Game Changer

by Stewart, Sylvie

  Choke!

  “There are so very many things wrong with that statement.”

  He waves the pen in the air in front of him. “You think all this happens naturally? And besides, I save my cheat calories for when I want drinks with a hot date, not some sad evening of… cheese, alone in my kitchen.” His lip curls and it’s only his wink that keeps me from scowling at him.

  “Well.” I straighten and reply with feigned superiority. “Some of us are channeling our carbs into our careers, not dating.”

  He laughs. “Then you’ve been dating the wrong guys.”

  I immediately slump. Because he’s not wrong. And because Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Growly didn’t, in fact, follow me home and beg to take my body last Friday.

  It looks like I’ll have to live vicariously through other people’s sex lives. The last guy I dated was Bobby Lee and he wanted to “wait.” For what, I’m not entirely sure. He implied it was marriage, but I got the feeling it was more like Bunny’s permission he was waiting on. Turns out we’re both old-fashioned in our own way—he doesn’t believe in sex before marriage and I don’t believe in allowing his mama in the bedroom. Go figure.

  But it’s a moot point, really, ‘cuz there’s no way I’m ever marrying Bobby Lee Collinsworth. And he never fooled me anyway. I knew he was sleeping with Courtney Swayne-Thompson back when he was in high school because that girl couldn’t keep her mouth shut if you shoved a cat-head biscuit in it. They were all a few years older than me, but the gossip mill runs fast and hard back home, so everybody knows everyone else’s business.

  That’s why I’ve always been careful to keep my shit wrapped up tight. I kissed my virginity goodbye my sophomore year of college, but I was damn careful not to do it with anyone from Savannah. Marc Jardina took my v-card and gave me a few orgasms in return over the six months we dated, but the only people to know about that were my college friends, not one of whom was interested in spreading my business around like chicken feed for the clucking hens. And roosters. I swear the men are worse than the women half the time.

  “Anyway!” Naveed snaps forward in his chair as if he’s just remembered we’re at work instead of chatting about our love lives over happy hour. “I’ve got something to show you, Little Miss Georgia Peach 2010.” I sigh and let go of any illusions I had that Naveed was going to forget my slip-up from the other day. You ask somebody about their kin one damn time and suddenly you’re a retired pageant queen blessing everybody’s freakin’ heart. Good God.

  But I can’t dwell on my ruined reputation with Naveed long when I hear his next words.

  “I had the most brilliant idea for that local artisan spotlight you mentioned. I thought you might want to see.”

  “Absolutely.” I lean in when he slides his iPad across the desk toward me.

  Being a designer, I’m always interested in following the arts in any form. When we were brainstorming about the magazine, I threw out the idea of featuring different urban artisans each month, and it went over like hotcakes. Big cities are full of artists embracing traditional media and crafts—it’s all part of our attempt to recapture a simpler time in our history. That, and rich people pay a shitload for that stuff so they can boast about owning a one-of-a-kind, handmade trinket or wastebasket or whatever.

  Naveed opens a new browser window and taps a few times. “So, this guy does these commissioned iron furniture pieces as well as some general retail items. He’s also done a few sculptures. His last piece sold for some ridiculous sum of money.” He scrolls and stops on an image.

  On the screen is an intricate swirl of black and rust-colored arms curving around a central sphere like planets embracing the sun. It’s beautiful and painstakingly detailed.

  “Wow. That’s gorgeous.”

  I reach out a finger and continue scrolling down, revealing several chair designs and a set of stools I’d sell my mama for.

  “That right there would ensure I’d never leave my apartment.” Naveed points out a black chair that looks like it’s sole purpose for existence is to hug the human body. I nod in agreement and continue scrolling to a photograph of the artist and my breath catches in my lungs.

  The photo is a bit blurry, but I’d know that stare—and that nose—anywhere.

  “Oh my God.” I can feel my ears get hot.

  “What?” Naveed looks up.

  I point to the screen without taking my eyes off the brown orbs staring back at me. “I know that guy.”

  He looks from the iPad to me and back again.

  “Not possible. You just moved here.” Is that a hint of petulance in Naveed’s voice?

  I can feel the heat climb up my neck at the memory of Friday’s encounter and I focus on the toes of my glossy heels before he can spot my discomfort.

  “I, uh, ran into him. The other night.”

  Naveed is silent for only a second before he exclaims, “This is perfect!” Either I’m missing his sarcasm by a mile or he is genuinely pleased at my news.

  I cough and look up at him again. “How so?”

  His mouth is set in a satisfied smile showcasing a deep dimple and a chin as smooth as a baby’s butt. “The divo is not taking interviews.” He pulls his hand back to inspect his nails. “In fact, I was ready to call in a favor to try and get a one-on-one.” His dark eyes snap back up and his steady gaze lends a dramatic overtone to his next words. “Let’s just say it’s not one I’m anxious to use.”

  I’ll probably find that funny later, but I’m still too discombobulated to find humor in the situation.

  Naveed holds the iPad up and jabs King Kong with a finger. “This guy is hot.”

  Ha! He doesn’t have to tell me. The image of a broad sweat-slicked back is permanently burned into the back of my eyeballs. I cough again, but Naveed doesn’t seem to notice or care that I’m squirming in my drawers over here.

  I hum a non-response as I figure out what to say. It’s not like I can tell the features editor of the magazine that I practically pole danced in front of this man and then acted like a complete moron. My one job is to project a professional, no-bullshit image, not act like a college kid on spring break.

  “I don’t really know him.” Naveed cocks his head and I stumble on, not daring to meet his eyes. “I mean, I just met him briefly. The one time. I don’t…” A smile starts spreading over his lips and I might hate him a little. “I don’t even know his name.”

  He’s wearing a full-on smirk now.

  “Honey, please. If I had to count the times.” He sets the iPad back down and brushes nonexistent lint from his jacket sleeves.

  I gasp. “No! No, that’s not what I meant.” The red is back, and you could fry an egg on my forehead. “Jeez. I didn’t… you know.”

  Naveed’s eyes drop back down to the iPad screen and mine can’t help but follow when I hear him sigh dramatically.

  “I wouldn’t blame you if you had.”

  Bambi in the headlights ain’t got nothin’ on me.

  “Can I go now?”

  He reaches a hand across the desk and pats my arm, although he’s still smiling like a jerk.

  “I’m just teasing. But, really, we should use any in we can to nail this guy down.”

  Naveed chokes on a laugh when my jaw drops. “Seriously?”

  He tosses his hands up. “Sorry. Bad choice of words.”

  “Can’t we just go with some old lady who makes windchimes or something?” I’m not above begging.

  “Are you joking?” Naveed practically squeaks. “This interview would be a total coup! It’s appeal like this that will reach the broadest market. Come on, Pop-Tart. You’re charming as hell. If anyone can get this guy to cave, it’s you.”

  My teeth grind at his nickname, but it’s like he knows my kryptonite. The last thing I want is to let the team down and not pull my weight. My mind skips back to how hard Kate worked all weekend while I flitted about and went sightseeing, and I can feel the inevitable coming. I’ll suck up my pride and take one for the team. Beside
s, it’s not like this furniture guy will remember me anyway. Yeah, let’s stick with that.

  “Fine.”

  Naveed hoots and rubs his hands together ala Cruella DeVille, only better dressed.

  “But don’t be surprised if I get the door slammed in my face.” I pin him down with a wicked index finger.

  “We’ve got a ringer,” Naveed sings to himself, sending my teeth grating again.

  How do I get myself into these things?

  * * *

  When I leave Naveed’s office, I’m no longer hungry. Instead, my gut is filled with a cocktail of dread with a splash of lingering butterflies from the memory of a certain furniture-maker’s penetrating gaze.

  I stop in the restroom on the writers’ floor and, like any normal woman, use the opportunity for a bit of self-reflection.

  But I barely get past the initial evaluation of my current predicament when the outer door opens and the clack of heels sounds across the tile floor.

  “Hey, I meant to congratulate you on the Grammercy Park piece. I see features editor in your future,” the first voice says with a teasing tone.

  “Thanks,” a second one replies. “But don’t jinx me.”

  They’ve stopped by the sinks and I try not to eavesdrop but it’s impossible not to.

  “You don’t believe in that woo woo garbage any more than I do.”

  “Maybe not, but better to be safe than sorry. I could end up working on that new disaster of the Ladies’ Book rebrand.”

  I slap a hand over my mouth to smother my gasp. What the hell? Who doesn’t check under the stalls before talking shit? With that in mind, I sink to a new level and draw my knees up to my chest so my feet don’t show should they think better of their careless gossiping. Damn, this is uncomfortable.

  “You don’t know it’ll be a disaster.” Okay, I don’t hate this one.

  “Have you seen the executives they have lined up? Please. Katelyn Perry at least has some built-in credibility, but who in the hell is this chick they brought in for creative? She’s younger than my daughter, and I swear I saw her curtsey at security the other day.”

  The other woman laughs. “Now you’re just making shit up.”

  Yeah! I haven’t curtseyed since my fourth-grade performance as Shephard Number Two in the Nativity play. And even then, it was meant to be ironic. I’m sure I just dropped a pen or something when I was passing security. I have half a mind to stomp my way out of this stall and give this twat a piece of my mind. But my brain is having trouble thinking of the right comeback—and I’m apparently a giant coward.

  “I’m not.” The first woman returns the laugh. “Okay, I might be slightly exaggerating but you know I’m friends with Jenna Baylor in the art department. She’s paid her dues and then some. It must be nepotism.”

  I grit my teeth.

  “Or she’s sleeping with the right person. I hear Art Hillard is due for a fourth wife.” Okay, I officially hate them both.

  “God, if she can stand looking at that wrinkly set of balls, she deserves the job.”

  They both laugh their stupid asses off at that one and I can hear two stall doors close as they finally get down to the business of peeing.

  I hold my breath and wait for them to finish. It isn’t until I hear the outer door close behind them that I finally uncurl my body from its fetal position and get the hell out of there.

  They think I’m not cut out for this job? I’ll freaking show them.

  I hightail it back to the elevator and to my office where I smooth down my hair and adjust my position in my chair before clicking on my new email from Naveed.

  Here’s the number for his studio. Good luck, ringer!

  Damn straight!

  My hands are sweating and I’d much rather be doing anything else right now, but I know I need to woman up so I punch in the number on my phone.

  “Hello.” I practice as I wait for someone to pick up. Too low. “Hello!” I practically screech. Ugh. Too shrill. I can do this.

  “Hello, this is Jonathan.” A slightly muffled, bored voice sounds on the other end of the line. It’s a man, but it’s not my man. Crap. You know what I mean. Why I thought the beast would answer his own phone is beyond me.

  “Hello!” Dammit! I went with the screech. “Ahem. This is Poppy James with Warbey Publishing. How are you today?”

  I can hear him sigh on the other end and know this will be an uphill battle. “It’s a busy day. How may I help you?”

  “We’re putting together a series on urban artisans for—”

  “Didn’t I already speak to someone about this the other day?”

  I figure I have maybe ten more seconds before this guy hangs up on me.

  “Yes. I believe you did. One of our features writers spoke with someone in your office.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what I told him. Mr. McKinley doesn’t do interviews.”

  I’m quick to respond. “Yes. I was told this, but I’m hoping he can make an exception.”

  He does a poor job of holding back his laugh. “And why would he do that? Listen, if you’re calling about a chair or a commission, I can help you, but an interview? No.”

  This is going nowhere fast. I can’t let the call end without at least a chance.

  I put on my best New York Poppy attitude and try matching his cool tone. “Jonathan, was it?”

  “Uh, yes.” That’s more like it.

  “Jonathan, I can assure you Mr. McKinley would benefit greatly from the kind of exposure we’re offering.” My mind dashes back to the kind of exposure he offered me the other night and a flush crawls up my neck again. And then those eyes and that mouth. I mean, wow. An idea strikes and I go with it. “We’re talking a possible cover of a national publication. You can’t buy this kind of publicity. But if he’s not interested, I’m sure we can find an alternate—”

  “Hold, please.”

  Yes! I’ll ignore the fact that I just kinda promised something I have no business promising. Never mind the prototype cover already features a stunning photo of JoJo Ames—self-made millionaire starlet and entrepreneur. Things are likely to change by the first issue’s release in January, right? At least I used the word “possible.” Ack.

  Thirty seconds pass and my thumb creeps up to my mouth where I start gnawing on the nail. Screw manicures; I’ve got bigger things to worry about.

  Tick, tick, tick. The seconds pass and I’m pretty sure he forgot about me when the line is picked up again.

  “Can you be here this evening at six-thirty to meet with his agent?”

  I bolt upright in my chair.

  “Absolutely!”

  “Your name again?”

  “Poppy James. And, thank you. I’ll see you at six-thirty.”

  Dropping the phone back down to my desk, I bite my lip to hold back a squeal. I did it! I actually did it! Never mind the interview itself is not a done deal, but I snagged a meeting. New York Poppy is kicking ass and taking names. Those assholes from the restroom can shove it!

  I glance down at my gray skirt suit and yellow blouse, suddenly glad I dropped the money on it even though $300 is a ridiculous sum to pay for something that’s not even leather. I may have my finger on the pulse of what’s new and hot in the design world, but that doesn’t mean my personal taste runs the way of hot-shot New York socialites. I’d rather kick it in my jeans and boots any day. But it’s like Cookie always says, “You don’t need be a racehorse to know how to win.” Nevertheless, I’m sticking with my plan to dress the part. Iris and I went on a shopping spree on Broughton Street before I left, and I’ve had less painful migraines.

  But I could kiss Iris right now. I look sharp and put together, and my heels only pinch when I walk. Now I need to call Naveed with the good news and tell him any plans he had for after work are officially canceled.

  ‘Cuz we’ve got a date with this magazine’s future.

  Five

  “Best stick to your strengths or you just might find yourself riding back
wards on a horse where the view ain’t nearly so nice.”

  – Cookie Rutledge

  By the time Naveed and I find a taxi and get our asses down to 10th Street, I’m a mess. Luckily, it’s just on the inside. My hair is up in a tight chignon that took me about an hour to accomplish and my makeup says, “Step aside ‘cuz I’m fixin’ to kick your ass!” Add that to the killer outfit and I definitely look the part. Too bad my insides feel like I’m about to drop off the backside of a rollercoaster at Six Flags.

  On the seat next to me, Naveed maintains his air of snappy confidence and types into his phone.

  How can he be so damn relaxed? Needing a distraction, I decide to be nosy.

  “Anything interesting?”

  He glances at me, his mouth curved up and showing off that killer dimple on his left cheek.

  “Just digging up some dirt on our man here.” He turns the screen so I can see a news headline that reads “Tenneson/McKinley Lawsuit Settled for Undisclosed Sum.” I can’t see the date or any details, just a grainy photo of several individuals leaving a courthouse. “You can never be too prepared.”

  I groan inwardly at my stupidity in not doing the very same thing. I need to know more about this guy to make a convincing argument as to why he should give us the time of day. This right here is one of the many reasons I stay behind the scenes in the creative zone.

  But it’s too late. The taxi comes to a stop and the driver barks out the fare. Before I can react, Naveed whips out a credit card and swipes it on the meter while simultaneously opening the door. I barely have time to jump out before the taxi is pulling away and I’m left on the sidewalk to adjust my skirt back down to a socially acceptable length.

  “After you, my dear.” He fakes a small bow and gestures for me to go ahead of him. There’s no turning back now.

  The scene is way too familiar as the brick building looms before me. In the light of day, I can see the garage doors need paint and the windows aren’t the only thing needing a scrub down. A set of double doors I missed the last time stand to the left of the garage doors and have two windows covered in newsprint. For someone who hangs out in this kind of dive, this guy sure is a bit self-important.