The Thousand Pound Christmas

by Victoria Burgess

  Maybe Audrey will do it for me.

  Because beneath the table, Audrey gives my knee a quick squeeze, letting me know she’s as excited as I am.

  Here’s why: there’s an undercurrent in the room. French is all frowns, but I can tell he wants this deal. He and his team have shopped around. They know how perfect this site is for Canine Cuisine. Perfect as a manufacturing site, perfect for transport, great labor force available. And let me tell you something about Guy French. He’s not the kind of guy who’ll give up once he decides he wants something. French may appear patrician in his Burberry suit, his Hermes tie, and his jaunty beret, but the look in his eyes tells me he intends to tear Eaton apart to get this space.

  Let him try.

  The battle begins. French and his team push for more advantageous terms for Canine Cuisine. Nelson, Audrey, and I push for more advantageous terms for Eaton. Finally, an hour into the proceedings, we hash out a lease agreement that both sides think they can live with. The only sticking point is the expenditure necessary to update the mechanics of the building. It’s been vacant for over three decades. French thinks the town should contribute to the cost of modernization.

  I’m sympathetic, but there’s not much I can do. The town budget is already overstretched.

  French says, “All right, Mayor Presley. You tell me. What scale of contribution would the town be willing to make, in return for the promise of two hundred and fifty new jobs in the coming fiscal year?”

  Two hundred and fifty jobs. I’m giddy just thinking about it. I would promise nearly anything to get those jobs. Anything but cold, hard cash, because I just don’t have it.

  “I think you’ll find the tax incentives my office is prepared to offer are quite generous. Over time, they’ll easily offset the initial expenditure—”

  “What about the prize money that’s about to fall in the town’s lap?” French’s assistant interrupts. “That $100,000 in unanticipated funds would go a long way toward refurbishment of the facilities.”

  “It would also demonstrate your commitment to having Canine Cuisine as a partner,” French says. He leans back in his chair, temples his fingertips together and regards me steadily. “As a matter of fact, if you officially designate those funds to this project, as a gesture of good faith, I would be willing to sign your lease. We could cement this deal right now.”

  My stomach seizes. Oh, Lord. The perfect squeeze play. French and his assistant obviously rehearsed this move before stepping foot in the conference room. Beside me, I sense Audrey stiffen. Nelson does as well.

  I want this deal. We all want this deal. But at what cost?

  The silence in the room stretches until I can’t stand it any longer.

  I say, “I am 100% committed to bringing Canine Cuisine to Eaton. I will do everything in my power to expedite the permit process, meaningfully defray your corporate taxes, and help solicit construction bids. But I’ve already committed that prize money—if we win it—to the schools.”

  “Verbally or in writing?”

  “Pardon me?

  “We’re talking two hundred and fifty jobs here, Mayor Presley. Surely that takes precedence over a new playground.”

  He’s killing me and here’s why: I actually agree with French. Who wouldn’t? Of course jobs matter more. But I shook hands, made promises. Drummed up participation in Jym’s challenge based on the feel-good notion that we were doing it for the kids. Talked it up to the press. If I bail out now, grab the money and run? The conversation I had with Mike rings through my mind. The dirty, every-man-for-himself ugliness of D.C. politics. I’m not that kind of politician.

  I’m just not.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “but I gave my word those funds would go to the schools.”

  French’s expression flattens. A small-town mayor who’s intent on keeping her word. How thrilling. And idiotically naive. I watch as his opinion of me—not that it was ever particularly favorable—lowers even more.

  “That’s unfortunate,” he says.

  He stands and his associates rise with him. My team and I stand as well.

  I struck out big time, but Nelson’s determined to put a good face on it. Raise something from the ashes.

  He says, “The way I see it, we’re one small sticking point from getting this deal done. I think we’re in agreement on everything else. How about this—Mayor Presley and I dig into Eaton’s budget and see if we can’t find some funds to commit to facility refurbishment. We’ll come up with a number, put the terms we agreed to in writing, and send you a draft lease. I’m confident we can still make this work.”

  Dan Walker, who’s taken fastidious notes during the meeting and knows how important this deal is to Eaton, quickly seconds that opinion. “We’ll have something on your desk within forty-eight hours.”

  French thinks it over, then shakes Nelson’s proffered hand. “We’ll give it a serious look. That’s all I can promise.”

  “That’s all we ask,” I say, but no one wants to hear from Mayor Goody Two Shoes. My own team won’t meet my eyes. Instead they busy themselves shuffling paperwork back inside notepads and briefcases.

  French pauses at the door, gives a vague wave of his hand. “There’s one other thing. I wasn’t going to bring it up, but since we’re still in negotiations...”

  “Yes?”

  “This whole fat business that’s happening in Eaton. I find it quite distasteful. I’m also concerned over the impact it might have on the Canine Cuisine brand should we choose to locate here.”

  I’m so floored I’m momentarily speechless. Neither Nelson or Davis have a quick reply either. Finally I find my voice.

  “You’ve got to be kidding. You think your dogs will get fat just by association with this town?”

  “Of course not. Nevertheless, I believe the concern merits consideration.”

  “Why? That’s absurd.”

  “Hardly, Mayor Presley. We labor very hard to associate a certain prestige with our brand. We carry the endorsement of the American Kennel Society and several of the country’s most respected breeders, particularly those who train hunting and agility dogs. Those animals are held to exacting standards in regard to health and fitness.”

  “In that case, I’ve got good news. Fat isn’t contagious.”

  “Nevertheless it’s quite distasteful.”

  There is a slight, almost infinitesimal pause, where it feels like the air is being sucked out of the room. The floor is dropping out from beneath us. The insult hangs there, floating in a cloud of doubt (Did I hear him correctly?) and disbelief (No. He couldn’t have said what I think he said.)

  French clears his throat and continues, “I’m speaking in regard to canines, of course, and our brand image.”

  Audrey draws herself up. Sends him a patently false smile. “Your brand image, is it? In that case, allow me to make a suggestion. You know the dogs pictured on the labels of your food? Knock those idiotic berets off their heads. Only pompous assholes wear berets.”

  Her pause is slightly longer than French’s before she continues, “I’m speaking in regard to canines, of course.”

  “Audrey—” I start, but it’s too late.

  Audrey blusters past Guy French, pausing outside the conference room long enough to turn around and deliver a scathing glare aimed directly at me. “Vampire, door, you. See the connection now, Mayor?”

  Damn, damn, and double-damn.

  Later. I’ll talk to Audrey about it later. Apologize. No—that’s wrong. She should apologize for letting her emotions get in the way of town business. Yes, French is a pompous asshole with a distasteful sense of wealthy patriarchal entitlement, but he’s a known pompous asshole with a distasteful sense of wealthy patriarchal entitlement. No surprises there. She and I even joked about it earlier. Said he’s the kind of guy who’d love to see women packaged like cable TV, with boxes he could check to indicate his preferences: tall, blond, C-cup or better, intelligent enough to hold a conversation, smart enough not to cha
llenge his opinions.

  We cleared the air and laughed about it so we could absolve ourselves of any guilt over bringing a guy like him to Eaton. The deal matters more than the client, we agreed. We need this deal. We need those jobs. (And here’s where I’m thinking maybe I should have buckled to pressure and committed that prize money. Oh, joy. The self-doubt has already started. What fun I’ll have staring at my ceiling at 2 a.m.)

  But all that’s going to have to wait. Because right now it’s all I can do to attempt to salvage this meeting.

  “Mr. French, I think it would be best if—”

  “I meant no disrespect, Mayor,” Guy French interrupts. “But I felt I should speak frankly. The media surrounding this town has not been good. In fact, I’m not fully convinced it will benefit Canine Cuisine to collaborate with Eaton at this time. It will factor in our decision, that’s all.”

  With that, French and his team leave.

  Leaving a confused-looked Brett Alper standing in their wake. The councilman blinks. He looks at us, looks down the hallway at the disappearing backs of French and his team.

  “What happened? Did I miss the meeting? I thought it was scheduled for one o’clock.”

  Nelson says, “They had an earlier flight to catch.”

  “Why wasn’t I notified?

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to remind Alper that he certainly didn’t give me the courtesy of notifying me of the BestOfMyCountry.com website before launching it live in front of the entire town. But that would be petty and futile and I don’t have the energy to get into all that.

  Instead I say, “They’ll be other meetings. No commitment has been made yet.”

  “So the space is still available?”

  “As of right now, yes. But we’re mulling over numbers. I’m confident we’ll be able to pull together a package that pleases everyone.”

  “I wouldn’t be so quick to commit, Mayor.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’re comfortable putting the future of this town on one bidder for the property?”

  Based on the way my meeting just went, that would be foolish indeed.

  Alper says, “I’ve been doing a little marketing of that space myself. Turns out, I’ve got a couple of clients who are verrrrry interested.” He rocks back and forth on his heels, looking supremely satisfied with himself.

  “Maybe you’d like to share them with us,” I snap.

  “Oh, I will, Mayor, but not just yet. I think at this juncture it would behoove me to do that publicly, at our next council session. Let people know who’s getting what done. Give the citizens of Eaton a choice.”

  I open my mouth, then close it abruptly. He’s not talking about giving the people of Eaton the choice of tenants for the factory space. He’s talking about something else entirely.

  Alper passes Dan Walker a manila folder. “Mr. Walker, as town attorney, I suppose I give this to you. I think you’ll find everything’s good to go. The petitions have the necessary signatures, the paperwork’s all filled out.”

  Walker sends me a quick, sympathetic glance, then nods at Alper.

  “I’ll file your petition this afternoon, Councilman.”

  “Excellent.”

  Alper turns to me. “No hard feelings, Rachel. But you have to admit things have been a little rocky since you took over. Maybe it’s time to give the people of Eaton a choice as to who should be leading this town.”

  Brett Alper is running against me for mayor. So much for Matthew’s assertion that no one else wants my job.

  Well. Isn’t that a slap on the tush? A line drive right between the eyes. The cherry on the low-fat sundae of my day.

  On top of everything else I’m dealing with, now I’ve got a campaign to run.

  TWELVE

  Out of habit, I turn on the local morning news show before heading into the office on Wednesday morning. Yesterday it was all about Alper’s bid for mayor. Big, exciting news. But I guess they got all the mileage they could out of that, at least for the moment. The special election won’t take place until January, after all.

  So once again the lead story is Slym Jym’s weight loss challenge. No surprise there. That’s been the case since this whole thing began. The coverage goes like this: shots of our workout class (apparently overweight people sweating are endlessly entertaining), followed by a local chef who demonstrates some fabulous new low-fat recipe that can easily be replicated at home. Nine times out of ten, this recipe involves a skinless breast of chicken and a lemon.

  Ho-hum.

  Maybe I’m getting desensitized to the whole thing, but I’m finding it all very boring.

  Even Myra Kushner, with her heavily sprayed hair, dazzling smile, and corny sign-off jokes, is falling flat. Today’s example: “Myra Kushner reporting live from the Garden of Eaton. Go ahead and eat the apples. But please don’t tempt anyone with pizza or donuts. Clearly these folks are going to need all the help they can get!” Cut back to the desk anchors at the station giving a good-natured chortle before they move on to the next story. And so on and so forth.

  The air is coming out of our balloon.

  So I can’t say I’m surprised when I hear a familiar swish, swish, swish, outside my office. There’s a quick rap, then Slym Jym sticks his head around the door.

  “Got a second, Mayor?”

  I’d love to refuse him, but he’ll only come back. If you say nothing else about Jym, say this: he’s persistent.

  “Sure. C’mon on in. Audrey!” I call, “You, too.”

  I hear her sigh as she leaves her desk and heads for my office. Our truce is as fragile as spring ice. Fortunately we’ve got a solid history working together to ride this mess out. For which I am truly thankful, because without her I don’t know where I’d be.

  Today Audrey wears an A-line skirt, faux cowskin boots, and a fringed leather vest. She’s decked out with turquoise jewelry, burgundy lipstick, and heavily winged eyeliner. The only things she’s missing are a Stetson and a six-shooter. The look is wild west retro, and so fashion risky I don’t think even June Carter Cash could pull it off. But somehow Audrey does. She’s got serious flair.

  “So what are we going to do about it?” Jym asks once we’re all settled in.

  “About what?”

  “The challenge, mayor. The challenge. Folks are dropping like chubby flies.”

  “I don’t think that’s the expression.”

  “You get my drift.”

  Never one to sit still for long—I think his record is nine seconds—Jym gets up and begins pacing the room.

  “You got a campaign to run now, isn’t that right, Mayor? A challenger nip, nip, nipping at your heels.”

  “Well, yes, but I don’t see what that has to do with—”

  “That means we’ve got to double down. Win this thing. Nobody’ll vote for a loser. Human beings aren’t wired that way.”

  Audrey says, “He’s right. Losers stink. People hate them.”

  I look at my assistant. “Thank you for that, Audrey.”

  Jym continues, “There’s a certain momentum you need to make this thing a success. Victory takes work, and if people want to win, they have to take on that responsibility themselves. I can’t be expected to push 43,562 pounds straight uphill. I can nudge it along, maybe even give it a solid shove in the right direction. But carry all 43,562 pounds all by myself? Slam, bam, no thank you, ma’am. You folks want that money, you got to earn it.”

  He stops, pivots abruptly and looks at me. “Do you want that money, Mayor?”

  “The $100,000 prize money?”

  “Yes. That money.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. Because that implies motivation on your end. Motivation that’s sorely lacking among other people in this town.”

  “What are you talking about? Of course people are motivated.”

  “You think so, huh?”

  “Do I detect a note of sarcasm, Jym?”

  “Let me ge
t this straight. You think folks round here are excited to lose weight.”

  “Of course. I’m sure of it. They signed up for the challenge, didn’t they?”

  “You’re not the brightest crayon in the box, are you, Mayor?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He’s right,” Audrey says. My face must register my annoyance, for she gives a dismissive wave of her hand and continues, “Not the crayon bit, the other thing. People are dropping out. Not officially or anything. They’re just done with it.” She splays her fingers in a mock explosion. “Poof. Over.”

  We’re only twelve days in. I knew I was starting to get bored by it all. And frankly, sick of living in a constant state of denial. And self-reprimanding internal harangues? No, you cannot have that muffin with your coffee. Peppermint ice cream? Absolutely not! What are you doing sitting down to watch TV? You skipped your workout today. I don’t care if you’re exhausted. Get off the couch and do some sit-ups during the commercials.

  I’m not just bored. I’m resentful.

  I had hoped that wasn’t the case with the rest of the town. Looks like I was kidding myself. A shiver of alarm runs down my spine. We cannot lose this challenge. Eaton looks ridiculous enough as it is. I will be pilloried as mayor—interim mayor, as Councilman Alper delights in pointing out—if this goes sideways. I can’t let that happen.

  “Why?” I ask. “What went wrong?”

  “It’s hard and it’s boring,” Audrey says. “Especially the exercise classes. I tried a couple, but they were exactly what I thought. Leg lift, leg lift, leg lift. Squat, squat, squat. Bend, bend, bend. Push, push—”

  “All right, all right, already. We get it.”

  “And the music sucks.”

  “I’ll have you know,” Jym fires back, “those routines are professionally choreographed. They’re the perfect complement to our recommended food plan and are designed to maximize caloric expenditure.”

  Audrey widens her eyes. “Wow. Is that it, Jym? The secret of your entire system? SlymJymTrymFyt revealed: burn more calories than you consume and you’ll lose weight. I’m impressed. No one ever figured that out before. No wonder you’re a gazillionaire!”