Page 22 of Broken Headboards
“Thank you all for joining us today for Round 1,” Taylor says, positioning himself between the vice president and the treasurer of the Condo Board. “We’re very excited to get started with the competition. Please have your pieces ready for us to evaluate. Today the criteria you will be judged by are style, quality and durability. Good luck! May the best design win.” He claps his hands and locks eyes with the first contestant to he’s left—Wally.
He looks petrified, fidgeting with his hands and occasionally wiping his brow with his handkerchief. The judges take only a few minutes to look over he’s pieces before they move onto the next contestant.
Better luck next time, Wally.
I stand there, leaning against a random fake plant I brought for decoration. And, that’s when I feel someone’s eyes on me.
I turn to see Tess staring.
She must like what she sees. I mean, I know that look from a mile away.
She smiles, tightly and mouths, “good luck.”
I mouth back, “no luck needed,” and finish it off with a wink.
She giggles and shakes her head.
The judges finish walking around after a good twenty minutes or so, leaving us reeling in silence to deliberate.
I know I have nothing to be worried about, but I hate having to wait. I am a very impatient man, who has more important things to do than to sit around and wait for them to award me my ten points.
“Before we make our final decision,” The vice president announces, calling everyone’s attention to the back corner. “We have a question to ask our finalists.”
I refrain from rolling my eyes. There’s a fucking question and answer portion? That’s ridiculous.
“Tess Armstrong,” he announces, and I see her straighten her posture when they call her name.
“Yes,” she responds obediently.
“Can you tell me the difference between your chaise lounge and the one Mr. Randall is presenting today?” The vice president purses his lips together in a vague self-satisfied way.
“I’d love to,” she perks up and swivels on her heels, staring at me.
She walks over to my chair and sits on it, leisurely propping her heels up on the leather.
The judges approach her, looking back and forth at each other wonder what the hell she’s doing. I’m thinking the same. This is quite a show to put on just to answer the question.
“This chaise lounge is of high quality, like my own. Though mine is a fine velvet fabric, soft and elegant to the touch while his is morerawand rugged. However, if you notice, there is an apparent glare on the leather material. Here you have a chemical coating that is supposedly used to add to the durability of the leather, yet from my understanding—as I am familiar with this product—this coating actually speeds up the decay of the material, especially if it’s in direct sunlight. And that would be unfortunate in something like the Sun Room. This is in contrast to my chaise lounge, where the material remains the same regardless of any external conflicts.”
What the fuck?
I cross my arms, hiding my clenched fist behind my forearm. I am fucking livid. How does she know what coating I used? This is the first time I’ve ever used it. And, not to mention, she knows it too well. She’s not only familiar with the product, but it sounds like she’s cross-referenced or researched it before she got here.
Who is this woman?
“Is this true?” One of the boards members turns to me in horror.
Oh, calm down.
“I’m not aware of this, no. These accusations are unfounded, and I don’t see how Ms. Armstrong could conceive of this.” I grit my teeth, glaring daggers at her smug expression.
A mischievous smile spreads across her face and she leaves briefly to retrieve her purse. When she returns, she pulls out a stack of papers and hands them to the vice president.
“You can read the reviews for yourself,” she smiles and crosses her arms, cocking her hip to the side.
They look over them, carefully, while my eyes dart from the judges to her.
I try to stay calm, but my knuckles are turning white from the anger boiling my blood.
