Riches & Rags: Things are seldom as they seem.

by Camille Nagasaki

  Break a leg, Laney.

  “May I present Eleanor Johnston of Katz Interiors and Marissa Marsden of Marsden Laughlin Design? Ladies, I’d like you to meet Lane Carson and Billy Jean of Leia Design Consultants.”

  I have to hand it to Juliet, she’s really good. Billy and I are all smiles as we shake hands with the two gals. Eleanor, a short, petite woman, apologizes profusely. Apparently her assistant got the appointment mixed up, and it was only when she arrived at the other appointment to no avail that they realized the times were switched. Marissa is tall and lanky with an over-sized schnoz, but I notice with appreciation her suit is tailored to perfection—and those Kate Spade boots make up for any personal shortcomings. Speaking of shortcomings, I give Juliet another disapproving once-over. “Aren’t you going to offer our guests a drink?”

  Juliet’s pained blue eyes meet mine and she physically shrinks back. “Uh, may I offer you a drink? Tea, coffee, champagne mimosas?” She struggles to maintain her poise, but I see I’ve rattled her.

  Well, so what. She told me she had a maid outfit, not a French maid Halloween costume! We’re supposed to come across as professional, not tacky. And throwing herself at Liam, all giggly—it’s bullshit!

  “Tea, please,” Eleanor says.

  We turn to Marissa, who gives a shy smile. “Um, actually a mimosa sounds lovely.”

  “Of course.” Juliet nods.

  “Actually, can I change my mind? A mimosa does sound great,” Eleanor pipes in, and we all laugh.

  “Make that four,” I add.

  “Make that five.” We turn to see Liam striding toward us with Rory still in his arms. I notice with glee the jaws on both women have dropped. Liam drops another kiss on Rory’s head before passing her to Juliet, who disappears with her to the kitchen.

  “Ladies, we’re pleased to introduce our client, Mr. Liam O’Connell,” Billy says.

  “How do you do? Thank you so much for coming today.”

  Eleanor appears to find her voice. “Our pleasure. This space is magnificent,” she coos.

  Billy and I exchange bemused looks.

  Is she talking about the ballroom or Liam, because her eyes haven’t left his face?

  “So, let’s get right to it, shall we?” Liam asks, with the authority and confidence of a self-made man. “This ballroom is indeed magnificent,” he sweeps his arm in a grand gesture, “but it’s rather tired. I hold a lot of corporate events here—galas, charity balls, and such. I hired Lane and Billy to bring me the best Vancouver designers to submit proposals for a complete redesign.”

  “Do you want to keep within the traditional character of the space?” Marissa asks, already jotting notes and sketches in her notebook.

  “Well, let’s just say I’m open to just about anything. Lane and Billy have prepared an outline as to my expectations.”

  I slip my hand in the leather case and pull out the cards. They’re printed on five-by-seven thick glossy stock. One side outlines our business and the other features photos of the ballroom, as well as the parameters for designers to work within. I hand the ladies one each, and hold my breath as their eyes travel both sides of the glossy cards. I sigh with relief when I realize they’re impressed—though I wish I knew what they thought about our 10 percent fee. Juliet materializes, balancing a tray of mimosas, and I feel my impatience rise; I just want her to get back to Rory. I know Rory is in her playpen, and she must be freaking out. But as Liam said, the ladies hardly pay attention to Juliet as they take their drinks, devoted eyes on Liam.

  Liam graces all of us with a triumphant smile and raises his glass. “To my ballroom.”

  “To your ballroom,” we echo.

  This is great! I throw back my glass and take a huge sip as Eleanor says, “You know, I thought this house belonged to Admiral Harris?”

  WHAT! I choke on my drink and gasp for a breath as my lungs fill with mimosa. I cough and splatter mimosa all over the place as Marissa lifts my left arm.

  “What are you doing?” Billy asks with intrigue.

  “Clearing her air passage.”

  Liam’s eyes meet mine as he hands me an actual handkerchief, which I gratefully accept. Who under the age of eighty actually carries a hanky anyway? Then I remember Liam is European.

  “How did you know Admiral Harris?” Liam asks in a casual way.

  “We used to live a few blocks away. Did he move?”

  “He died,” I say before I can think of anything better.

  Eleanor’s face falls and then she asks, “Hey, how did you know?”

  Oh right, I’m supposed to just be the design consultant. “We used to live in Kits too,” I say with a confident nod.

  “Oh.” Eleanor smiles. “I guess he was a popular man.”

  Okay, I want to get off the subject of bloody George. I pull my phone out to see it’s 10:22 already, and we haven’t accomplished a thing.

  Billy takes my cue and jumps into action. “What Mr. O’Connell has generously offered is a carte blanche, if you will. He’s open to any and every possibility, whether that includes staying within the traditional parameters for the period of this house or completely revamping the space to reflect contemporary times.”

  Nice Billy! He really sounds like he knows what he’s talking about.

  “Ladies, if you would like to take a few minutes to move about the space and then share your vision, that would be fantastic.”

  “All measurements are included on the card I gave you, though the ceiling height is approximate,” I add. The ladies wander off in opposite directions and the guys and I exchange discreet thumbs up. So far, so good.

  After a few minutes, we reconvene by the grand piano. Eleanor proposes keeping with tradition by working with the color palate from the time period and installing a wraparound mezzanine with a wrought iron spiral staircase on either side of the ballroom. Marissa frowns at the suggestion and questions fire safety; and I agree with her concerns. I once made my way down those narrow spiral staircases in high heels, and it took me about an hour.

  Marissa, on the other hand, proposes creating a ‘wow’ factor for corporate events, including building a stage and having engineers install a beam from which aerial acrobats can suspend from silks. Both ideas are credible.

  When it feels like our meeting is drawing to a close, Billy and I pry the ladies away from Liam and lead them to the front door. “It’s a fabulous space,” they both gush.

  “It is,” I agree.

  Billy and I walk the designers to the sidewalk. This is it! “Are you all right to provide proposals within a four week timeline? Usually it would be much quicker but with Christmas and all…”

  “Absolutely,” says Eleanor.

  “Likewise,” Marissa adds with a nod.

  I take a deep breath. “And our fee structure, did you see that on the card?”

  “I did,” says Eleanor. “So your fee includes sourcing the clients, qualifying them, and bringing them to us?”

  “It does,” Billy says, with an encouraging smile. “We offer business development, which includes qualifying clients to save your firm marketing and advertising fees, and we also funnel client inquiries. We go a step further to bring you the kind of clientele you desire, and offer a full briefing on what the client’s needs and expectations are so you can eliminate the time wasters.”

  “In addition,” I say, “we coordinate the appointments with clients, so you essentially don’t have to do anything but show up and take it from there.”

  “Also,” Billy adds, “if the project doesn’t go ahead or the client chooses another designer, or if you don’t think it’s a good fit, then you don’t owe us anything.”

  Marissa nods again and looks quite satisfied with our reasonable proposal. Eleanor has pulled the card out of her leather portfolio and is nodding enthusiastically. “To tell you the truth,” she says, “I don’t have much time to run after clients these days. Having them brought to me, already qualified, sounds fantastic. I just hope you contact me
often. I’m always eager to work with new clients.”

  Great! We all beam at each other and say goodbye, and Billy and I wave as the ladies hop in their cars and drive off. Then we turn to each other and squeal in victorious delight. This is going to work, it really is!

  Billy glances at his phone. “We have about eight minutes before the next designer arrives.”

  “I have to pee!” I cry.

  “Me too!”

  We race inside to the warmth of home and ready ourselves for designer number three.

  By the time the fourth designer has left, and we’re waiting for designer number five, I couldn’t be more drained. My feet are killing me and my face hurts from smiling. Not to mention, I don’t know how many flutes of champagne I’ve downed.

  Rory is sleeping in the playpen in George’s living room, and Juliet and Liam are flirting in a corner.

  And I’m shooting them daggers with my eyes.

  “Would you just chill out?” Billy says under his breath.

  I don’t take my eyes off the duo and instead hiss, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Right. Sure, Lane. You’re only green with jealousy. All those nasty comments and mean looks you’ve been giving her all day…”

  Juliet’s eyes meets mine, and I squint in accusation. Her face crumples, and she mutters something to Liam, turns, and disappears down the hall. Now it’s Liam’s turn to give me a look of disappointment, before stalking off in the opposite direction.

  “Do you see the drama you’re creating, all over a stupid outfit? Do you realize—”

  A car door slams, and we rush to the window. I want to get a look at the next designer. A yellow cab is parked outside, and the cabbie is pulling a wheelchair out of the trunk.

  “What the…”

  The cabbie opens the back door for the passenger, and to our horror we watch as a rickety old man emerges and shoos the wheelchair away, working himself into a hissy fit we can hear from inside.

  This can’t be happening.

  Billy and I exchange looks of utter dread.

  “Go tell Liam and Juliet. I’ll be at the door to distract George!”

  “Okay! Crap.” Billy races off in the direction of the kitchen, where Liam went, and I try to work out a plan to distract George. As I pace the floor, Juliet brushes past me with her bag over her shoulder and heads for the front door.

  “Wait! Where are you going?” My voice rises in panic.

  Juliet swings around, an injured look in her eyes. “I’m leaving, Lane. You don’t want me here, obviously. I just want to go home.”

  “No…but…Juliet. Who’s going to watch Rory if you leave?”

  “You know what? Never in my life has anyone made me feel shittier about myself, or more self-conscious, as you have today.” Juliet gives me a long look. Finally, she shakes her head, a look of pity crossing her face. “It’s because of Liam isn’t it?”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, my voice shrill with denial.

  “You want Liam’s attention for yourself. But you already have a man, Lane. Why can’t I have a good man too? It’s always all about you, and sadly, there’s no room for anyone else in our friendship. There’s no room for me.”

  And with that, she turns on her heel, opens the door, and pulls it closed behind her with a click, as I stare after her, feeling sheepish.

  “Did Juliet just leave?” Billy asks, as he enters the foyer followed closely by Liam.

  “Yeah. She had a headache. And I think I have one too.” But there’s no time to sulk because a key is turning in the lock.

  24

  “Go hide!” I hiss to the guys, and they take off down the corridor toward the ballroom. The door swings open and George is standing alone without as much as a bag of belongings.

  “George!” I cry with mock surprise. “What are you doing home? Here, come let me get you seated. Do you want me to walk you upstairs to bed?”

  “Would you quit fussing like an old hen? I need to sit down.” He plods into the living room and eyes his couch, but the couch is in view of the front door. I grab his arm and purposely steer him to the love-seat by the window. He collapses with a big sigh, and I whip the curtains closed behind him so he can’t see outside.

  The doorbell rings, so I flash George a big smile, race to the living room entrance, and close the french doors behind me. I greet the next designer and usher him into the ballroom, make introductions, and excuse myself for a second. Then I race back to George’s living room, closing the doors behind me once more.

  “Hello!” I say with another giant smile.

  George narrows his eyes. “What are you up to now, Lane? And who was at the door, and why are you so dressed up. And more importantly, why is there a sleeping baby in my living room?”

  Shit. I glance at Rory who’s sleeping on her tummy, her bum up in the air.

  “Uhhhh. We had a floral delivery…I’m going out soon for a meeting.”

  “And the baby?” George’s weary voice rings out. He sinks back onto the cushion and slowly drags his legs one at a time onto the love-seat.

  “Um…well…I brought her down for a change of scenery. I mean, she gets bored looking at the same four walls upstairs…and we had to feed your cat anyway.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What exactly are you doing home, George?”

  “I live here. I wasn’t going to spend another bloody night in that hospi—”

  “Hey, not to cut you off, but I have to go do something. Do you mind just watching Rory for a sec?”

  “You want me to babysit?” George asks in disbelief. “Jesus, Lane. I’ve been home all of thirty seconds. I just had triple-bypass surgery!” His crotchety voice rises in apparent protest and I feign a look of surprise.

  “Oh, I thought it was just a little heartburn? Anyway, hold that thought, I’ll be right back!” I slip out of the room, sprint to the kitchen, pour the drinks and zip them to the ballroom.

  For the next four hours, I run like mad—delighting clients, fetching drinks, entertaining Rory, picking up Margo from school, and getting updates from Billy and Liam.

  Margo and Rory are now hunkered down in George’s living room, where he has finally given up and fallen asleep. It was a nightmare, with the doorbell ringing every hour and me trying to keep up that flowers were being delivered. George didn’t understand who they were from, why I insisted on keeping them upstairs for myself, or how people knew he was already home. I think he was suspicious, but all the action tuckered him out and now, with him sleeping, at least I can relax a bit.

  “Can we go upstairs?” Margo whines, looking around George’s faded living room.

  “In a bit. Okay?”

  Margo sulks and slumps into the couch. Rory just seems happy to be out of the playpen and is on what must be her sixtieth lap around the coffee table. I hear voices coming down the hall so I apologize to the girls, toss Rory back in the playpen, and hurry to see the designer out.

  This designer, Pierre Lapoint, is a pretty entertaining guy. I think he missed his calling and should have been in theater but, from what I remember hearing, he’s incredibly talented at design. He’s parading down the corridor with Billy, sporting an identical Louis Vuitton bag. I close the door on Rory’s cries and turn with a charming smile.

  “Darling, let me tell you. The ballroom is spectacular, but not as fine as the client,” Pierre says.

  Oh Liam, what would we do without him?

  Outside, the air is cool and the sky its usual winter gray, but I’m feeling incredibly hopeful for the way things are working out with the designers. While Billy and I walk Pierre to his car, we review our services and fees. He’s enthusiastic, just like most of the designers have been.

  We chat for a few more minutes, then Pierre glances down the street, squints his eyes, and bursts out laughing. “Check out the dork on the Segway!” he cries.

  I follow his gaze and can make out a man riding one of those stupid two-wheeler Segway
things. “I’ve actually never seen anyone ride one of those. Remember they were supposed to be the next big thing?” I laugh along with Billy and Pierre as we watch the guy approach.

  “Hey, look he has a kid on there with him.” Pierre hoots. I glance again and see a kid suspended, somehow, and holding onto the handlebars too.

  “That’s some ugly kid,” Pierre says.

  But my stomach has already bottomed out. The “kid” has a freakish grin and yellow hair that sticks straight up. Our meeting is about to be ambushed. I gulp in panic and turn back to Pierre with an eager smile. “Well, it was great meeting you. You must be in a rush, let us finish walking you to—”

  “Laney!” Dad’s voice calls out.

  “Um…to your car, come—”

  “What’s up, Elaine!”

  Oh. My God. Billy and I exchange looks of utter mortification.

  “Hey, I think he’s calling you, Lane,” Pierre says, raising his eyebrows.

  “Riiiight.” I turn as Dad comes barreling down the sidewalk. He does some jerky stop and jump movement, and to my complete horror, he and Riley crash down onto the pavement. The Segway tips over and flips off the sidewalk and onto the street, with a horrible clang.

  “Are you okay?” I cry.

  Dad lies still for a couple of seconds, then opens his eyes and winces with pain. He struggles to sit up, his arms and legs tangled and intertwined with Riley’s. Blood trickles down his forehead and he wipes it away, looking a little dazed. Then he seems to remember Riley and cries out in anguish at the sight of blood on Riley’s arm.

  “My son is hurt!” he cries, clutching Riley close.

  “Dad, he’s fine!” I say, before I can stop myself.

  “This is your dad?” Pierre watches Dad, an amused smile tugging on his lips, and I feel an urge to protect my bleeding father.

  “Pops! Are you okay?” Margo is outside. She must have been watching from the living room. Dad is preoccupied with consoling Riley and barely acknowledges us.

  “Well, don’t let us hold you up. I’m sure you have other meetings,” I say to Pierre.

  “That’s right, and we do too!” Billy adds in a last-ditch effort to get rid of him.