He fires off more questions, and for each one I have an answer. The market insight is spot on, he says, and I have my . . . husband to thank for that. A whiz, sharp with insight and concise with analysis, he provided exactly what I needed to complement the creative vision I have for this campaign.
At the end of the meeting, Nate rises and clasps my hand in a long, hearty shake. “Very impressive. We hope to make a final decision soon. Thank you so much for coming in, and I’m glad Armand made it possible for us to meet.”
I beam. “I look forward to hearing from you.”
I’m giddy as I leave his offices. I practically punch the sky once I’m a block away and can properly let all my excitement bubble over.
I grab my phone and sit on the steps of L’église de la Madeleine, the massive church that’s the anchor of this section of the city. Briefly I contemplate texting Veronica or Joy, or maybe even my brother. But honestly, there’s only one person I want to share this news with first.
The person who made it possible for me to go in there today and kick ass. I haven’t seen Christian in ten days, not since the weekend we were married in Copenhagen. He left for London to meet with board members and a few key shareholders the day after our wedding. As the married one now, Christian’s fronting the firm, but Erik is running it as he’s always done. Once Jandy’s shares are bought back in a few months, Christian and Erik will run the company as the majority shareholders, though Erik will still be the front man.
I do love their closeness and the way they depend on each other and trust each other unconditionally. Sometimes I wish I was closer to my brother, Ian. He looks out for me, and I know he cares for me deeply, and I love the little necklace gifts he gives me. But we don’t have the sort of connection Christian and Erik have. Ian is busy with his life and his family over in New York, and I’m busy with my life here.
I click on my text messages, ready to type out a note, when I find Christian has already sent me one.
Christian: Tell me everything. Did you blow them away?
Elise: I think so. I feel like I nailed it.
I’m grinning crazily as the sun beats down, and passersby crisscross in front of me, parking themselves at tables and steps leading into the house of worship.
Christian: Excellent. I knew you would.
Elise: Your insight was amazing. I felt like a rock star, peppering off numbers and analysis. You are a god at that.
Elise: Oh, you’re also a god in bed, but I think you know that already.
Christian: Why, yes, please do compliment me more. It feeds my ego and makes other parts larger too.
I laugh as I stare at the message, as if I’m in my own private flirty bubble right now, even as God and tourists peek over my shoulder.
Elise: I like everything about those other parts. And I like that quick brain that made this possible.
Christian: I’m glad I can be useful. But seriously, it was all you. You can only nail something if you know what to do with the info you were given. Now we need to celebrate.
Celebrate. That’s one of my favorite words. Celebrations imply champagne, high heels, and nights out with friends. I’ve always loved a celebration because it means there is good news, and good news brings that most elusive of emotional states, one that’s so hard to truly attain and sustain—happiness. But I feel it now, and I’m aware of how quickly it can disappear. Best to embrace moments like this.
Elise: How do you want to celebrate?
Christian: Ideally, by licking champagne off your breasts. But I think before we get to that, we should do something fun. What do you like to do for fun? Besides go on crazy roller-coaster rides, shop for your friends, plant flowers, and enjoy fancy and decadent meals out.
My heart does a little jig—he already knows some of the littlest details about me, like my penchant for showering my friends with gifts for no reason. Those are my favorite kind of gifts—pointless ones, because that’s the point.
Elise: All of the above, and I also like dancing.
Christian: Swing? Tango? Foxtrot? Please say no as I can’t do any of those, and ballet is out of the question.
An image flickers by of the type of dancing I want to do with Christian, and I wonder if he’s any good at it.
Elise: None of the above. I mostly like dancing late at night in clubs when I can let loose with my girlfriends.
Christian: Do you want to go clubbing with your girlfriends, or do you want to go with me when I return this weekend?
I write back, the answer falling from my fingers so easily, so smoothly, that it feels like the only way possible I could want to celebrate, though I haven’t yet won a thing.
Except, perhaps, a night out with the man who’s front and center in my mind.
Elise: With you.
23ELISE
Saturday looms before me like the face of the clock, the second hand ticking obnoxiously in my ear.
I busy myself with work in the morning, cloistering myself in the office with Polly, my creative director, who’s whipping through Photoshop mock-ups for the Luxe. Just a few extra items to send to Nate. Call it campaign Impress the Hell Out of Him.
As I look up from the media plan, she smiles, points to her screen, and declares, “Booyah.”
It always makes me laugh when she blurts out supremely American sayings. She is American, but she also says them with a certain over-the-top flourish.
“And what has earned your booyah seal of approval?”
She slides the laptop in my direction, showing me a new concept for a social campaign. My eyes widen, and my marketing bones hum. “That is booyah and a home run.”
She nods approvingly. “You haven’t been away from the homeland too long. You still know our little sayings.”
“You know I can still shoot the breeze,” I say, with a wink.
Polly has been with my agency for four years, and we’ve bonded over a love of marketing, and of being Americans working abroad. She flicks her pink-tipped blond hair off her shoulders and gives me an inquisitive look. “Also, I don’t think I’ve said this, but you seem happier lately.”
