sales.”
“Hmm,” Muriel said. “Interesting.”
No one made eye contact. This was Advertising 101. I glanced at Mark, who was looking at Muriel with a very tender expression. He leaned over and placed his hand over hers.
“It’s a lot to take in,” he said. “Well, this has been great. Thanks, Callie. We’ll get back to you and talk about next steps. Oh, and by the way, the BTR people are coming out later this week. We’ll be doing an event on Friday. Participation mandatory.”
“What kind of event?” Damien asked, immediately suspicious.
“A little hike so Charles can see the beauty of a Vermont sunset,” Mark said, ignoring Damien’s stricken expression. “Drinks and dinner afterward.”
JUST BEFORE LUNCH, Fleur slipped into my office and closed the door. “What the fuck-all was Mark thinking?” she hissed. “Yeah, he’s shagging Muriel, but did he have to hire her? She doesn’t know a bloody thing!” She flopped onto my couch.
The thing about Fleur was that when she was truly upset, her accent slipped, something she was completely unaware of. Her accent was in full force now. I suspected she wanted gossip.
“It’s Mark’s company,” I said calmly, turning away from my computer. “And I’m sure Muriel will …” I paused. “Well, she’ll catch on. Obviously, her dad wants her on this account.”
“Callie,” Fleur whispered. “I’ve got much more experience than Muriel.” Accent gone, revealing shades of New York. The truth came out. “Just because my father doesn’t own the company doesn’t mean I should have to take orders from that frigid and ignorant bitch.”
“Listen,” I said quietly, “don’t go there. Just do your job well and trust that Mark will work things out.”
“She’s making more than me. More than you, too, as a matter of fact. Karen told me.”
“Karen shouldn’t have—”
“All right, all right, she didn’t tell me. I just happened to see some paperwork when I was in there for something else.” She sighed. “Figured you should know. You and Mark were … well. Whatever.”
The accent was back. I glanced at my watch. “I have to run, Fleur. I’m sorry. I’m meeting someone for lunch.”
“Oh, right!” she said. “The plan!”
“What plan?” I asked, closing a file on my computer.
“The plan to make Mark green with envy!” she whispered gleefully.
“Oh, I’m not really going—”
“Now, now, no need to explain! I’ll walk you out.”
Sighing—Fleur could be a bit much—I grabbed my bag and we walked into the foyer, where Mark was signing something for Damien. “Have fun on your date!” Fleur called loudly as I pulled open the door to leave. Mark and Damien looked up.
“You’re going on a date?” Damien asked, as shocked as if I’d just announced I was getting a sex change.
I blushed. “Well, I’m just meeting a … a friend, that’s all. For a quick lunch.”
Mark’s eyes were … knowing. Smiling, too, the type of smile a man uses when a woman … when he … ah, shit, I was losing my train of thought. His eyes were warm, as if we shared a secret, and his generous mouth pulled up at one corner. For a second I—
“How thrilling,” Damien drawled. “Toodles.”
“Have fun,” Mark said. His eyes wandered down to my legs, and when he looked up again, he gave me a little wink, and my dopey heart leaped.
“See you in a bit,” I said. Get over him, Mrs. Obama said. I’m trying, I answered silently.
Doug336 and I were meeting at Toasted & Roasted, one of the three restaurants in our fair city. It was a little café known mostly for its coffee, the usual endless variety of lattes, mochaccinos and chais, but it also served soup and sandwiches for lunch. It was a pretty space with brick walls and lots of plants, the old tile floor intricately patterned. “Hey, Callie,” the owner called as I came in.
“Hi, Guy,” I answered. “What’s good today?”
“Got some nice hot pastrami and Swiss on rye,” he said. “Also a Philly cheese steak special.”
Both sounded fantastic … but both were dangerous date foods, requiring much chewing and many napkins. They were really more of an “alone” type of food, where you could get grease on your chin and really enjoy. First impressions were so important, though, and I didn’t want Doug336 to have a mental image of me with a cheesy wad of steak on my bosom. “I guess I’ll have a cup of the soup,” I said regretfully.
“Coming up,” Guy answered cheerfully.
At that moment, the door to Toasted & Roasted opened, and in came my mother. And Louis. Upon sighting me, Louis’s pale face lit up with creepy delight.
“Well, well, well,” he said. “Someone looks good enough to eat.”
“Hi, Mom!” I said brightly, giving my mother a kiss and making sure she stood between myself and Voldemort there. “Hi, Louis.”
“Hello, honey, fancy running into you. And you do look nice. Louis is right.” A Grinchy grin spread across Louis’s face, and he stepped a little closer to me. Oh, God. He’d obviously come right from work.
“Louis, you’re … you still have your gloves on,” I said, swallowing against the images that leaped with unfortunate clarity into my brain.