by Jane Porter
It wasn’t just that Olivia got the tickets and tables sold—she managed to sell everything: the concept, the emotion, the suffering, the humanity. People wanted to be part of the ball. They wanted to give. They wanted to be part of something out of the norm...
And Olivia, clever girl, turned something wicked—something inherently taboo—into something incredibly beneficial. She made being bad good.
San Francisco loved it. David loved it. Rumor has it that he told her if he ever fell in love with a woman, it’d be her. I don’t blame him.
As I look at Olivia, the corner of her lovely grape-colored mouth lifts, a small acknowledgment that nobody’s perfect. Two years ago David and Olivia had an argument that very nearly came to blows. Olivia wanted a bigger piece of the company pie, and David told her to F-off. Although they patched things up, David took the Leather Lace Ball from her, handing it over to a new rising star, redhead Tessa Biglione, an Irish-Italian from New York who doesn’t give a rat’s ass about anybody’s feelings, and two and a half years after being hired, Olivia says, it shows.
According to Olivia, Tessa’s team has the highest turnover at City Events. Tessa’s team can’t stand working together. Tessa’s team can’t stand Tessa.
And right now Tessa’s team has apparently run the ball into the ground. The ball is less than six weeks away, and there are no generous corporate sponsors secured, few of the gold and platinum tables have been sold, and even regular-priced tickets aren’t moving. Essentially, there’s a venue and an event but no money and no one coming.
“I can’t have this.” David grabs a chair, drops into it. “I won’t.” He closes his eyes, presses two fingers to the bridge of his nose, and breathes deep.
Medium height, well built; fit, David is a sun-streaked forty-something who looks as if he had jumped out of a Tommy Hilfiger ad, except he’s not forty-something; he’s fifty-something, but David takes care of himself. David has a new lover, someone Olivia thinks is very good for him, but David can’t seem to let go of Tony, even though Tony’s been gone ten years. Olivia says it’s the way Tony died—awful, so awful—and I think she might be right.
“We spend”—David breaks off, swallows, tries again—”I spend thousands of dollars on this event every year. The Leather and Lace Ball isn’t just an event. It’s how I remember Tony. Most of you don’t know Tony but—” and David breaks off. For a moment he can’t speak.
He sits for a moment longer, then abruptly stands. And when he looks at us, all of us, his lips twist, and it’d be a smile if there weren’t so much heartbreak in his face. “I don’t care what you have to do to make this work. The Leather and Lace Ball funds the Hospice Foundation’s annual budget. We can’t afford to fail.”
The meeting effectively ends with David walking out. You’d think we’d all sit there, pull together the way we should, especially since it’s obvious David’s really torn up, but Tessa’s up and gone, and then various staffers—mostly her staffers—start wandering out, until it’s Olivia, Josh, Sara, and me left. Olivia’s team.
“So what do we do?” Josh says. Even though he’s the only guy on Olivia’s team, no one thinks of him as a guy. He’s good at this job, organized, detailed, but like Olivia, he also has a great eye, great vision—I’ve seen him make an amazing centerpiece out of green apples and pussy willow.
Olivia hasn’t stirred. “Nothing.”
I look at Olivia. “Nothing?”
She suddenly looks old. Older. You can tell she’s nearly thirty, and you see something in her eyes you don’t normally see: defeat.
I’m not the only one stunned. Josh and Sara exchange nervous glances. “But you heard David,” Josh starts, and Olivia shakes her head.
“It’s too late.” Her dark eyebrows pull. “The ball is six weeks away. There’s no way we can salvage it, not at this point, not when we’ve so many other commitments.”
I can’t accept that. I’ve just listened to David for the last half hour. I’ve seen his pain. This ball is so important to him. “But—”
“The Foundation’s budget isn’t our concern,” Olivia interrupts, and her voice is flat, tense, ruthless. “Our job is to honor City Events’ commitments and protect City Events’ reputation.”
“But—”
“The ball’s been losing money for two years.” Olivia turns, looks at me. “It was a good idea ten years ago. We made it more provocative five years ago. But it’s old now. It’s been done. Attendance is declining because people want something new. You’re not going to get the big corporate sponsors anymore.”
Sara and Josh gather their things, duck out. I’m still in the conference room, trying to understand. I look at the office, which is virtually deserted. Everyone’s gone on home. They’ve used David’s meeting to call it a day.
“Olivia, you could make this work.” I sit at the table, facing her, my palms pressed to the ebony-tinted glass. “You’re good. Better than good. You could pull this off—”
“Why do you think I let Tessa have the ball?” Olivia leans back, folds her arms behind her head, and regards me steadily. Her expression is calm—calm but hard. She’s pulling no punches here.
Forgive me. I’m slow. I’m trying to digest everything Olivia’s saying. “I thought David gave Tessa the ball. I thought you were being punished...”
“Punished? I let David take it from me. I knew the ball couldn’t sustain that kind of momentum. Everything has its time. Nothing lasts forever.” Olivia laughs, low and harsh, and runs long, elegant fingers through her hair. “Rule number one, Holly: know when to say when.”
Chapter Four
Know when to say when.
Olivia’s words stay with me as I drive home. The fog is moving in, and it’s not even that late. It’s late August and it feels like winter, and I don’t know if it’s the cold, damp night or Olivia’s fatalism, but I’m definitely depressed.
I realize, too, that my problems seem pretty insignificant compared to David’s loss. His partner died. Mine just divorced me. Jean-Marc and I were married for one (unhappy) year. Tony and David had a meaningful decade.
Driving the hilly, congested streets punctuated with the clang-clang and rumble of the cable cars, I can’t help wondering what makes couples stick.
Why can some people go the distance? What makes a relationship work?
If only I could identify the ingredient that makes two people want to be together and stay together despite the problems, the conflicts, the self asserting its needs, then maybe Jean-Marc and I would be together today.
Maybe my mom and dad would be together today.
Maybe half of U.S. marriages wouldn’t end in divorce.
I change lanes but fail to signal, and suddenly a white Porsche brakes hard behind me, and the driver gives me lots of attention with his middle finger. Thanks, man. That feels good.
For a split second I feel like Loser Girl all over again, and then I shake it off, thinking instead of David and Tony, of how much David loved Tony and how much Tony—and the Leather & Lace Ball—still means to David. And knowing that the ball is David’s tribute to Tony, I can’t comprehend how Olivia, who has been so devoted to David and City Events, can detach herself now.
The ball isn’t about power. It’s about love.
Isn’t it?
By the time I’ve found parking two streets over and hoofed it. in damp darkness to my apartment—the tall Victorian gingerbread house, black since Cindy has left for her long weekend already—Tom Lehman is so not part of my thoughts that when I discover two messages from him, I’m shocked.
But what amazes me most is that Tom Lehman has called twice in less than two hours. Two messages in as many hours smacks of desperation even to me. Dropping my coat, I promptly erase both messages.
And then the phone rings.
It’s him. I know it is. Simply because I know my luck. I’ve had this same luck since I started kindergarten, and it’s not the kind of luck that’s, well... lucky. It’s more like cursed lu
ck, and it works this way—you don’t get what you want, and what you don’t want, you get. So when the phone rings now, I know who it is because he’s the one I don’t want calling.
But the phone keeps ringing, and regretfully I answer.
“Holly. Tom Lehman here.”
Of course. Murphy’s Law meets ancient Chinese fortune. “Hi.”
“I’ve been trying to reach you.”
No kidding. “I just walked in.” God, I wish I’d never given him my home number. Big mistake. I’m so not ready for this, not ready for men and dates and making up polite excuses when I can still barely get myself up and dressed in the morning without bursting into tears.
“How did your meeting go?”
“It was pretty tense.”
“I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t sound all that sorry. He sounds cavalier. “It’s not your fault,” I answer, trying to think of a way to get off the phone before something truly awful happens.
“Maybe I can make it better. I’ve reservations at Ovio for tomorrow night.” He pauses for emphasis. “Ovio is the place to go right now. Great bar. Killer menu. The chef’s that Chinese-Brazilian guy. everybody’s talking about. You can’t get reservations.”
“How did you?”
He laughs, really pleased. “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
Maybe he should just kill me. “I thought the plan was to do drinks.”
“We’ll still have drinks. I have a couple great places in mind. But when Aimee said you’re still new to the area, I thought I’d take you out, show you some of the hottest places around town.”
I suddenly know the kind of animal I’m dealing with. Trendy Tom’s his name. Being seen is his game. “That’s really nice of you to offer, Tom, but I don’t think—”
“Hey,” he cuts me short. “Holly.” His voice deepens. “I’ve been there.”
We’re two guys in the locker room, and he’s just given me the halftime pep talk.
“I’ve been through a big breakup, too,” he continues in the same confidential, you-can-trust-me tone that he must have learned when he started his cold-calling career. “I haven’t been married yet, so I can’t imagine what it feels like getting divorced, but it can’t be easy.”
I’ve told very few people about Jean-Marc. I’ve intentionally kept my marriage and divorce quiet. Yes, there’s shame in my silence, but more than that, there’s the heartbreak I can’t talk about, not with friends, not with family, not with anyone.
It’s not that I’m the silent, secretive type. Far from it. My mother used to call me Chatty Cathy, but what’s happened to me, what’s happened to what I hope, what I believe, is beyond words. Beyond language as I know it.
The divorce—the rejection, the confusion—it all just hurts too bad. Just makes me want to disappear forever, but that’s not an option, not when you’re only twenty-five and still-young-with-your-whole-life-ahead-of-you.
So I don’t talk about it. I haven’t talked about it, and no one knows what I went through last year, trying to keep it together, trying to figure out a way to make the marriage work. I changed my hair color four times—went wild with sunny blond highlights, then darkened it, going for sultry; when dark didn’t work, I tried red, and the red turned out brassy, overly chemical, and then I tried again and looked Persian with the odd henna purple rinse.
There were diets.
Trips to the shrink.
Agonized phone calls to college friends.
What’s wrong with me? How can I change? How can I make him fall in love with me again?
But this is none of Tom Lehman’s business; this is something I would never have told him. It’s too late now; he knows about my failure. With my pride gone, I give in. “What time are our reservations?”
“Eight. I’ll pick you up at six thirty.”
An hour and a half of drinks before at least two hours of dinner. Great. I think my first date in two years is going to kill me.
I hang up, head to the kitchen, and curse Jean-Marc yet again.
It’s his fault I’m here, back on the market. I didn’t want to be on the market. I’d thought I’d escaped all this.
Dating is nothing short of torture.
I know. Some women actually enjoy it, but I never have. I’m so not good at bullshitting. I struggle with having to be nice and make this polite, cordial conversation that sounds horrendous even at cocktail parties. It’s practically a miracle to have a good date. It’s an out-of-body experience when a man knows how to carry on an interesting conversation.
Jean-Marc was interesting. Talking to him was like playing a game of tennis on a summer morning: warm, flirty, light. Jean-Marc knew a great deal about literature and politics, and yet when he spoke he was dry, witty, self-deprecating. From the first night, I loved being with him.
I loved him.
It didn’t hurt that marrying him meant I was done with meeting men, done with the awkward conversations and even more awkward attempts at lovemaking. I wasn’t a virgin when I married Jean-Marc, but-I certainly wasn’t an expert, either, yet being with Jean-Marc, making love to him, felt right.
Since Jean-Marc and I spent all our time together, getting married seemed like the natural progression. Marriage meant safety. Security. Acceptance.
In case you’re wondering, the sound you hear, that’s me laughing hysterically.
Once I’ve stopped laughing (or crying, depending on how you categorize the sound), I examine the cabinets, looking for something that could pass for dinner, but all I see is my stuff.
Even now, three months after moving in, my kitchen shelves kill me. I have eight Waterford wineglasses but no regular drinking glasses. One set of inexpensive everyday dishes and twelve place settings of Rosenthal china, rich cobalt blue on white, edged with gold. The Rosenthal was four hundred a place setting—so expensive that the lady at the Visalia department store said to my mother (not knowing it was my mother), “Who does this girl think she is, picking out china that’s fit for a princess?”
And my mother, bless her, looked that small-town saleslady in the eye. “My daughter.”
I really think, in my mother’s heart of hearts, she wanted me to be a princess and marry Prince Charming and have the happily-ever, because she didn’t. But she and I should have also realized that not everyone in our small town would feel that way. After all, we’re not Trumps, Hiltons, or Rockefellers. In Visalia we’re Johnsons and Smiths, Morses, Winns, Woodses, and Humpals, but you’d never know it by the gifts Jean-Marc and I received. It was almost as if the entire town wanted the fairy tale, too, because instead of sturdy, practical beige and brown bath towels from Sears, we received the entire set of Rosenthal.
I hadn’t ever imagined we’d get the entire set of fine china, but that’s what happened. We didn’t get pots and pans; we got hardly any bath towels; we didn’t get ice cream machines or coffee-bean grinders; but we did get all our Waterford (which Jean-Marc took, except for the eight white-wine goblets). I took the complete set of china.
That’s how I started my new life: poor in spirit but rich in extravagant table settings. A girl has to know her priorities.
I never knew mine.
And having been married—-for, oh, just about 320 days—I’m going to break the code of silence and tell you all the secret stuff the permanently marrieds would never tell you.
First, be suspicious of anything that is surrounded by the word “shower.” The moment the word “shower” is attached to a function, i.e., baby shower, wedding shower, be careful. Really careful.
A bridal shower is usually given by a close friend or family member of the bride, and who attends? .All the older women. Mom, Grandma Betty, Aunt Claire, Aunt Carol, Godmother Eileen, plus Mom’s bridge group, the friends from Symphony League, PEO, Pi Beta Phi alums, and so on and so on until the young, nubile bride is surrounded by a sea of gray and bottle-brown and blonde fifty-, sixty-, and seventy-year-olds, and what do they do? They shower the bri
de with presents and pretty cards and lots of enthusiasm when really, on the inside, they’re thinking, Oh, is she in for a big surprise.
That’s right. They know. They know that marriage is a rotten arrangement for women. They know that the young bride will soon be an exhausted new mother and then a frazzled parent and then a stressed-out middle-ager, and, bam, menopause hits, kids are gone, husband is taking cholesterol meds and Viagra, and you know, it’s just not a lot of fun anymore.
Thus, the gifts. The gifts are to sweeten the pot, make it all a little more bearable, and while we’re toasting your soon-to-be entrapment, we’re going to feed you some cake, too.
Good God, this is what we want little girls to grow up looking forward to? Bridal magazines and filmy veils and lavish flowers and so much pretty-pretty before utter bewilderment?
I say, let’s just call a spade a spade and show the young bride what’s really happening. A death of fantasy, fairy tales, and imagination.
Wait, I’m getting off track. Let’s pause for a moment, forget the roomful of old women secretly gloating that another fresh-faced young woman is about to bite the dust. (Come on, you’ve got to know by now that women never stop being hard on each other!) Let’s pull back from the boxes of domestic conveniences, of dish towels and king-size sheets with a 240-thread count.
Let’s get away from the nice bows and the silly tradition of how many ribbons broken equals how many babies you’ll have, because guess what? You don’t have to get married to get presents. You can buy all the stuff yourself.
Let me say that again: you can save yourself a great deal of stress and strife if you just opt out of the wedding and head for Bergdorf Goodman and buy all the plates, the silver, the crystal, the linens your little heart desires. Never mind “his.” “His” doesn’t really care about all that stuff, and if he cares a lot, run. Run really fast, because most straight guys don’t give a flying fig for towels and mugs.
And speaking of towels and mugs, I suddenly think of all the household items Jean-Marc and I selected together. He seemed interested at the time, looked at all the displays with me, and my gaze settles on the shelf of eight handsome white-wine goblets.