We were a small event-planning firm that ran a staff of five people year-round, and we were currently days away from hosting the annual Halo Foundation Gala this Saturday evening.
Though we weren’t considered a large firm by any means on the scale of local companies, I was sought out frequently for a number of elite events for my expertise in the field, but more than that, my personality. It drew clients in like a mirrored fishing lure. Ironic, isn’t it? On the outside, nearly everyone I met would deem me a people person at first glance. However, my career had grown into yet another life choice that deceptively cloaked my fear of connection. Not that I was by any means insincere, but my job allowed me to masquerade in plain sight and no one was ever the wiser. It was a comforting yet alarming arrangement that had served my staff and me handsomely over the four and a half years since our doors opened. It was also the reason that each year, The Halo Foundation Gala was a masquerade. I considered it an ode to the dark parts of me, but only I knew that.
Meeting the intersection of Burrard Street and Robson Street, I waited impatiently for the lights to change, when the bass of my ringtone sounded through the leather of the tasseled boho slung over my shoulder. Rummaging through its expansive interior, my fingers finally curled around the vibrating iPhone and brought it to my ear.
“Charleston,” my tone was an edge above chipper. Always answer the phone with a smile on your face, Mom used to say. They’ll be able to tell if you aren’t.
“Did they make you harvest the lettuce for that salad yourself?” my assistant, Kevin, snipped into my receiver.
The man was all sass. From the top of his quaffed salon blowout, to the bottom of his overpriced Testoni dress shoes. He was young, brilliant, gorgeous, and ruthless with numbers. Why was I not dating him? He was also as gay as they came. Sorry, ladies.
“I’m not entirely sure you harvest lettuce in the first place.” I shook my head at no one in particular as the heel of my boots took on the faded crosswalk.
There was a scoff on the other end of the line, followed by an unladylike snort. Before you judge, I compared him to a lady, because in every way was the man a queen. More of a goddess than any of the women I knew, and he wore it well—in Brooks Brothers suits, I mean. “Your 1:30 is here.”
Glancing down at the shine off my watch, my brows furrowed together. “Well, it’s just one. He’s early. Offer him a coffee while he waits.”
“Do you have any idea how much this man is worth?” His voice was barely a whisper and kind of a whine.
I knew exactly how much Beau Callaway, politician for the conservative party and our city’s front-runner for mayor, was worth. He came from a long line of old money and politics. I only took the meeting arranged by his assistant, because it seemed he was interested in providing a last minute donation to the foundation in exchange for being mentioned as one of the sponsors at this weekend’s festivities. There was no doubt the meeting was a campaign strategy, and if I was agreeable, a shiny mention of support and involvement in aiding a local charity would look admirable on the lapel of his young politician’s jacket. Regardless, that was neither here nor there in the scheme of things for me.
I made no qualms on the reasons why someone wished to be a sponsor.
Sponsors made donations. Donations funded my charity. My charity saved people like Henry.
“We are not a hotel, Kevin, we do not take early check-ins. I’m a block away, so please give him a beverage should he so wish for one and I’ll be there shortly.”
“I could bounce a quarter off the man’s ass.” He groaned, ignoring me completely. It was not hard to imagine the image of my assistant with his lips pursed, biting down on a manicured thumbnail while sizing up a potential client.
Rolling my eyes, I took a left on West Cordova and picked up my pace. “You don’t play for the same team and his tie is worth more than your car. So don’t bounce our change off his backside if you want to keep wearing those shirts you can’t afford.”
“Someone’s bitchy with a side of rude this afternoon.”
Sidestepping construction on the sidewalk, I warned him, “Kevin…”
“Yeah, yeah, I heard you. The change will stay in petty cash, scout’s honour.”
“You weren’t a boy scout.”
Click.
Diva.
Three more blocks in four-inch ankle boots and ten minutes later, I fidgeted during my ascent to the thirteenth floor. I always walked to lunch, and I almost always took the stairs on my return to work. The Smiths weren’t a family that enjoyed traditional means of physical excursion, but my parents loved food, and if the way my hips flared was any indication, the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. That being said, I liked the way my ass looked hugged in a pair of jeans, and I wasn’t giving up cake, so in exchange, I took the stairs regularly as penance, though not today.