Unravelled (2 page)

This is the third unfortunate ‘incident’ this month after four months of perfect conduct. After the second ‘incident’ I realised that my make-over was starting to unravel and that is why I planned a holiday. I needed to go over the notes I took while on business-and-beauty-boot camp so that I could hold onto being the ‘new me’. Admittedly the ‘new me’ really only applies to my wardrobe and to some miniscule extend to client-relations, but inside I am still...well, me. And I like who I am. Although, I did like the posture and confidence training. I wish I had some more of that confidence now to help me deal with Mr Wall Street as he ends his call and turns to me.

“Al will be here in ten minutes. Are you sure it’s only a matter of fuel?” he asks me in a voice reserved for little children and very old people. I honour him with my signature, well-feared icy stare, which seems to have no effect on him whatsoever. I turn the temperature down even more and answer him coldly.

“Yes, I am sure.” I reach down and bury my fingers in Blossom’s black hair. “Please feel free to continue on to your meeting. Blossom and I will be just fine.” I shake my shoulders a fraction and lift my chin slightly in a pathetic attempt to look more confident.

His eyes fire up and I ready myself for some male chauvinistic remark about little ladies not being alone on the side of a road when his fancy-smancy phone starts chiming. He turns his back on me and starts walking away, no doubt to do some super-duper secret business deal over the phone. I’m willing to bet my favourite set of earrings that he goes on holiday with his laptop and has another smart phone in one of his suit jacket pockets.

A loud, now familiar, sound next to me reminds me of my canine companion. Mr Wall Street looks over his shoulder with a frown at me and then at the dog, who guiltily thumps his tail.

“Oh Blossom, what are we going to do with you?” The only plus about this poor animal’s embarrassing condition is that there is no unfortunate smell accompanying the frequent and loud exits of air. I would never have taken him in the car had that been the case. It was necessary for my psyche, however, to keep the window open all the way. Just in case.

Mr Wall Street is now pacing a trench into the side of the road and is sounding decidedly ornery. I reflect on how glad I am to not work for or with him and turn to the car to get Blossom something to drink. My total make-over also requires me to keep my car neat. So far that has been the biggest challenge and I’m sad to report that I have failed miserably. Another hint that the whole make-over thing didn’t take too well. It needs work. A lot of work.

I enter the passenger’s side headfirst, looking for Blossom’s water bowl. When I can’t find it on the floor under an embarrassing amount of paper, I put my knees on the passenger seat and squeeze myself through the two front seats to do a blind hand search on the floor at the back.

Well, spank me twice and call me
Dixie
! I just found an earring that I misplaced – and mourned over – months ago. My musings on how it got there are interrupted when I feel a hairy body try to squeeze itself in beside me.

“Blossom! I’m not leaving, love. I’m looking for your water bowl.” This dog is the perfect test subject for study on animal neurosis. Ever since Janey forgot him in the hair salon, he’s paranoid when he hears keys or sees you get into a car without him.

“Blossom!” I shriek and then burst out in strangled laughter as this monstrous dog forces himself into the car and squashes me between the seats with my face crushed against a head rest. He clambers over me and settles in the driver’s seat with a – I swear! – self-satisfied grin stretched across his hairy face.

At least, with the help of Blossom’s shove, I located his water bowl. I exit the car with my wriggling suited bum first. I grab hold of the bowl and a bottle of water, straighten, turn around and freeze. Mr Wall Street is standing not too far away, obviously a witness to the last few minutes, and is looking at me with pure consternation on his face.

I know that look. I used to see that look all the time on my parents’ faces. No matter how hard they – or I for that matter – tried, I always seemed to be inappropriate. It was not my behaviour, per se, that got to them. It was my motor-mouth, combined with my inability to be diplomatic that caused them sleepless nights. Another thorn in their sides was the fact that I always speak my mind, and I do so now as I straighten my jacket.

“Enjoying the view?”

Mr Wall Street lets out a little bark of laughter which does nothing to endear him to me.

“It was quite something to behold.” He shakes his head, which makes his oh-so-wonderful black hair flop sexily, as if to clear the image.

“Where are you on your way to?” he says with just a smidgen too much please-don’t-come-to-my-town in his voice.

“I’m ...” My response is interrupted by another chime from his phone. I roll my eyes when
Mr Wall Street
holds up a finger as if to indicate something and returns to his trench. It’s behaviour like his that validates my instinctive mistrust of strangers. How rude!

Just before I fall to my knees, clutch my heart and scream to the heavens ‘why me’”, a dirty red pick up truck slows down and honks. The large black print on the door tips me off that it’s my knight in not-so-shining armour from the local garage coming to my rescue. I refrain from clapping my hands and breaking out in song, and wait for the very young-looking Al to get out of his truck.

Mr Wall Street puts whomever he’s been talking to on hold and walks over to shake Al’s hand. They share a moment of male bonding by nodding and rolling their eyes at me, before anyone deem me important enough to be addressed.

“Al will look after you now. Good luck.” Mr Wall Street turns and walks to his car with me gaping at him. Is that it? Is that really all he has to say?

“Thanks for your help. It was wonderful talking to you.” I say to his back in a voice dripping with sarcasm. I try to burn a hole in his back with an icy glare, but when he climbs in his car unharmed, I sigh in defeat and turn to Al with a smile exuding a million watts.

Chapter 2

I’m late. Al proved to be a very jovial, helpful fellow who talked more than my aunt Theresa after three sherries. I would have made the meeting on time had Al just put the fuel in the car. But, alas, that is not how things happened. When Al discovered I was on my way to his town, he took it upon himself to inform me about Villsburg while making friends with Blossom, and by the time I tore Blossom away from him and got in the car, I knew that I had crossed the fashionably-late line.

I made a quick stop in the ladies’ and fluffed my hair the way Juan showed me. That, some powder and lipstick later, I now stand in front of the conference room door, ready. I reach to open the door and my hand freezes mid-air as I hear a heated discussion taking place on the other side of the door.

“I still don’t agree that we had to get an outsider to do this job.” A female voice, and the venom in it makes me flinch.

“Zondra, Adam explained to us that with his company being the main sponsor for the festival, it’s in their interest to ensure that it is a success.” A male voice. I know I will like this man. He sounds elderly – the way older, experienced people express themselves slowly and clearly. I wish
Erin
told me more about this whole bloody project. Granted, it was a bit difficult for him to give me the low-down while lying with his leg suspended in mid air and nurses fussing about, but still. I feel very unprepared.

A third voice speaks. Male and soft-spoken. Another ally? “This person comes highly recommended and from what I hear can work miracles. We need that.”

“We’re definitely going to need a miracle since none of the coordinators could work with you, Zondra.” Another male voice. Unfriendly.

“It wasn’t just me, George. They had difficulty working with you as well.” Wow, this woman has a tone that could perform laser surgery. She clears her throat and continues in a tone a bit more mellow. “All I’m saying is that I’m very sceptical. First, Mr Montgomery surprises us with his presence and participation in this project. Did any of you know that he took over from his grandfather?”

I hear a few quiet “no’s” and the woman, Zondra, continues. “I found out only yesterday that he’s been working here for three months already! Apparently he’s been living in Villsburg for six months, and had been travelling to the city frequently. For the last three months he still travels, but much less. He spends most of his time here.”

She must be talking about
Erin
’s friend, Adam Montgomery. He’s the reason I’m here. Well, him and Erin’s broken leg. Apparently he phoned Erin asking for a favour and as nice as
Erin
is, he said yes. And now I am standing behind a conference room door eavesdropping like a teenager!

Ms Venom continues. “Then he has the audacity to come in and take over our arrange...” A door opens inside the room somewhere which stops Zondra in the middle of her sentence and someone clears a throat in obvious discomfort.

“I took over from this committee, Zondra, because after six months and a shocking budget, your only accomplishment was to run off five coordinators. As you all know, this festival will be a reflection on my company and I will not tolerate anything less that the best.” The new male voice has the kind of quiet strength that one would not want to willingly challenge. He must have heard the conversation from an adjacent room before he entered in the middle of Ms Venom’s sentence. I cross my eyes and groan. My dear partner and friend told me that there were problems with the organising of this festival, but he did not prepare me for this. Five coordinators? A disliked Mr Montgomery, a Ms Venom and a room full of bad energy?

Erin
, I hate you.

“So, where is this ever-so-highly-recommended coordinator of yours?” the man called George asks. For the second time today I make a diagnosis without a PhD in human behaviour. This is not a very amiable group of people. And I will have to work with them? Why me?

“I’m sure he has a good reason. He’s most likely delayed,” the old man says slowly. “I suggest we wait a little while longer. He might have difficulty finding the town.” He? HE? They think I’m a man? Oh bottom! It’s going to take some serious verbal tap dancing to work my way through this bog heap of hostility and misunderstandings.

Mustering courage from some inner source that I think I inherited from my grandmother, I hoist my large canvas bag over my right shoulder and get into my ‘confident posture’ – pull in the stomach, push out the chest and lift the chin. Opening the door, I stride confidently into a room with an atmosphere so thick you can hang an axe on it.

I only manage two confident strides when I’m pulled back to the door with a force that rattles my teeth and nearly dislocates my shoulder. While my teeth settle into their usual positions and my shoulder groans back into place, I try to figure out what or who just attacked me. Then a heavy realisation settles on me. ‘Incident’ number four just occurred. One of the many decorative pockets on my canvas bag got hooked by the door handle. I plaster a smile on my face, hoping it looks real and give the bag a tug. Nothing happens. Five pairs of eyes assess me as I give my bag another tug, this time with force.

The sound of tearing fabric fills the already atomic air and my favourite bag frees itself from its captor. This causes the door to first ricochet off the wall and then slam shut with a noise that sounds to me like the lid slamming on my coffin.

Triple bottom!

And – why me?

To my amazement I manage to contain a groan and a few expressive words, and raise myself back into my confident posture.

“Good afternoon,” I say with a voice that slightly resembles my own.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” The older, experienced voice – spiced with laughter – belongs to a teddy bear of a black man. My eyes connect with the laughter in his and I know I have an ally. I’m about to introduce myself when a familiar voice cuts through the air with the speed and sharpness of a samurai sword.

“Excuse me miss, but this is a closed meeting.” The venom-tipped arrows, aka words, miss my heart by a few inches and bounce off my armour. Remembering my training and with a smile still plastered on my face, I turn my charm on full blast.

“Ah, you must be Zondra!” I plonk my bag down on the table a bit too loudly and smile at her with the joy of seeing a long lost friend. I lean in and shake my head in wonder. “I’ve heard so much about you and your legendary style in court. Admirable,” I say in a reverent voice. She seems taken aback and at least I’ve succeeded in shutting her up for a while.

Part of the complete make-over of me, Alex Fields, included intensive training in people and business negotiation skills. Apparently I lacked severely in this area. I tend to say what’s on my mind, uncensored, and so
Erin
sicced his cousin Bart, an expert in business negotiations, professional conduct and corporate image, on me. At first I thought all the negotiation rules to be a bit pie in the sky and manipulative, but it seems like I might need those seven steps to ‘successful and amiable business relations’ today.

“Good afternoon everybody.” I slowly look around the room starting at my left and make eye contact with all the members as I work my way to the male presence standing to my right and just out of my peripheral vision – step number one. “I apologise profusely for being late, but I had some cah...” No. No! NO! I look into a pair of very familiar dark brown eyes and I can feel my lower jaw freeze in an open “ah” position.