And it’s true. The schedule of my life has been increasingly dictated by whether Law & Order CI, SVU, or the original is on (I’m willing to skip SVU, can tape the original, but can’t miss Criminal Intent—big crush on Vincent D’Onofrio). It’s a pathetic existence for someone in the prime of life, but for now, I think it’s wiser to spend my nights with Jack, Lenny and the cute black guy that is his latest partner.
With a small sigh, I gather my documents and head to the boardroom. Of course, I still have doubts about whether breaking up with Sam was the right thing to do, but I feel quite sure . . . fairly sure. And besides, my life isn’t just work and TV dramas. Michelle and I are flying to Punta Cana in April to visit Sandra.
“Hi, everyone.” I smile brightly as I enter the boardroom. It is still a joy not to worry about being sneered at, ignored, or insulted by my coworkers.
“Hi, Kerry,” my boss, Sharon Talisman says. “As soon as Graham from accounting gets here, we’ll get down to business.”
Sharon is presenting the marketing budget for the year and the portion that is allocated toward corporate sponsorships and charitable donations. My role in the meeting is to present a list of potential recipients that represent Raincoast’s commitment to supporting youth in the community. Of course, the Shooting Star program is on my list.
I make my presentation confidently, eager to be given the go-ahead to start allocating funds and working out sponsor partnerships. Sharon peruses the list, nodding in agreement. “This looks great, Kerry, but I’d like you to add another organization.”
“Okay.”
“It’s a program called Art Smarts. It’s run by this brilliant young exec named Dominic Marra. I think he’s really going to take it places and we should get in on the ground floor.”
“Art Smarts?” I say, more to myself than to the boardroom.
“That’s right.” Sharon pencils in the name at the bottom of her list. “I’ll e-mail you Nick’s number so you can discuss the program in more detail.”
“Nick Marra from Art Smarts?” I mumble, my cheeks suddenly turning pink.
“Oh, do you know him from Shooting Star?”
“His name is really Dominic?”
“Yes.”
“But . . . that starts with D?”
“Yes, it does,” Sharon says with a bemused smile. “That’s very good. Now . . . can you tell me what Kerry starts with?”
There are chuckles around the table.
“Sorry!” I say, realizing how odd I must sound. “It’s just that I . . . umm . . . I assumed that Nick was short for Nicholas, which starts with N and not D.” Jeez, this is hardly helping! I clear my throat. “If you’ll e-mail me Nick’s number, I’d love to give him a call.”
I would most definitely love to give him a call.
I rehearsed every possible scenario before making the phone call.
Me: Yes, hello, Nick? It’s Kerry Spence calling.
Nick: Who?
Me: Kerry Spence . . . I met you through the Shooting Star program, invited you to my mother’s house shortly thereafter, where I proceeded to get engaged right in front of you?
Nick: Oh, right. Click (as he hangs up in disgust).
Or more likely . . .
Me: Hello, Nick? This is Kerry Sp—
Nick: Click (as he hangs up in disgust).
Perhaps it would be best not to identify myself right off the bat?
Me: Hello, Mr. Dominic Marra? I’m calling from Raincoast Incorporated’s Charitable Giving program. My name is . . . Mary Pents. . . . [I would mumble this so that when we met in person, I could be all like, “What? Mary Pents? I said Kerry Spence! You must have misheard me!”] We’re interested in making a significant donation to Art Smarts, and I’d like to meet with you to discuss.
Then hopefully, when we did meet in person, the promise of a monetary gift to his organization would be enough to keep him from running screaming at the sight of me.
Or . . . I could disguise myself. Wear a curly wig and glasses. I could continue to pass myself off as Mary Pents until Nick began to fall in love with me. I could envision it already.
“I love you, Mary,” he’d say.
“Kerry,” I’d correct him, whipping off the wig and glasses (hopefully not exposing flattened-down wig hair).
Of course he’d be shocked at first, but eventually he’d be thrilled. He would realize he was in love with the same, wonderful person but with much better hair and contact lenses! It sounded far-fetched to be sure, but a similar trick had worked in Yentl hadn’t it?
Hopefully, I dialed the number.
“Hi. You’ve reached Nick Marra with the Art Smarts program. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you.” Beep . . .
Damn! I’d rehearsed every scenario except the voice-mail one! But perhaps leaving a message would be easier? I cleared my throat. Unfortunately, I think it sounded rather phlegmy.
“Yes, hello, Nick?” I began formally. “I’m calling from Raincoast Incorporated’s Charitable Giving program. Sharon Talisman suggested I call you to discuss the possibility of us contributing to your organization. If you could please call me back . . .” I recited my number. “My name is . . . uh . . . Mary,“ I mumbled. “Umm . . . Pents . . . I mean . . . well . . .” I paused then, for what felt like a good twenty minutes. Finally, “It’s actually Kerry Spence calling,” I blurted. “I know the last time I saw you was . . . well . . . uncomfortable . . .”
And then the words came tumbling forth. “Okay, I know it must have been downright horrible, but I’m working with Sharon now, and she asked me to call you and I was really happy to have another chance to talk to you because . . . well . . . you’re such an amazing guy, and I really like you—
I mean I know I barely know you, but what I do know of you I really like . . .” Stop! Stop talking! I willed my mouth but to no avail. “I mean, I’m sure I’ve totally blown it and you’d never want to see me again, but I wanted you to know that I’m not getting married. You probably don’t even care, but the engagement was a huge mistake. I felt pressured . . . by my mom and, and society, and . . . I don’t know . . . my biological clock, I guess.” D’oh! Good one! Now there was absolutely no chance he’d ever want to see me again.
I sighed heavily. “Anyway . . . all that aside, Sharon and I really believe in your program and all you’re doing for youth in the community. We’d like to give you our support so . . . I hope you can bring yourself to call me back . . . for the sake of the children.”
And then, like an idiot, I hung up. Instead of trying to find a way to delete the ridiculously embarrassing recording, I dropped the receiver like it was scorching my hand. “For the sake of the children.” My God!
It was quite possibly the worst voice message ever left for anyone . . . ever. In addition to being personally humiliating, it was also completely unprofessional. Nick could quite easily complain to Sharon Talisman about my conduct and probably have me fired. But something told me he wouldn’t do that. And who knew? Maybe he’d appreciate my honesty? I’d been really open about my feelings and maybe he’d respect—even admire me for it? Maybe to someone as kind and true as Nick was, the message wouldn’t seem weird at all? I needed a second opinion.
“You said, ‘Call me back for the sake of the children?’ ” Trevor let out a high-pitched scream of a laugh. “That’s hilarious!”
“It’s not that funny,” I retorted. “We’re talking about a children’s charity, so—”
“It is that funny!” Trevor squealed, his voice quaking with hysterical laughter. “F-for the sake of the ch-children! Classic!”
“I’ve got to go.” I hung up and called Val.
“You mentioned your biological clock?”
“Just briefly.”
“Sorry, hon, but that’s like showing up for your first date with a catalog of china patterns.”
“I’ve got to go.” There was no need to ask Michelle’s opinion. I already knew what it would be.
They were right. I had blown it
with Nick—twice. There was no chance that he’d ever call me back. I just hoped that he’d get in touch with Sharon to sort out our contribution—you know . . . for the, uh . . . sake of the children.
Two weeks later, my office phone rang. “Hello? Kerry Spence speaking,” I answered mundanely. It had taken thirteen days, but I had finally stopped affecting a cheerful, professional yet slightly sexy tone . . . just in case.
“Kerry? It’s Meg Rosen calling.”
“Meg!” I said, genuinely pleased to hear from her. I really liked Meg. She was a little too fit and active to be someone I hung out with on a regular basis, but she was a very nice lady and I owed her a lot. “How are you? How are things at Shooting Star?”
“Good. We’re all good,” she said hurriedly. “Look Kerry, I’m calling because I need a huge favor.”
“What is it? I’ll help if I can.”
“We have a fund-raiser appreciation dinner tonight at the Chinook Club.”
“Nice.” The Chinook Club was a very exclusive and chic-chic venue.
“It should be, but we have a problem. One of our mentors was supposed to speak tonight about his experiences with Shooting Star, but he’s been out of the country, and his flight home was delayed. I know it’s short notice, but I was hoping you could fill in?”
“Well . . . sure. Umm . . . How long of a speech are we talking about?”
“Don’t worry. It can be very brief and casual. It’s an intimate gathering, not more than fifty or sixty guests. Most are private or corporate donors; some are representatives from government funding agencies. We’ll open the floor up to questions and make it as interactive as possible. You’d really only need to prepare a three- or four-minute speech.”
“I’ll do it!” I said, happy to help out. “What time tonight?”
“Well . . . the dinner starts at six. We’d like you to speak at seven.”
“But it’s five thirty already!”
“I know. I’m sorry. And don’t worry about what you’re wearing. It’s a black-tie affair but business attire is absolutely fine for a guest speaker. When I introduce you, I can explain that you came straight from the office.”
“Okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
It was not until I hung up the phone that I looked down at my business attire and screeched, “Damn it! It’s casual Friday!”
“Are you okay?” My friend and coworker Leslie popped her head into my office with a bemused expression.
“Not really,” I said. “I have to give a speech at the Chinook Club in just over an hour, and look at me!”
“Ohhh,” she said, feeling my pain. “You have that big coffee stain on your jeans.”
“What?” Sure enough, I did. “Shit! What am I going to do? I can’t get up in front of a bunch of rich philanthropists and corporate bigwigs looking like this! Do you think I can make it home to Queen Anne and over to Mercer Island in an hour and a half?”
“No . . . but I have a great idea!” Leslie said gleefully.
“What? What?”
“I live two blocks from here! You can borrow something of mine!”
“Really? Oh, my God!” I jumped up and hugged her. “You are such a lifesaver!”
“It’s no problem.” Leslie laughed. “We’re about the same size.”
“You’re thinner,” I said, almost automatically.
Leslie suddenly gasped. “I’ve got the perfect dress! It’s absolutely gorgeous and will look fabulous on you.”
“Let’s go!” I said excitedly, grabbing my briefcase.
Leslie’s apartment was slightly smaller than mine, which I would previously have thought impossible. I sat in the living room on her overstuffed couch while she rummaged in her bedroom closet looking for the perfect dress. “I haven’t even worn it!” she called. “I fell in love with it in the store and had to have it, but I haven’t had an occasion to wear it.”
“Are you sure you want to lend it to me?” I called back. “You know I sometimes spill things. . . .”
Leslie emerged, clutching a garment bag. “I’d be honored for you to wear it,” she said sweetly. “It’s for such a good cause, and you’ll look beautiful in it.”
“Thank you so much,” I said sincerely, watching in anticipation as she gingerly removed the dress from its covering.
“Voila!” she said, holding the gown up by the hanger.
Oh, God!! Oh God!! Noooooooooooooooo!!
“Isn’t it gorgeous?” she asked eagerly.
“It’s so . . .” My brain scrambled for the words. Eighties? Alexis Carrington? Soap opera-ish? Finally, I settled for, “ . . . fancy.”
“It’ll be perfect for the Chinook Club!” Leslie said, caressing the fuchsia satin. “Oops. The sleeves got a little flattened down in the garment bag. I’ll just fluff them up for you.”
“Thanks,” I said weakly. “Let’s get them nice and puffy.”
“And I have some dangly rhinestone earrings that will be perfect with it.”
I made one last ditch effort to save myself. “I don’t know, Les,” I said. “You haven’t even worn it and it’s so, so beautiful—I wouldn’t feel right. Maybe I could just borrow a black skirt or something?”
Leslie’s eyes actually misted up when she looked at me. “I want you to wear it, Kerry. What’s the point of having such a gorgeous dress if it’s just going to hang in the back of my closet forever? Please wear it?”
“Of course I will,” I said bravely. “Thank you so much.”
I arrived at the Chinook Club ten minutes before seven. Theresa met me at the entrance, looking every bit as awkward in her royal blue gown as I felt in my Dynasty outfit.
“Kerry! I’m so glad you made it. You really saved us!”
“My pleasure,” I said glumly, my rhinestone danglers slapping against my cheeks as I spoke.
“There’s a podium set up at the front of the dining room where you’ll be speaking. Meg’s already inside. She’ll introduce you in a few minutes then you can go right to the microphone. Also, for Tiffany’s privacy, please don’t use her real name when speaking—just refer to her as your protégée.”
“No problem.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fantastic.” She squeezed my hand. “And you look . . . great . . . really . . . fancy.”
“Thanks.”
Theresa escorted me to a side entrance where we waited, peeking through a crack in the door, for my cue to enter. I tried to get a glimpse of the other guests from this vantage point. It was difficult in the low lighting, but I was fairly sure that there was at least one diner in an outfit similar to mine. Of course, she appeared to be in her sixties with a platinum blond bouffant hairdo complete with tiara, but at least I wouldn’t be the sole fashion faux pas tonight.
Meg strode to the microphone dressed in an annoyingly sophisticated, black crepe de chine sheath. “Good evening, everyone, and thank you for coming.”
Okay . . . I inhaled deeply. What is really important is what I have to say, not how I look. No one will even notice my outfit as they will be so enthralled by my account of mentoring a high- to medium-risk teen. With all the money they’re donating to the program, they’ll be absolutely thrilled to hear about a really successful mentoring relationship.
“And now, I’d like to introduce one of our mentors to give you a first-hand account of the Shooting Star experience. It was so kind of her to agree to speak tonight on such incredibly short notice. We had a speaker cancel due to a plane delay, so I called Kerry at her office, less than two hours ago. She so kindly agreed to fill in and share with us her experiences with her protégée. So here she is, straight from the office . . . Kerry Spence.”
There was a smattering of applause as I entered the room in a burst of puffy sleeves and fuchsia satin. Meg gaped at me momentarily in what looked like horror, but quickly composed herself, ushering me to the podium.
“Thanks, Meg,” I said graciously, forcing myself to stare straight ahead so as not to be distracted by the po
uf of sleeves in my peripheral vision. The lights directly overhead obscured the audience, and I was able to concentrate fully on the short speech I’d prepared.
“I’m honored to be able to talk to you tonight about Shooting Star,” I began confidently. “I became involved with the program last year, and I can honestly say that the experience was life altering for me.” I then proceeded to relay how much my relationship with Tiffany brought to my life, how it helped me put my own problems and issues into perspective, and how her bravery was such an inspiration to me. “Thank you so much for your commitment to supporting high- to medium-risk teens in our community,” I concluded. “I’d be happy to answer any questions you might have.”
Thankfully, the applause that followed was a bit more than a smattering, signifying that despite my dress, the speech was well received.
“I have a question!” a man in the audience called out. He stood up and through the bright lights I took in his graying hair, tall, fit frame and dignified deportment. “I enjoyed your speech Ms. Spence, and I’m very glad you found your mentoring experience so rewarding.”
“Thank you.” I smiled.
“But frankly, I’m more interested in how the mentoring relationship benefited your protégée than yourself. After all, we’re providing funds to help youth, not full-grown women.” There were a few chuckles from the crowd.
“Of—of course,” I stammered, taken aback by his mildly confrontational tone. “My protégée spoke very highly of her experience in a recent survey. And I feel confident that the friendship and connection I feel toward her is reciprocated.”
“But what about some tangibles,” the man continued in a condescending tone. “Did she improve academically during your relationship?”
“Well, she’s a bright girl, but she didn’t really like school very much,” I said honestly. “Although, she did enjoy reading The Outsiders in English class . . . except for the ending, which I have to agree is really sad and she thought really stupid. So . . . she didn’t want to write a paper about it and . . . umm . . . as a result, I think she may have failed that class.”
“Interesting,” the pompous ass continued. “And what about disciplinary issues? Was there any improvement on that front?”
The Journal of Mortifying Moments Page 27