Chapter One
EMILY KATHERINE DARLING
A woman determined to live out her
wildest “Love Actually/Bridget Jones/The Muppet Christmas Carol” fantasies with the
best Christmas in London EVER!
(If she doesn’t have a nervous breakdown first…)
The businessman in 12B is glaring at me like I’m the Grinch who Stole His Peaceful Transatlantic Flight, and I’ve been aboard the plane all of ten seconds.
To be fair, Ididjust smack him with my giant purse while wedging my emotional support binders into the overhead compartment. But it’s not my fault that Premium Economy has less than premium storage capacity.
“Sorry, so sorry,” I mutter as I Jenga a Louis Vuitton bag, a battered ukulele, and some kid’s stuffed panda to make room for my roller bag.
What part of “reserve the overhead bins for rolling luggage” didn’t these people understand?
Gah! If only people would follow the rules, life would be so much easier.
And I would be sweatingsoooomuch less.
The plane is approximately eight thousand degrees, my wrinkle-resistant Nan Baylor blazer is already doing its best Shar-Pei impression, and the Valerian Root capsule I took in the airport bathroom to “relax me for the flight” has done nothing except make my tongue feel chalky. Meanwhile, my phone is buzzing like a swarm of bees, and the businessman is clearly not pleased to see me laying hands on his ukulele.
Or maybe that’shisstuffed panda.
If so, he should keep it on his lap or tucked beneath the seat in front of him, where it belongs.
I finally wedge my rolling bag into place and collapse into my window seat, pulling out my phone to see a string of new texts from Maya.
Maya: Did you remember the emergency binders?
Maya: Remember, technology hates you and likes to explode when you touch it. Especially when you’re nervous. If your laptop dies again, and you don’t have the binders, we’re screwed, Em. Seriously screwed.
Maya: If you forgot them, tell me ASAP, and I can overnight them to your hotel. Yes, it will cost a small fortune, but better safe than sorry. We have to nail this one and stick the landing.
Maya: Don’t freak out, but I just found out that Willow and Stone is pitching Fletchers, too. Apparently, they pulled in a favor from Willow’s godmother in Kent, who knows someone who knows the people who used to plan the Fletchers’ holiday gala in the 80s. God, I hate them so much! Who do they think they are? Trying to take OUR gig!?
Maya: I mean, sure, they planned a Met Gala afterparty that went viral…
Maya: But that’s only because Beyoncé showed up!
Maya: BEYONCÉ, EMILY! HOW DO WE COMPETE WITH BEYONCÉ? We’re going to go bankrupt, aren’t we? Why did Titan have to sell to an evil global conglomerate ten days after we signed the lease on a new office? TEN DAYS! If we’d known we were losing our biggest client, I would not be sitting in this stupidly fancy office right now. I hate it here!!
Maya: Except that I love it because this view of the Brooklyn Bridge, welcoming the dawn while I sip espresso, is giving me life.
Maya: But I also hate it because I hate uncertainty and risk. But we’re still genius party planners and businesswomen, right? You’ll land the Fletchers’ gig, I’ll lock down the Rousseau wedding in the Hamptons, and we’ll be sitting pretty for another year. Right?
Maya: This will be fine.
Maya: So fine!
Maya: FOR THE LOVE OF MY HOLIDAY SPIRIT AND SANITY, JUST TELL ME THAT IT WILL BE FINE AND YOU DIDN’T FORGET THE BINDERS!
I type back:Hey, just finished boarding. The binders are tucked safely into the overhead bin, and I couldn’t be more prepared if I were triplets. Relax! We’re going to be fine.
I think…
