The Frog Prince

Chapter Three

C hapter T hree

L ess than twelve hours later, I’m at my desk at City Events, preparing to work through my lunch hour because I always feel as though I’m a day late and a dollar short in the team meetings, when Aimee phones and then Olivia suddenly appears and is hovering over me.

“I thought you were going to the gym,” Olivia says, hands on hips. She’s wearing a silk turtleneck the same misty gray as her eyes, a minuscule black pleated skirt, dark hose, and high heels with pointy toes. They’re probably very fashionable and very expensive, but I couldn’t tell you what they are, because I buy most of my shoes at the Nordstrom Rack.

“It doesn’t look like I’m going to be able to break free after all,” I say, sitting back in my chair and running a hand through my hair. At least it’s clean today, not quite so flat. “There’s so much I need to do.”

“But the front desk has a guest pass waiting for you.”

“I’ll try to go after work.” I smile with more confidence than I feel. I don’t really care about going to the gym. I can always do push-ups and crunches in the privacy of my own home.

“We talked about this,” Olivia persists, and it’s true. We did discuss my going to the gym earlier this morning, and I’d agreed to try Olivia’s state-of-the-art fitness facility, but I don’t remember committing to a lunchtime workout.

“I’m still trying to get through to the appropriate writer at the Examiner and Chronicle .”

“Good luck. You’ll be trying all day.”

“Why?”

“The feature writers aren’t going to give you what you want. They’re not interested.” Olivia says it kindly, though. “You’ll discover soon enough that newspapers have their own agenda. And they always will.”

“But you were the one that wanted me to get the write-up in the first place for next year’s Kid Fest.”

“It was worth a try.”

“So why won’t anyone bite? Everybody loves kids.”

“Everybody has kids.” Olivia nods to the phone, where the hold light is blinking. “Who’s on the phone?”

I had totally forgotten about the call. “Aimee,” I say, reaching for the phone.

“What does she want?”

Aimee is Olivia’s friend, not mine. “I don’t know. She called just as you walked up.”

“Talk to her.” Olivia perches on the corner of my desk, interested and prepared to wait.

I lift the phone, brace myself, knowing that a couple of drinks with Aimee doesn’t make us pals. “Aimee? Sorry about that. Olivia needed to talk to me just as you rang.”

“Is she still there?” Aimee asks, drawling a little. Aimee’s a tall, blonde Texan, with Texas-size breasts (implants) and a great Dallas twang. Aimee uses her twang (and implants) the way Olivia uses her beauty.

“She is.”

“Tell her I’m working on your social life. That will get her off your back.”

I laugh. But Aimee’s serious. “Tell her,” Aimee insists.

But I don’t need to repeat what Aimee said; Olivia has heard for herself. “She’s setting you up?” Olivia asks.

“No.”

“Yes,” Aimee says.

Olivia lifts an eyebrow. “Anybody I know?”

“No,” I answer.’

“Yes,” Aimee says.

This is getting ridiculous. “I don’t need to be set up.”

“It’s not a setup,” Aimee soothes. “It’s just drinks.”

Not bothering even to hide her smile, Olivia rises, gives me a little pat on the shoulder. “Come see me when you’re through.” She stops, turns back to look at me. “And don’t forget the gym. I’ve got that trial membership all arranged for you, and it’s good for the next seven days. You can go every day.”

Great. I force a smile. “Thanks.”

Olivia leaves, and I put the phone back to my ear. “I’m sorry: Olivia’s added my personal life to her Day-Timer. It seems I’ve become part of her schedule.”

“She likes you.”

For a moment I don’t know what to say. It’s not sophisticated to be sentimental; it’s not hip or urban or anything remotely cool, but I can’t help the big lump blocking my throat. I really needed a job to be able to make the move to San Francisco, and City Events made my move possible. “Olivia’s a great person. I appreciate her taking a chance on me.”

“Honey, it wasn’t chance; it was pity. She knew if she didn’t hire you, no one else would.”

I open my mouth, drag in air, feel as if she’d given me a one-two punch in the gut when I least expected it.

“You had the worst-looking résumé she’d ever seen in her life,” Aimee continues blithely, and I can just picture her at her desk, inspecting her long, polished nails. They’re deep red.

At least they should be.

“But you small-town girls never think to put your money where you should. You should have had your resume professionally done. I bet you did it yourself, didn’t you?”

What is she talking about? I like my résumé. Yes, I did it myself, but laser-printed on great ivory paper with cool fonts (Garamond is a personal favorite), listing clearly my education and career objective. I know everything on my resume by heart: the college degree from University of California, Irvine, graduating with honors; the work experience my senior year in Irvine (that’s not including the summer I spent at Disneyland dressed up as Snow White); and then, after graduation, the temp work at the Fresno radio station, the temp work at the PBS station, the temp work at the Fresno Bee , and finally full-time work at Grady I’ll call you later.”

I do not want to give him my home number. I do not want to continue talking as if we’re old friends, but the meeting’s started, I’m terrible at fibbing, and I have to get off the phone.

I rattle off my number, hoping that perhaps he’ll write it down wrong, and say a hurried good-bye.

It’s not until I’m taking my place at the conference table that I realize I’ve just accepted—even if inadvertently—my first date in two years.

Two years since I went out with a man who wasn’t Jean-Marc.

Eighteen months since I had sex.

I’m in worse shape than I thought.

But David’s frothing at the mouth, and it takes me all of five seconds to realize this is not a good meeting; and all thoughts of Tom and drinks and the fact that I’ve just given my phone number to a man I know very little about fade from mind.

Did I already say this was not a good meeting? I’ve heard David lose his cool before, but at the moment he’s in the middle of a serious rant, and the rant has to do with his highly compensated, overrated staff making stupid mistakes. Fortunately, he’s directing most of the flying spit at the staff in charge of this year’s Hospice Foundation’s Leather fit, David is a sun-streaked forty-something who looks as if he had jumped out of a Tommy Hilfiger ad, except he’s not forty-something; he’s fifty-something, but David takes care of himself. David has a new lover, someone Olivia thinks is very good for him, but David can’t seem to let go of Tony, even though Tony’s been gone ten years. Olivia says it’s the way Tony died—awful, so awful—and I think she might be right.

“We spend”—David breaks off, swallows, tries again—“I spend thousands of dollars on this event every year. The Leather and Lace Ball isn’t just an event. It’s how I remember Tony. Most of you don’t know Tony but—” and David breaks off. For a moment he can’t speak.

He sits for a moment longer, then abruptly stands. And when he looks at us, all of us, his lips twist, and it’d be a smile if there weren’t so much heartbreak in his face. “I don’t care what you have to do to make this work. The Leather and Lace Ball funds the Hospice Foundation’s annual budget. We can’t afford to fail.”

The meeting effectively ends with David walking out. You’d think we’d all sit there, pull together the way we should, especially since it’s obvious David’s really torn up, but Tessa’s up and gone, and then various staffers—mostly her staffers—start wandering out, until it’s Olivia, Josh, Sara, and me left. Olivia’s team.

“So what do we do?” Josh says. Even though he’s the only guy on Olivia’s team, no one thinks of him as a guy. He’s good at this job, organized, detailed, but like Olivia, he also has a great eye, great vision—I’ve seen him make an amazing centerpiece out of green apples and pussy willow.

Olivia hasn’t stirred. “Nothing.”

I look at Olivia. “Nothing?”

She suddenly looks old. Older. You can tell she’s nearly thirty, and you see something in her eyes you don’t normally see: defeat.

I’m not the only one stunned. Josh and Sara exchange nervous glances. “But you heard David,” Josh starts, and Olivia shakes her head.

“It’s too late.” Her dark eyebrows pull. “The ball is six weeks away. There’s no way we can salvage it, not at this point, not when we’ve so many other commitments.”

I can’t accept that. I’ve just listened to David for the last half hour. I’ve seen his pain. This ball is so important to him. “But—”

“The Foundation’s budget isn’t our concern,” Olivia interrupts, and her voice is flat, tense, ruthless. “Our job is to honor City Events’ commitments and protect City Events’ reputation.”

“But—”

“The ball’s been losing money for two years.” Olivia turns, looks at me. “It was a good idea ten years ago. We made it more provocative five years ago. But it’s old now. It’s been done. Attendance is declining because people want something new. You’re not going to get the big corporate sponsors anymore.”

Sara and Josh gather their things, duck out. I’m still in the conference room, trying to understand. I look at the office, which is virtually deserted. Everyone’s gone on home. They’ve used David’s meeting to call it a day.

“Olivia, you could make this work.” I sit at the table, facing her, my palms pressed to the ebony-tinted glass. “You’re good. Better than good. You could pull this off—”

“Why do you think I let Tessa have the ball?” Olivia leans back, folds her arms behind her head, and regards me steadily. Her expression is calm—calm but hard. She’s pulling no punches here.

Forgive me. I’m slow. I’m trying to digest everything Olivia’s saying. “I thought David gave Tessa the ball. I thought you were being punished…”

“ Punished? I let David take it from me. I knew the ball couldn’t sustain that kind of momentum. Everything has its time. Nothing lasts forever.” Olivia laughs, low and harsh, and runs long, elegant fingers through her hair. “Rule number one, Holly: know when to say when.”