Page 5 of I'm Your Guy
“Phoenix,” he’d said, giving me an apologetic look. “I got a buddy there who works in real estate. They need a home stager.”
I was so startled—and so enraged—I hadn’t even known what to say. “That’s it? You’re just leaving me with this mess we’re in? Where is the love?”
At least he’d had the decency to flinch. “You don’t love me. Admit it.”
“I do too!” I’d yelped, because I didn’t want to cede any points to him at all.
“You don’t,” he’d insisted. “You’re pissed off at me all the time.”
“Because we’re in debt! And you’re the one who put us there.”
Another flinch. “Yeah, but are you really surprised? We don’t have a storefront. We don’t have enough contacts in the industry, and nobody will ever give us capital.”
“That’s not what you used to say!” I’d argued. “You were sure this would work.”
“Was I?” He drops his head for a moment before he zips up another duffel bag. “We were so cocky. We made fun of those guys wearing orange aprons at the Home Warehouse, selling cheap kitchen cabinets. Like we were so much better than that.” He rolls his eyes. “We’re clearly not cut out for running a business. We shouldn’t have even tried.”
That last blow had landed hard. Ten minutes later, as the door clicked shut behind him for the last time, I realized that the loss of my dreams hurt a lot worse than the loss of my boyfriend.
Clearly not cut out for running a business. Shouldn’t have even tried.
The only saving grace is that he was already out the door before I dissolved into tears of rage.
Once again, I’d trusted the wrong man, and once again he’d betrayed me. I’d been left with credit card debts from a horrible client. And a lease, of course.
Without Macklin around to help out, I’d quickly fallen behind on the rent. A friend found me a night job as a model for a life drawing class at the art school. Four nights in a row, I’d posed in my underwear while a room full of retirees wielded charcoal pencils.
But that had been a one-time gig, and now my rent is late again.
Still hiding in the car, I pull out my phone and bide my time by checking my email. I’m desperate for a new client. Or—even better—a payment from the one who’s the root of all my problems.
The evil Mrs. Clotterfeld.
Six months ago, she hired us to redesign a three-million-dollar mansion in southeast Denver. Macklin and I had celebrated with a sushi dinner. The Clotterfelds are notable Denver socialites. When she chose us as her designers, we were sure we’d finally hit the big time.
Sure, she was arrogant and shaky with the details. So many clients are. But she signed our contract and paid the first part of our fee.
My bank account had never been so happy with me. At first, things had gone smoothly enough, notwithstanding her atrocious taste. She was a fan of gold piping and paisley. I’d been willing to smile my way through all the tassels, even if the place ended up looking like a cross between Downton Abbey and a high-priced bordello.
Macklin took on most of the work with her, while I’d serviced our other clients. But I hadn’t realized she’d begun to slide on paying for her purchases. And—like a fool—Macklin let her get away with it. He hadn’t told me right away, either. He’d known I would panic.
And, yup, I’d panicked, even if I’d understood the bind Macklin was in. She was our golden goose, and he’d been afraid to offend her. A guy couldn’t accuse one of the richest women in Denver of being a deadbeat and still ask her for referrals.
Except she was a deadbeat, and Macklin, making a really horrible decision, had put fifteen thousand dollars of custom upholstery on my personal credit card.
The order had come in weeks ago, and it’s still sitting on the loading dock at Upholstery Emporium, where I’d gone today to beg for more time to pay.
More time won’t even help, though. Mrs. Clotterfeld has clearly dumped me, just like Macklin did. And since my idiot partner paid the deposit instead of getting the money upfront, she feels free to walk away.
Mr. Jones is still out in front of the building, so I start a new email on my phone. My sternest one yet.
Dear Mrs. Clotterfeld,
The furniture you ordered from the upholsterer is past due, and the store has insisted that we arrange for immediate payment and delivery. If you do not make immediate payment, they will send it to an outlet shop, while I send your debt to collections.
Please forward the payment by end of business today, or there will be no way left for me to help you.
I reread the sentence and then replace “today” with “tomorrow.” That’s the problem with ultimatums. Once the deadline is past, you weaken yourself by extending it.
