My eyes opened wide. No! This was way worse than Vince embarrassing me in public—it was me! I was going to be the one embarrassing him!
Flames of humiliation for the ignominy that hadn’t yet happened shot through my body. I slid on the ice, half wishing for a sprained ankle; a small injury that would prevent dancing and indignity. Or I’d just fake it. I’d have to remember to buy a support bandage later.
Back at the office, Gary shot to his feet the moment I returned, but I was surprised when he followed me into my office, Melissa and Penny crowding in behind him.
“What’s up, guys?”
Gary held out a cream envelope, made from expensive linen paper, and embossed. Melissa had my silver letter opener laid across her palms like an offering.
“It’s from Vogue,” Penny whispered. “Hand delivered.”
I didn’t even pretend not to be excited but still prepared myself for a polite ‘no’, so I had to read the short note twice.
“It’s from the editor’s personal assistant: Anna Wintour is coming to the Canine Crusader Fashion Show!”
Penny looked like she was going to faint, and Gary and Melissa jumped up and down, screeching with excitement.
She’d said yes! The doyenne of fashion had said yes!
Fascinating factoid: nicknamed ‘Nuclear Winter’, Anna Wintour is thought to be the inspiration for Miranda Priestly in ‘The Devil Wears Prada’.
“Right, everyone!” I shouted, clapping my hands above the noise. “I need you to hit the phones. Gary, prep a news release that tells the press that Ms. Wintour will be at the Canine Crusader Fashion Show, and remind everyone that no animal products will be used in the clothes, shoes or accessories; Penny, call everyone who hasn’t RSVPed and let them know; Melissa, contact all the reporters, bloggers, vloggers, YouTubers and Instagrammers you can think of and kindly inform them that Vogue’s Editor-in-Chief will be attending. Go!”
They ran back to their desks while I took a deep breath.
And that was the moment that I knew I’d do everything in my power to make Vince’s dream come true.
Unfortunately, that feeling didn’t last long. By 11am the next morning, I wanted to stab him with my silver letter opener.
Gary knocked on my door while I was just finishing a phone call with the fashion show’s insurers. I’d managed to shave $1100 off the initial quote, but they maintained that by having dogs at the event, the risk was much higher, therefore the premium—including a premium for anyone catching rabies—was higher. I’d put the cost on my credit card. Personally, I thought having Vince at the event was the riskiest part of all.
“Ms. Cooper, I have Mr. Azzo for you.”
“Put him through,” I said tiredly, replacing the phone in its cradle and tucking my credit card in my purse.
“No, he’s here!” Gary said excitedly.
I stared at him queasily. Here? That couldn’t be good.
“Okay, send him in.”
A pair of legs entered carrying an enormous bouquet of colorful flowers, and something that looked like a broomstick with pink and yellow birthday balloons tied to it. It was loud and lurid and hard to miss—just like Vince.
“Fook me! Them balloons are heavier than they look,” he said, plonking the huge bouquet on my desk and sending the contracts I’d been reading sliding to the floor.
Then he presented me with the long, thin gift-wrapped broom handle, plus balloons.
“What’s this?” I asked faintly.
“Birthday present,” Vince grinned at me.
“But my birthday was two weeks ago.”
“I know! Fook me! Missed that one! Cady only just told me so I thought I’d make it up to you.” He nodded his head at the broom handle/gift/unknown item. “You’ll love it.”
Gary, Penny and Melissa peered through the doorway while I unwrapped my gift. The hastily Scotch taped paper revealed a thin, shiny pole about nine feet long.
Vince was watching me, his expression excited. I stared at the pole then I stared at Vince; he stared at me, willing me to say something.
“Um, it’s a pole.”
“Yeah!” he grinned.
“Thank you,” I said faintly.
Gary, Mel and Penny looked just as perplexed as me.
“It’s great, isn’t it?” said Vince, happily taking the pole from my hands and walking to the middle of the room. “I thought it could go here.”
I blinked. I understood the individual words, but I was still trying to make sense of his sentence.
“You want to put a pole in the middle of my office?”
His radiant smile faded a few degrees. “It’s not just a pole—it’s a pole for pole dancing.”
Gary and Mel exchanged looks as I cleared my throat.
“You bought me a pole for pole dancing?”
“Yeah! Innit brilliant!”
“Isn’t pole dancing for strippers?” I asked in a flat voice. “Do I look like the sort of person who would do that?”
Vince looked horrified then hopeful then horrified again as I almost snarled the final words at him.
“No! No, I don’t … I mean it’s not … I thought it would make a change from yoga. It’s … it’s a great workout routine. You can learn some moves at Rick’s gym—they do classes—then every time you take a break at the office, you can get some exercise: do a few spins, stretch out your muscles, clamp your thighs around it…”
Penny giggled.
“Thank you, Vince,” I said carefully biting my tongue and speaking with dented dignity. “It was very thoughtful of you. But you see, I use this office for meetings—I don’t think it would be appropriate to have … that … in my office.”
“But … you haven’t got room at home,” he said sadly, causing my assistants to throw me questioning looks.
“Don’t you have work to do?” I asked crisply, nodding at the door.
Once they’d shuffled out and closed the door behind them, I turned to Vince, indignation warring with softer emotions.
“Can you return it and get your money back?” I asked.
“Dunno,” he said moodily. “Are you sure you haven’t got room? Maybe in the boardroom—spice up meetings,” and he looked so hopeful, my anger drained away; he was just being Vince.
I rubbed my forehead.
“Have you got a headache?” he asked.
“Yes,” I sighed.
“Exercise will help that,” he said with a half-smile, pointing at the pole. “And you’d look fook hot.”
“Vincent! A stripper pole is not going to help with my headache!”
“It’s an exercise pole,” he said defensively, then sighed. “Hey! We could use it for the best man and maid of honor dance!”
“Absolutely not. No way. Never.”
“So you don’t want it?”
“No.” Not in this lifetime. “Thank you.”
“Okay,” he said defeated. “I’ll have to think of something else for your birthday. What about a ThighMaster? You could keep that under your desk.”
“No.”
“Kettlebells?”
“Still no.”
“A mini trampoline?”
I rubbed my forehead again. “No, Vince. You don’t have to get me anything for my birthday—the flowers and balloons are more than enough. They’re beautiful, thank you.”
He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Maybe I could donate the pole to the kids’ playground.”
I had a vision of six year olds spinning like they were about to join a revue bar.
“Yes, great idea,” I said as I escorted him to the door.
“I’m good with kids,” he said happily. “I used to be one.”
“You still are,” I muttered.
“Thanks!”
“That isn’t a compliment.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it isn’t!”
“Is.”
“Isn’t!”
“Are we arguing?”
“YES!”
>
“Can we get to the part where we kiss and make up now?”
“Aaaaagh!”
“Is that a yes?”
“NO! Goodbye, Vincent.”
He brushed a kiss onto my cheek as he departed with the nine-foot pole under his arm and a swagger in his step.
Vince
I was gutted that Gracie had turned down the exercise pole. I’d had a lot of fantasies about watching her use it, which was probably the primary reason I’d bought it. But exercise poles could be a great workout and sexy as fook.
I stared at it sadly while I navigated the Manhattan sidewalk traffic. It’s funny, you can be invisible in a crowd, but add in a nine foot pole, and you get a lot of looks. I’d have to mention that on my IG page. Maybe I could learn some moves for Fans Only. I’d have to plant the pole in the back garden and remember to clear up the dog shit first.
As I headed back to the subway, I ran through the problem that was giving my gray matter its own workout.
I needed some more models for the fashion show. Well, I needed different sorts of models. Most of the ones I knew from the biz were skinny giraffes; I wanted a bit of variety, and being somewhat distracted with my pole, so to speak (the Vin-meister is on form!), I made the cosmic mistake of sending a mass text to everyone on my phone’s contacts list. I hadn’t meant to, and it was only when my plumber said he was well in there that I realized what I’d done.
Erik the plumber was a top bloke: five foot nothing and five foot around, with a bald head and enormous mustache. But as he was a huge dog-lover, I just shrugged it off and sent a text message to Uncle Sal’s assistant (because the old codger didn’t do text messages) to give him the happy news that one of his suits for the show might need a bit of alteration.
The reply was a lot of exclamation marks and emojis of ducks shagging (if I had to guess, I’d think he was telling me to fook off, but I could be wrong).
Unfortunately, there was way worse to come and I really was earning my knob-head credentials.
I got tagged on Instagram by someone I’d hoped never to hear from again for the rest of my life.
Shout out to the darl @CanineCrusader @VinceAzzo an old squeeze of mine begging me to be part of the #CanineCrusaderFashionShow and im IN! Beautiful people only. No fuglies!
@fabulousMollyMckinney
#fuglies (Fansonly pix in my profile)
I took a deep breath. Molly was the last person I wanted to see/speak to/spend time with ever—but she had a fuckton of followers, so maybe it would work out. She couldn’t be as bad as she used to be, right? Squinting slightly to hide from bad news, I read her previous post.
Being hated is hard work. You think Piers Morgan wakes up in the morning and suddenly has an idea about who he’s going to skewer today? No way. Ive worked hard to be the girl whos most hated. Why am I hated? Because Im hot, rich and awesome. And I tell it like it is.
If your an ugly ho its not like its gonna be a surprise to you if I mention it. In public. Or on my social media. You already know your a troll—do something about it. Thats what plastic surgeons are for.
@fabulousMollyMckinney
#fuglies (Fansonly pix in my profile) #fataintfunny #fixyourteeth #nosejob #facelift #boobjob #lipfiller #drmarkdimpler
Nope, she was still a mean bitch. I sent her a text uninviting her and didn’t think any more about it.
It was a lot harder work producing a fashion show than just being the skinny tosser who shows up unwashed and unshaven to be transformed into a catwalk model. I’m talking about myself, of course, but I’d seen some female models arriving for a show looking hairier than a wookie with the temper to match.
If it hadn’t been for Grace, Rick and Cady, I would have fallen arse over tit a hundred times a day getting the show off the ground.
Grace did the boring-as-shit work like contracts, insurance, timings and sorting out the catwalk space. We’d started off with 1500 ft2 at the Spring Studios, the venue that most of the designers were using for New York Fashion Week. By the end of the first day, they’d upgraded us three times, and we’d already sold all the tickets to the largest space they had—4,800 ft2 in Studio 4 on the sixth floor. (Should have been called Studio 6—just sayin’.)
And as the week went on, we could have sold that again many times over. If I’d thought it wouldn’t be pissing with rain in February or arse-freezing cold, I’d have tried to get Central Park or Yankee Stadium. Go big or go home, right? I wanted to call Aaron Boone just in case, but Grace wouldn’t let me.
“Do this event well, and you could put it on every year. Screw up, and you’ll look like an amateur—and a knob-head—but you’ll also lose the chance to raise more money. Walk before you can run, Vincent.”
I opened my mouth to argue but she closed me off faster than Usain Bolt ordering a pizza.
“Nod if you understand me.”
Message received and understood. I nodded.
I’d tried to get Grace to be one of the models but she’d shot me down so many times, I had more holes than a cheese grater.
Cady had agreed cheerfully to be one of my models, and Rick was just told that he was in the show. He grunted, I shrugged, Cady smiled. Nuff said.
I wished everything was that easy because the models were giving me a headache—some of them, that is. Rafe and Elias hated each other (this week) and refused to share the same dressing room. I told them they could share with the dogs, but didn’t mention that there was only one dressing room anyway.
I had ten guys (including me and Rick), and ten girls (including Cady) and ten dogs (including Tap, Zeus and Tyson). Cady and Grace had tried to argue against having the mutts, but to me, that was the point of the show. And they all had to be rescue dogs, like mine. Zeus and Tyson would walk with Rick and Cady, and Tap would come with me. I’d carry her because I was a bit worried that she’d be overwhelmed by the crowd.
So as well as the models, I had seven rescue dogs ranging from a ten year-old Wolfhound called Wolfie (yeah), a Malamute called Nanuk (yup) with one blue eye and one green eye (I’d have called him ‘Bowie’), and four sweet mutts ranging in size from teacup to giant— Alfie, Mitch, Delilah and Sparky. Their ‘clothes’ were Canine Crusader neckerchiefs designed by my mate Stella. I was well chuffed with them.
But there were a thousand details that were doing me head in: the lights, the music, the seating plan, the invitations, where to put the press peeps, food and drink for the models and volunteers, getting the outfits to the studio, having enough fitters for last minute alterations, getting hair and make-up artists to work for free.
Grace had come over to my place to help me iron out the fine print.
Most things had been donated, but there were still some upfront costs that had to be paid, and if I ever meet the sod who fleeced us for the one day’s insurance, I’ll let Tyson crap in his shoes. Maybe I’ll crap in his shoes.
Gracie interrupted my evil plan.
“You told me that you’ve asked two professionals to do hair and makeup, right? Well, my spreadsheet shows that even if they only spend 20 minutes per model—which is half what’s usually allowed—you’ll either have to get everyone in two hours earlier or you need two more hair and makeup artists.”
She hovered with her phone in her hand, waiting for me to make a decision while I sat like a muppet staring at her.
Then she waved her hand in front of my face. “The lights are on but there’s nobody home. Vincent! Decision, please. Do you have two more makeup artists you can call?”
“You’re so fookin’ hot when you’re all serious.”
She rolled her eyes. “Do you have low blood sugar? Focus!”
“That’s a great idea,” I said, leaping to my feet and waking up the kids. “We all need a break and I’m hungry as fook. Let’s all go and get something to eat.”
She immediately shook her head. “I don’t have time. You go. I need to work on the timings.”
I grabbed her hand and she looked up at me, puzzled
and irritated.
“Gracie, take a fookin’ break. We’ve been at this for nearly three hours. I need a walk, the dogs need a walk, and you need…” a shag “something other than coffee.”
She huffed and pulled her hand free. “Three hours planning is nothing! I’ve been in meetings that have gone on for nine hours.”
“Where? In Hell?”
Her eyebrows snapped together in a familiar scowl. “Look, I’m giving up my Saturday to make sure that your event is perfect!”
“Yeah, you are and I’m right grateful, but you need to take a break, woman! Come on, Tap will be worried about you if you don’t come with us.”
Gracie glanced down at Tap whose anxious eyes were flitting between us.
“That’s blackmail.”
“Yeah, did it work?”
“Fine,” she huffed. “Just don’t blame me when mistakes happen because we weren’t ready in time.”
“I wouldn’t do that, Gracie,” I said seriously. “You’ve sweated your balls off for me and I won’t forget it.”
Finally, she smiled.
“You say the sweetest things.”
“Yeah, fookin’ smooth, me.”
Outside, the sky was slate gray and heavy with the prospect of more snow. Grace pulled on a coat that looked like a duvet and had me thinking an array of dirty bedtime thoughts. Meh, watching her brush her teeth was a fookin’ turn on. Spending time with her left my balls bluer than a blueberry cobbler, without the cobblers—whatever they were.
I put coats on Tap and Zeus but didn’t bother for Tyson because he never felt the cold. Then we all traipsed outside and walked briskly toward the dog park.
Tyson immediately found his Jack Russell friend and knocked him over in a friendly greeting. The little fella shook himself then raced Tyson, lapping him a few times, beating him on the curves as they chased each other happily.
I couldn’t help smiling—there wasn’t much wrong with the world when two happy dogs playing together put a smile on your face.
The World According to Vince - A romantic comedy (Gym or Chocolate Book 2) Page 8