Page 16 of A Certain Appeal
The phone’s shrill ring bounces off the glass walls of the reception area. I pick up the receiver without taking my eyes from the computer screen, smile already plastered to my face. “Work It, this is Liz speaking. How may I help you?”
Toby laughs loud enough that I have to pull the phone away from my ear. “Liz, you sound like my mom.”
Toby is my day-job boss, the president of Work It, a (since last month’s friendly acquisition of three competitors)nationalchain of communal workspace facilities. I’m his administrative assistant here at HQ: a glorified receptionist of the highest order and reliable semi-adult who can man the fancy Italian espresso machine in the break room.
“Your momhiredme.” I pivot to face him at his own desk,separated from the lobby by a partition twenty feet away. Headphones set his glasses askew, making him look about a decade younger than the thirty-three years already undermined by his baby face. “Reception, admin...”
“Occasional babysitting,” he chimes, concluding the list of duties in the job posting I stumbled on two weeks after I got to New York. Assuming the last bit meant childcare, I applied. Toby’s mom, who’d been functioning as admin since Work It got off the ground, had written the post. She meanthim.
The traditional nine-to-five nature of my day job baffles the burlesquers, who seek work with flexible hours or have side hustles more in line with their creative efforts. Jane teaches voice and piano, Tonic does aerial lessons in addition to her job at the high-end lingerie boutique, and Ming is the go-to seamstress for the better part of the burlesque scene, creating and adjusting costumes and clothing for those of us who don’t know our way around a sewing machine.
“How may I help you?” I ask.
“I was looking over the contract for the venue hosting Saturday’s function.” He squints at his computer screen. “Is that all we’re paying, or is more due later?”
I sit taller. Toby told me to go all out when finding a venue for the merger party—“Spare no expense!”—but I kept my feet on the ground. One of my “babysitting” duties is reining in his occasionally impulsive spending habits; he got the espresso machine on an afternoon when I was at the dentist. Incidentally, his mom was filling in for me and called to tattle.
“I haggled,” I admit. “Pemberley is new to the scene. We’re one of their first contracts, so they were willing to deal.”
“Great. And, your, um”—he clears his throat, voice high with forced nonchalance—“friendsfrom your weekend thing. They’ll be... appropriate?”
“You said you wanted it to be memorable,” I say, feigning confusion.
Toby’s eyes go round, shaving another handful of years from his features, forcing me to laugh. I recruited the Twins and Jane for entertainment. They’ll do their respective things, though Ginn and Tonic will keep their act second-tier-city-friendly, and the venue has a piano, which is where Jane comes in.
“No nudity,” I assure him, and he relaxes into an expression less likely to get him carded. “Just acrobatics and Gershwin.”
“Perfect.” Toby’s attention shifts back to his computer screen. “It’s an amazing space, Liz. You really have an eye.”
He’s right on both counts. Pemberley’s exterior is lovely, a brick façade with a giant chrome sunburst over its broad double doors, but the interior is like nothing I’ve ever seen. An indoor lake takes up half of the venue’s main floor, with seating on little islands connected via a walkway. Seeing Pemberley in person a few weeks ago, I about swooned. I handed over the deposit check without a second thought. While it meant I had to figure out how to incorporate the venue’s stage into the flow of the room, there was no way we were going to have that party anywhere but that Hell’s Kitchen gem.
I put my hands behind my head, rocking in my desk chair. “Anything else you’d like to compliment me on? I’m terribly important and busy.”
Toby laughs. “You’re a lifesaver, Liz.”
“It’s what I do.”
Toby hangs up, cutting off his chuckle, and I open the email Ireceived from Andrea earlier. Pemberley’s owner had inquired after liability insurance for aerialists, and I asked Andrea about how Meryton handled that coverage. She initially held out on the grounds that I’d poached her talent, but she relented at my promise to leave Meryton flyers at the door.
I scan the message, ignoring Andrea’s “subtle” inquiry after Jane and Charles.
With the (massive) exception of Andrea’s honeypotting allusions, thinking about Jane and Charles makes me smile. Jane’s been on cloud nine since last weekend. Granted, it’s Jane, so his cloud nine looks like a cloud eleven, but the man’s effervescence warms my heart. He and Charles have seen one another every day, meeting up after Jane’s voice lessons and attending his gigs together. Charles even went to last night’s rehearsal in Bushwick, which had me assigning major brownie points. The guy’s staying in the Meatpacking District; Bushwick’s a hike.
That hour-long trek made it all the more surprising to learn that Darcy was also in attendance. But then, according to Jane, Charles has yet to make an appearance either unescorted by the handsome grump or without some mention of said grump’s recent departure. I’ve decided to chalk the near omnipresence up to an unhealthy level of attachment on Darcy’s part or evidence that Charles’s friendship is an act of charity.
I shift in my chair, pretending it’s not a squirm. Dillhole or not, that look from Saturday has initiated a number of fantasies this week. Not that I’d admit it aloud, butlordy. In my mind, Darcy and I have corrupted as many surfaces in Meryton as there are spaces to get horizontal—or vertical, with reasonable support. He’s always very apologetic about the “tempting” comment; the Darcy in my head is an excellent groveler.
My email dings with a new message, stirring me from the semi-libidinous reverie. It’s Marley, Pemberley’s manager, confirming today’s final walk-through. They’ve arranged the seating to fit my sketches to give me a feel for how the room will look Saturday.
I can head over right after lunch with Jane. I grab my purse and stroll to Toby’s office on my way out. “I’m off. If you need caffeine, speak now, or you’re going to be translating Italian.”
“Okay,” says Jane. “We’ll see you guys in a few.”
I narrow my eyes at the plural nouns, even as the implication sends a tingle up my spine. Jane proposed we meet Charles for coffee before I go to Pemberley, and it sounds like Charles will have a certain un-temptable friend along. I made a point of not asking after Darcy on principle; internal me may entertain forgiveness, but real me has a little more pride than that.
Jane studiously ignores my look as he returns his phone to his back pocket. “Bennet,” he warns, his voice cool. “Give him a chance. I know he rubbed you the wrong way...”
I cross my arms.
