“You never said—”
“And give you another reason to go ballistic? Hell no. But it never leaves me, the what if Julian thinks I’m ungrateful. What if I sit in his exclusive seats and the big wigs hear my grammar’s wrong? Or think my clothes are cheap?” He feigned shock. “‘That’s Emma Paige’s husband?’”
“What if something I do makes him annoyed with his genius executive, the perfect Emma Paige? I’m not saying tickets, and dinners, and helping my school kids isn’t fucking fantastic, but do you ever think about how many strings might be attached? Does it ever, ever, ever occur to you that he might be keeping me happy so he can run your life?”
I glared at him and yanked water glasses out of the dishwasher, dropped one on the tile floor, and swore a blue streak.
He ripped paper towels off the roll. “You don’t give a rat’s ass about anything but U K, Churchill, Rules, Prince Charles, Priory Bay, U K, U K, U K. To be honest I was going to tell Paul Jacoby not to bother. Now I think I’ll follow through. You’re blind, Emma, blind from this workaholic stupor you think is the home run of your life.”
He put the pantry dustpan and brush at my feet, and holed up in our office. I finished the evening with Jane Austen, set my alarm to get me to the gym early, and from the locker room to the office. Ethan returned to the guestroom.
The next day included meetings with the marketing department, with input from our PR agency’s CEO to ensure a trouble-free initial London press event. Our insurance company’s concerns over the venue security required procedural background checks. Details from the mind-numbing chat dissolved my domestic catastrophe looped through my head. I was due in London within forty-eight hours, and while I’d cooled from livid to annoyed, I made a point to be home by six. All that greeted me was a note.
Emma,
No school/teacher in-service day tomorrow so I’ve left for Vegas directly from Clay this afternoon. I don’t want to fight, it’s not productive. Probably good we’ll both be away with time to think.
Do what you want about the cleaning service, I don’t really care. E.
I skimmed it a second time, Ethan’s furious voice resonating in my head. I don’t really care. Who was he kidding? Misha fed his ego, gave him constant attention. Okay, my massive project had me gone too much. And yes Julian was ever-present in our lives. I paced our apartment note-in-hand, but with each reread his furious voice ringing in my head softened until subdued resignation was all the tone I had.
I climbed into bed wrapped in my constant, world class conclusion jumping, and inability to trust. No doubt my exuberance over all things UK-C, secret locations, screaming fans, pumping adrenaline bored Ethan. My misunderstanding and over-the-top reaction to his Knicks game stung. My relentless work schedule was driving him to Misha.
I flew out of Teterboro Airport with his note in my purse, assessing how often Ethan and I were recipients of Julian’s generosity. Jealousy was ridiculous, but something in me flared at Ethan’s spin on the freewheeling extravagance. He had no clue about generosity at Julian’s level of success. Per usual I popped the happy pill. Stay sharp! Business at hand! Jennifer and my Manhattan team would keep the New York gears oiled. Julian, back from two weeks in China, was to meet me in London. How ironic. The more stable Mayfair Beauty, the more unstable my personal life.
For this final, crucial meeting with the band, I had the room transformed into a faux fragrance lab, visuals and props to hold the boys’ interest and keep them occupied. Yes, I was back in London; yes, in full throttle mode. So be it.
The band handlers managed to keep our meeting confidential from everyone but screaming fans. The hoards and their paparazzi filled the street, parking lot and shrubbery surrounding the obscure suburban London hotel someone thought perfect for our clandestine work. Even I got a scream or two as bodyguards elbowed my passageway from limousine into the lobby.
I pushed through the doors and from there trotted behind a desk clerk to the conference room. As Thomas fooled with his camera lenses, each tousle-haired heartthrob popped in. George and Ennis rushed me with camera phones and chatter, flattering until I realised Jasper stood behind me pointing to a red fox outside the picture window. I gave into their unruly enthusiasm and nodded to Thomas to shoot some candids. Not all things had to be regimented. They eventually settled down to sign off on the creative press plan and TV commercial storyboards, each chattering in his distinctive regional accent.
Had I ever had their innocence, and uncomplicated happiness? Or the luxury of living without ever more complex problems?
“Blimey, if you haven’t kept us toeing the line,” George said as we finished. “You’re the best of all licensing ladies,” came with his handshake.
Sudden hugs closed my throat. “It seemed endless,” Cian said, “but you made it fun.”
“A right hoot and a half.” Jason looked from Taylor to me. “Emma, we want you to come to our premier in New York, ’see it’s all done proper in the States.”
“See Security keeps the screaming birds from ripping off the doors of Madison Square Garden.” Tommy fanned himself.
“You’re smashing, of course, but now we’re, all of us, keen to meet your baseball player,” Cian added. “Say you’ll be there. Say you’ll bring him to Friends and Family after the show.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much,” I croaked. “I’m thrilled. Of course I’ll be there. We’ll be there.” I brushed tears with the back of my hand, even as Thomas snapped away.
We snaked through the hotel, out a back exit past linked arms police officers cordoning off fans and photographers and ducked into waiting SUVs, all amidst screams in front and behind with whirring helicopter blades above.
The afternoon chaos settled leaving my brain stuffed with Ethan conversations. I fell into my usual pattern of revision – what I should have said, what points I should have made. He was right, Julian’s generosity rankled. The more lavish he became, the more beholden I felt, intrusive emotions I couldn’t shake.
I returned to Claridge’s mulling over Jane Austen. The first edition I read every night probably did cost thirty thousand dollars. Ethan right again. Who in hell gives an employee a gift like that, and flies her spouse in chartered planes to first class sporting events?
I entered my hotel room to find a desk message on my house phone: I was to enjoy, relax, and recharge my batteries before we met the following day. Mr Petrenko had made me a single reservation for Claridge’s Afternoon Tea.
I soaked in a bath, slipped into slacks, pearls and cashmere, and found a message on my cell phone still in the bottom of my purse. “Hey Emma, checking in from Vegas. I sat down with Paul Jacoby yesterday, the guy who reps Triple A California ball. And you need to know I ran into Misha Baskin. No shit, our housekeeper’s won tickets for A New Day, Celine Dion’s show. She brought her sister. Not only were we both in Vegas, the show’s downstairs in the Coliseum. Just so you know, yes, she stayed in the hotel.”
He cleared his throat. “What are the chances? I know you won’t believe this was a coincidence. So you’re hearing it from me. Don’t bother to call back. I’m about to meet the guys for one of the presentations. It’s been amazing so far. Thank Julian. I’ll be home Thursday.”
“Amazing so far? Yes, Ethan, what exactly are the chances,” I muttered on the way to the elevator. If I’d arranged a getaway with my hot-to-trot housekeeper, calling home with ‘Can you believe it?’ was exactly the smokescreen I’d come up with. I did not let it ruin the bliss of the hotel’s famous pastime or my own Me Moments.
If Marsha Johnson could see me now. My 5:30 seating justified warm scones, too many finger sandwiches and a Marco Polo gelee with clotted cream as early dinner. While a set of mothers and preteens laughed and sipped from their jade striped cups at the next table, I fought the urge to join them and whisper, “Guess who I’ve spent the day with?”
Instead I savoured my Darjeeling. Julian and I were due to prep for the board meeting and review international business development. I’d agreed to organise a large presence at the next Cannes Trade Show. Was it wise to disturb our professional-personal balance with a lecture on overabundance of generosity at this delicate time? No, it was not.
The next day keeping to business kept Julian efficient and on target. Mostly. An LA broker had contacted him regarding Windmill Beauty, a brand combined anti-aging ingredients with all natural, organic compounds, products defying the rules of science, for the richest women in America. It was for sale.
“We have a lot on our plate, Julian, I strongly suggest we stay the course and stay focused on our massive commitments to the board and investors. The boys’ agents are pushing for more sales commitments to increase their cut of the profits, which are already healthy. Recent financial evaluation show traction from the brand increases assets by forty percent.”
“We’re on target in terms of sales and timelines. They’ll launch on time, in all markets?”
“All set for North America and Europe. Australia and New Zealand will follow in thirty days. We may have slight delays in Asia and South America but not by much.”
“My directors suggest we consider merging my fragrance endeavours with most of my interests and go public. Timing is everything. I’ve alerted a New York firm to be prepared to execute. They tell me two months time’s required to work on terms, legalities, filings and such for the IPO. I save millions in overhead whilst increasing revenues.”
“My team can balance this but all the more reason to forgo the Windmill. What can we do, stateside?”
“Tell CFO Garten he’ll need to know what to prepare. Remind him: no disclosures to anyone. We cannot risk word getting out. We’re to stay mindful of hostile takeover threats.”
“I understand. Consider it done.”
