Intercepted
“One for me, one for you.” Her jaw drops, and I know she’s going to argue, so I continue before she starts. “No. I want my grilled cheese and if you tried to take half, I was liable to stab your hand with my fork. And since Courtney already gets mad at me for the scenes I don’t cause, I can’t imagine she’d be thrilled with silverware assault. But I ordered it, not you, so the calories still don’t count.”
With the last statement, the fight she was about to put up flees. She presses her lips together, nodding her head and clearly wishing I would’ve swapped the tomato soup for sweet potato fries.
Oh well, still better than dry lettuce.
As soon as the waiter walks away, Courtney pulls the glitter-covered gavel out of her extra large, extra ugly Louis Vuitton bag and starts the meeting.
“So glad everyone could saddle up and gallop on over here for the meeting today.” She says the same joke at the start of every meeting. It’s not funny the first time you hear it and plain obnoxious the twentieth. The giggles coming from the women around me is proof of the fakeness I already suspected. “I talked to all of the vendors this morning, and they told me everyone had their fittings, so thank you. Everyone’s outfits are ready for the fashion show.” Her gaze cuts to me. “Except you, Marlee. They said they should have something in your . . . size soon.”
Already? Really? Usually she waits until after the food arrives before she starts throwing jabs.
Chris and I went to some little boutique downtown yesterday morning for our fitting. Courtney told the people I was a size fourteen (I’m an eight), and they were left scrambling to get something together for me. They had Chris stuck in a full-on red leather suit with a red turtleneck underneath it. It was absolutely ridiculous and even more so when Chris walked out of the dressing room looking like a black Zoolander. He was so into himself in the mirror, he didn’t even realize I didn’t try anything on until I told him in the car. The shop said they’d have something for me at the show, but I was hoping they wouldn’t.
“Thanks for letting me know.” My smile is genuine, and my words have the perfect amount of sugar dusting them for none of the women to pick up on my secret desire to slap the smugness off of Courtney’s face.
“Anytime.” She smiles at me . . . or at least I think she does. She’s gone a little overboard with the Botox over the years. I never realized what a vital part the forehead plays in reading emotions before being around some of these women. “I did hear from some of the other guys who may be bringing dates, and I’ve made it so the stores will bring extra racks in case girlfriends would like to participate.”
Courtney says “girlfriend” like a four letter word. Every time it comes out of her mouth, I envision a battery splitting open and its acid soaking everything surrounding it. It’s equal parts fascinating (because I’m pretty sure at some point she was Kevin’s girlfriend) and annoying (because I’m pretty sure at some point she was Kevin’s girlfriend). The hypocrisy is strong with this one.
“Why can’t we just make this one event about us?” Julie, a lineman’s wife, asks.
“I’m sorry, Julie, but I didn’t see your hand. You know the rules on speaking without being addressed.”
Dammit.
I really don’t like Courtney, but I can’t lie, when it’s not me? The pleasure I find in watching her reprimand grown-ass women is endless.
“Sorry,” Julie says meekly, melting into her chair.
“It’s fine.” Courtney says what I guess only I find to be obvious. “We just have to abide by the rules or all we’d be doing is lunching together.”
My eyes go wide as I look around the table of women getting ready to eat lunch. I open my mouth to point it out, but before I can get the words out, Naomi’s vicelike grip is squeezing my thigh and trapping the words in my throat.
Killjoy.
“Everything for the event looks so great. Amber has picked beautiful floral arrangements. I went to the final tasting last night and it’s all delish, and Marlee did a good job with the graphics,” Courtney continues, closing the door for me to crack a joke and at the same time, opening another. Because that forced and reluctant compliment she just paid me? It’s the reason I volunteer to help with our events. They always say you get more from giving than receiving, and watching Courtney fidget and mumble her way through saying something nice about me?
#Priceless
“It’s my pleasure, Court.” I know she wasn’t giving me an opening to talk, but I’ll risk getting scolded like Julie. It’s too good of an opportunity to pass up. “Anytime you need anything, Court, I’m here for you.” She shakes her head and opens her mouth, but before the words come out, I interject one more time. “No. I’m serious, Court. Anything for the Lady Mustangs.”
You know how at Chick-Fil-A they’re required to say “my pleasure” every time you tell them thank you? So you say thank you as many times as possible just to hear them say “my pleasure”? No? Well, it’s a thing. Trust me.
Anyways, it’s pretty much the same concept with calling Courtney “Court.” Except she doesn’t say “my pleasure.” Instead, her eyes reduce to little slits and her body changes from too-much-tanner orange to forgot-sunscreen-at-the-beach red. It’s the purest form of entertainment, and it never gets old.
“Thank you, Marlee.” Courtney grinds the words out. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good to hear . . . Court.”
Two thank-yous in one meeting?
Best. Day. Ever.
* * *
• • •
TOWARD THE END of the meeting, my phone starts buzzing with unread emails. Hiding my phone under the table and trying to read them without bending my neck, I see they’re from Lauren, a client I’m in the middle of working with.
Now to some bigwig design companies, Lauren’s site might not be a top priority. But as a small business, all of my clients are high priority. Plus, I shop at Nordstrom—I know what good customer service looks like. I’ll be damned if my clients have anything less than a great experience working with me.
We’ve been running a soft launch on her site (which looks amazing, by the way) for two or three days now and it came to her attention that her customers aren’t getting their confirmations, therefore making it impossible to log in and complete their orders. By the sheer number of emails she’s sent over a ten-minute period, it’s easy to see she’s panicking.
Without uttering a single word, I slide money on the table, give Naomi’s shoulder a quick squeeze, and make my exit. I know the wrath of Courtney will fall upon me soon, but I don’t care. Work is work and not even she could distract from that.
The meetings are never far from our gated community, so the drive home passes quickly. I park my car on the custom pavement tile driveway (because that wasn’t a waste of money), grab my computer from the kitchen, where I left it last night, and make the trek through the marble lined hallways until I reach my office. Except when I sit down and open my computer, I’m met with a background that isn’t mine.
Chris and I have the same laptop model, so I’m usually careful about putting it away. But I guess after a certain quarterback threw me a certain necklace, hinting he remembered a certain night together, I totally forgot, and I left mine on the kitchen counter, where Chris usually leaves his.