The Matchbaker (A Romantic Comedy)

by Jerrica Knight-Catania

  I just need a couple days of no alcohol, a good night’s sleep and maybe a hard spin class. Then I’ll feel much better. Everything will go back to the way it was, and we can all live happily ever after.

  Six

  My first day back on the job is pretty great. My assistant, Melinda (that’s right, I have an assistant!) has me scheduled for a meeting at Le Cirque with a potential client. It’s a big account with one of the largest law firms in the city, but I’m feeling confident after nailing my presentation in Paris. Plus, this is just a preliminary meeting with the CIO. No presentation necessary. I’m supposed to show him a good time and pay for his lunch. No problem-o!

  I walk into Le Cirque and tell the maître’d who I am. He offers a pinched smile and says in a French accent, “Yes, we were expecting you. Please—” He retrieves two menus “—Right this way.”

  I peruse the menu while I wait for my lunch date, Mr. Cooke, but it’s mainly just to give me something to do because I already know exactly what I want. I’m going to start with the lobster risotto. For my main course, the Dover sole. It’s a twenty dollar up-charge, but who cares, especially when it’s on the company’s dime? And for dessert, the Grand Marnier soufflé with vanilla-orange crème anglais. I can hardly wait for any of it, but it appears Mr. Cooke is going to make me.

  My phone buzzes, indicating I have a new email. Mr. Cooke has written his entire message in the subject line: Running behind. Twenty minutes.

  Why can’t anyone in my life be on time?

  I’m tempted to order a pre-appetizer and make sure it’s cleared away before Mr. Cooke gets here, but instead, I order a bottle of champagne. By the time it arrives and I have a glass, I’m sure he’ll be here.

  Twenty-five minutes and two glasses of champagne later, I get another buzz. Have to reschedule. Sorry.

  Part of me is elated I get to have lunch at Le Cirque without talking business with Mr. Cooke, but another part of me is wondering how the hell I’m supposed to finish an entire bottle of Veuve Cliquot on my own.

  I place my order for food and inform the waiter it’ll be one for lunch now. He gives me a pitying look as if I’ve just been stood up and he totally understands. I want to correct him, but I don’t. Instead, I just let him pamper me and entertain me with sweet smiles and anecdotes about the other customers. If he wasn’t so obviously gay, I would ask him out.

  When he brings the bill an hour later, he gives me a covert wink and as I open it up, I see that he left off the twenty-dollar up-charge for the sole. Not that the extra twenty bucks would matter to Bell North, but that was really sweet of him, so I thank him profusely and leave a hefty tip.

  Le Cirque is a mere three blocks from my Mecca. I know I should head back to the office, but I’m pretty sure no one will notice if I take just a little longer to pop into Bergdorf’s. I mean, I won’t have a lot of leisure time now that I’m an executive, so I have to squeeze in my shopping trips when I can, right? Besides, the weather is going to turn chilly soon, and I could use a new weekend sweater. This is a totally justifiable trip when you think of it that way.

  As if my body is one giant homing device, I turn left onto Fifth Avenue toward the store. As I enter through the revolving doors, I breathe in the scent of expensive perfumes and wealth. There’s always the odd mix of extremely rich people and tourists milling about the lower level, but I head right to the elevator to get to the boutiques on the higher floors.

  I wander around a bit, but it’s the Brunello Cucinelli boutique that captures my attention. A charcoal gray cable knit sweater hangs off a mannequin. I must have it. It’s beautiful. And it will be perfect for the in-between weather where it’s too warm for a full-on sweater, but too cold to wear just a long-sleeved top.

  “Is there anything I can help you with?” The sales woman has stood up behind her desk to appear eager to assist, but she’s just trying to get a good look at my outfit to see if I’m the buying type or the browsing type. I’m pretty sure my Zac Posen suit says “buying type.”

  “Yes, I’d like to try this on,” I say. “Size six, please.” I wish I could say size zero…or even size two would be nice. But I tend to be a bit heavier in the cooler months, so I’ll go a size up from my usual size four.

  The sales woman retrieves my size and escorts me to the fitting room. As I slip on the soft sweater and bundle the raccoon fur collar up around my neck, I close my eyes and savor the feel of heaven on earth. Dear God, it’s incredible. I absolutely must have it.

  I glance at the price tag now that I’m in the privacy of the dressing room. I would never do that in front of the sales lady—you don’t want them to think money is in any way an object. I swallow hard. It’s a bit on the pricey side; just a little more than one might want to spend on a quick lunch hour shopping trip. But there are a million reasons why I should buy this sweater.

  1) It’s classic, so it won’t go out of style after one season.

  2) It’s functional and can be worn with a trendy black dress or a pair of jeans.

  3) It’s an investment. As long as I keep it nice, I can sell it for at least half the cost on eBay sometime down the road. And by then, I won’t even care about regaining the money because I’ll have gotten so much use out of it already.

  4) It’s my money.

  5) I want it.

  6) I deserve it after all the curve balls I’ve been thrown lately.

  Deciding that number six is really the only justification I need, I slip off the sweater, put my suit jacket on and head out of the dressing room. The sales lady is back at her desk and she looks up with a curious smile as I emerge.

  “What did you think?” she asks, coming to her feet.

  “It’s absolutely exquisite.” I hand her the sweater.

  She tallies the tax. “That will be one thousand, three hundred dollars and ninety-one cents.”

  I pull my credit card from my wallet and hand it over. I’m fighting buyer’s remorse a bit, but I remind myself this is why I do what I do. This is why I’ve worked so hard to get to where I am at Bell North. This is why I turned down my parents when they told me they wanted me to run the bakery and ruthlessly ignored the guilty pit in my stomach. So I could spend $1300 on a sweater. During my lunch hour. On a whim.

  Feeling cheered by my internal pep talk and by the fact that I now own the most exquisite Brunello Cucinelli sweater ever made, I bound out onto the street and hail a cab. I’ll have to have Monica, the receptionist at Bell North, hide the Bergdorf bag under her desk for the afternoon. I’m sure Celia wouldn’t mind my little detour, but still…best to keep it out of her sight to be safe.

  Once I’m back at the office and my sweater is safely stowed beneath Monica’s desk, it’s time to get to work. Melinda has a stack of phone messages for me and Celia has left several folders on my desk with a sticky note on top that reads: Warm Leads. I hate making sales calls, but I’m pretty damn good at it, which is why I’m here. Why I’m the youngest executive at Bell North.

  As I make my calls and deal with people I’d rather not deal with, I continue to remind myself that this is what I’ve always wanted. I also do my best to hold the image of my $1300 sweater in my mind as I assure the CEO of our biggest account that we are doing our best to deliver the highest caliber of service to them at the most competitive price possible and that we’ll gladly take ten percent off their next bill as a concession for “spotty” service on their mobile devices.

  “Well, it’s the least you can do,” he says to me and I have the image of those old guys from the Muppets who sit in the balcony and say mean things to everyone. At least Celia and I get along well. I don’t know what I’d do if I had this a-hole for a boss.

  “I understand, Mr. Levine, and thank you again for your continued loyalty to Bell North.”

  He grunts something inaudible and then the phone line goes dead.

  “Well done, Candace.” Celia is leaning against my doorjamb, her arms crossed over her Armani-clad chest.

  “Than
ks. Mr. Levine’s a tough customer to deal with, but I’m pretty sure they’ll renew their contract.”

  Celia shrugs as she walks into the room. “I’m just glad I don’t have to deal with him anymore. How did the lunch with Mr. Cooke go?”

  “Ah, yeah…about that. He cancelled at the last minute.”

  “Oh, well. It happens.” She looks at her watch, her brow furrowed. “What time did you get back?”

  I wonder if this is a test. Did she see me come in at two thirty? Or can I fudge and say one thirty so she doesn’t know I went shopping? I decide to play it safe. I scrunch my nose up and make a big show of trying to remember. “I don’t know. I think maybe two?”

  “Your lunch was scheduled for noon.” She looks a little skeptical. “What took you so long to get back?”

  “Well, I waited there for forever. He didn’t cancel until almost one, and by then I was starving, so I just ordered something small to eat. And then I rushed right back here.”

  I’ve tried not to make a habit of lying to Celia in the past, but it seems I’m being forced into it more and more these days. It makes me a little sick to my stomach, but I can’t let her know that. I sit up straighter and give her a pointed look, challenging her to say something more.

  She narrows her eyes and then says, “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

  Finally, she exits my office, and I just have to hope Monica hasn’t said anything to her about my sweater.

  I’m about to pick up the phone to make my next call when Celia pops her head back around the door. “By the way, love the sweater, but if you ever go to Bergdorf’s on the clock again, you’ll be fired. Understood?”

  I can’t say anything. I’m too dumbfounded. And thankfully Celia isn’t looking for an answer—she’s already gone again. Damn Monica! She was supposed to keep it a secret. Now Celia will be watching my every move when I go out for lunch meetings.

  I shake my head. It’s fine. I’m still only a junior executive. I’m sure once I’m a senior executive, no one will notice if I take more time at lunch. And I certainly won’t have to hide my purchases under Monica’s desk anymore. I’ll be able to do whatever the hell I want. Celia has the freedom, but she chooses not to take it. Maybe she’s just bitter that I found an opening for a little fun and relaxation in the day and she didn’t. But is it really my fault? She could spend all day at Sax and I wouldn’t say a thing. As a matter of fact, I would applaud her for it. All work and no play is just a silly mantra to live by and no one who has the freedom to do otherwise should stick to it.

  Besides, I’m working much harder this afternoon than I normally would. I’ve already gotten through most of the afternoon’s work and it’s only four o’clock.

  By the time six rolls around, I’m feeling slightly less confident. It seems lots of CIOs and CEOs stop working around four or five in the afternoon or they’re so backed up with work by that hour they don’t have time to take your call. So I’ve mostly gotten voicemail over the last couple hours, which means I have to make all these calls again tomorrow morning. Not great, since my desk is already being piled with things to do tomorrow. So much for the 4-Hour Workweek.

  But it’s fine. I’ll just go to bed early tonight and get a good night’s sleep so I’m good and fresh for tomorrow morning and ready to make a great impression on Celia.

  ~*~

  It’s five minutes ‘till eight when I arrive at the office the next morning, but Monica is looking at me with alarm.

  “Oh, my God. Where have you been?” she says, her voice hushed yet urgent.

  I stare at her, confused. “What are you talking about?” I look at my phone’s clock. “It’s not even eight yet.”

  “Yeah, but the meeting started at seven-thirty. Clyde’s been out here three times asking where the hell you are.”

  Clyde? Oh, God. That’s the big boss. But…“Monica, what are you talking about? I don’t know anything about a meeting.” I pull out my phone and flip to the calendar. Nothing. Not a word about a meeting this morning.

  “Candace, even I knew about this meeting. Didn’t Celia tell you? This is the big International Strategy one.”

  Crap. It is a big one. A really big one the company only has twice a year. How did I miss the announcement?

  “All right, well, there’s nothing I can do except get in there. Better late than never, right?” I shoot Monica a hopeful smile, but she doesn’t return it. She only shakes her head as if to say, You’re doomed.

  Not possible. I’m not doomed. That’s just silly. I mean, I’m only a half hour late. I’m sure there are hours left to the meeting. They’ve probably just now settled in with their coffee and donuts. I’m positive I haven’t missed anything.

  Head held high, I walk confidently down the main hallway and turn into the boardroom. Twenty people are sitting around the large glass table and they all look at me as I enter the room. No donuts or coffees to be found.

  I gulp, but try to keep it together. It’s fine. How valuable could I be to this discussion, anyway? I’m sure they’ve gotten on fine without me. I am new to this position, after all.

  “Well, well, well. Look who’s decided to join us,” Clyde says from the front of the room. Heat rises into my cheeks. Oh, God. It was bad enough that everyone saw me come in, now Clyde has to point out that I’m late. Just great. “I had heard you were punctual, Cooper. But maybe you’re on Bimbo Time.”

  My stomach plummets as if I’m on the Great American Cyclone at Six Flags. Everyone chuckles at his off-color joke, which makes me even more embarrassed. Celia laughs the hardest, though, and I toss her an odd look. One would think she’d be on my side, seeing as I’m her protégée. But no…there she is, yucking it up with Señor Chauvinist.

  “Um, sorry,” I say as I try to slip into the only empty chair around the table. I want to say that I was never informed of any meeting, but I fear it’ll come off sounding stupid, in a “my dog ate my homework” kind of way. “Won’t happen again,” I say instead.

  “I’m sure it won’t.” Clyde gives me a wink, and I’m not sure how to take it. Does that mean he believes me or is he making fun of me? I’m inclined to think the latter. But never mind. I need to focus and get all I can out of the rest of the meeting. I fish my iPad out of my bag and start a new document, ready to take notes.

  “So,” Clyde says, addressing the room at large as he clicks off the overhead projector, “are there any questions?”

  Everyone looks around and shakes their heads. A few seconds pass while Clyde waits to see if anyone will speak up, and then he says, “Great. Good meeting, everyone. Back to work.”

  My jaw drops. It’s over? I’ve missed the entire thing? Surely that can’t be the entire International Strategy meeting? I know it’s my first time sitting in on one, but really, that was it? How could they have said anything truly important in such a short amount of time? I’m dumbfounded and now I’m incredibly nervous that I’ve missed something valuable. But I’m sure Celia will help me. She always takes great notes. I’ll look them over and be all caught up. It’s fine. Just one meeting missed. No big deal.

  “Miss Cooper.” Clyde is staring at me from the other end of the table. He, Celia and myself are the only three left in the room.

  “Yes, Clyde,” I say, doing my best to maintain professional decorum.

  He swaggers toward me, a glint in his eye that makes my skin crawl. “I’d like to see you in my office in fifteen minutes.”

  I gulp and look at Celia. Her face is hard, and she won’t make eye contact. I get the feeling she’s not on my side anymore and it makes me uneasy. “Yes, sir. I’ll be there.”

  ~*~

  Clyde’s assistant shows me into the office once I arrive at the appointed time. Wow. I thought my office was nice, but this is insane. You could fit four of my offices into this one room. He has a wall of water that trickles into some kind of invisible reservoir near the floor. It’s illuminated at the bottom with lights that change color from blue to pink to green.
His desk is sleek and minimalist, with only a few neat stacks of papers on it and a brand new iMac with a tiny wireless keyboard and mouse. There’s a bar on the other side of the room, stocked with some of the most expensive bottles of scotch, vodka and wine that I’ve ever seen. The fireplace and sitting area make me feel like I’m in a 19th century Englishman’s library. Old definitely meets new here but somehow it works, and I almost don’t want to leave.

  Maybe one day I won’t have to. Maybe one day this place will be mine.

  “Miss Cooper.” Clyde spins around in his chair, turning from the windows to face me in a dramatic attempt at intimidation. It’s not easy to intimidate me, but this move is genius on his part.

  “Clyde,” I say with an air of professionalism as I take my seat in the leather chair opposite him.

  “Miss Cooper, I haven’t had a chance to congratulate you properly on your promotion.”

  “The fruit basket was lovely,” I put in, even though I’m sure his assistant was the one to send it.

  He gives his head a toss to the left. “Care to join me for a drink?”

  “Oh,” I say, caught a bit off guard. I don’t usually drink during the day, but when you’re an executive, do as executives do, right? “Sure. I’d love one.”

  I follow him to the sitting area. Before he pours the drinks, he flips a switch hidden in the stone mantelpiece and the fire comes to life in the fireplace. He turns at my gasp and gives me a wink.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes,” I say, and I hate that I sound like I’m gushing. It’s not like me to suck up, but after being late and missing one of the most important meetings of the year, I feel as if I should. “Very.”

  “What’s your poison, Candace?”

  It’s the first time he’s called me Candace. Maybe he’s starting to like me and we can just let this whole late business slide. “Perhaps, um…perhaps you would like to choose for me?” I suggest. I know nothing about the scotch he has and I don’t want to seem presumptuous by making him open an entire bottle of wine just for me. And after the binge in Connecticut, vodka is off the menu for some time.