“And no one gets anywhere in this city without connections,” Anne adds. “There’s no shame in using them to open doors. IfI had a connection to a Viscount’s family, you can bet I’d have much better seats at the opera.”
“And I’d have a standing invitation to that polo party they throw every summer,” Christoph says. “I can’t get enough of short men on horses.”
Tabitha titters. “Oh, me, either. But that’s probably because I’m not much bigger than a Hobbit myself.”
I force myself to laugh along with them, pretending to move on as I resume my place at the table, but inside I’m spiraling as every success of the last week rearranges itself in my mind:
Belinda suddenly being willing to see me again after I turned her baby Jesus into petal confetti?
Oliver’s doing.
The meeting slots with those “impossible to get” caterers that miraculously opened like the Red Sea?
Oliver again.
The way Christoph brushed aside the scandal as soon as I explained that Oliver and I were dating?
Well, that was all Oliver’s idea, too.
And yes, my PowerPoint is perfect, and they all seem genuinely impressed with my work, but would that have mattered if I didn’t have the fifth in the throne pulling strings for me in the background? Would I still be on the verge of landing this job if it were just me, Emily Darling, the American party planner, being judged on my own merit?
Or does this win really belong to my fake boyfriend?
The fake boyfriend who lied to me—again—and made mortifying phone calls behind my back.
Why did he do this?
I thought he believed in me?
But maybe all that’s a lie, too…
James returns with an update on his daughter—ready to take the stage like a champ—Christoph dims the lights once more, and I pick up where I left off.
But the magical flow state is gone. I feel outside myself, like I’m watching the woman in the red sweater present from the ceiling along with the ghost of my professional dignity.
I fumble the remote, nearly dropping it, and click too fast through the budget breakdown. And then, there goes slide twenty-eight without its carefully planned transition or my joke about accountants. My voice sounds thinner than it did before, like someone let half the air out of a balloon.
But they don’t seem to notice the change in my energy.
Why would they? This isn’t a real evaluation. It’s theater, and everyone knows their lines but me.
Finally, it’s time for slide thirty-seven—my big finish, the final rendering of the transformed space. James actually applauds.Applauds.
I just wish I could believe his enthusiasm was real.
“Brilliant,” he says, exchanging a pleased glance with Christoph and the others. “Absolutely brilliant. I think I speak for the committee at large when I say we’re thrilled to offer you the contract.”
The others murmur agreement like a Greek chorus, and Christoph assures his boss that he’ll have the contract drawn up immediately. We briefly discuss timeline concerns, and the date I’ll need to submit my budget for approval—things that should have me doing an inner victory dance.
But it all feels hollow.
Embarrassing, even.
More handshakes. More congratulations, and Christoph walks me to the door with a final assurance that he’ll be in touch before I fly out, so we can finalize the contract in person before I leave.
I wave, keeping my smile firmly fixed until I’m down the hallway.
And all five flights of stairs.
