The gala is being held at the Fairmont Royal York Hotel, a luxury hotel near Toronto’s Harbourfront. It’s insanely fancy-pants and I can’t believe I’m actually being honored here tonight. I walk into the lobby alone, marvelling at the impossibly high ceiling, the shiny floors, and the old-timey clock that stands between two spiral staircases. Near the check-in counter is a small area with two long tables and a sign for the Toronto Women’s Business Association. I make a beeline for it, greeting the woman at the table with a nervous smile.
“Hailey Taylor Emery,” I say, gesturing to the name cards lined up on the tables.
She checks her clipboard, scribbles something down, and then finds my name among the thick cardstock nameplates.
“One of our honorees!” she crows. “Congratulations!”
I feel myself blushing. “Thank you. I’m a bit nervous.”
“Don’t be. Everyone here is thrilled for you. We’re lucky to have you as a member.”
I fight the urge to twirl around happily. “Thank you,”’ I say again. “I’m proud to be one.”
“You’re at table three,” she tells me, before referring to the clipboard again. “It says here you have a plus one.”
“Yes, he’ll be here shortly.” I haven’t spoken to Matt since this morning, but he confirmed earlier that he’d meet me at the Fairmont. His flight time had changed from three p.m. to five. But we’d anticipated this. In order to make sure there wouldn’t be any snafus, Matt left his tux in the car at the airport just in case there wasn’t time to go home beforehand. And it’s only a ninety-minute flight from New York, with clear skies tonight.
“I’ll just wait in the lobby until he arrives,” I tell the hostess.
“Of course.” She sets down the clipboard and smiles. “You still look nervous.”
“I still am,” I answer with a weak giggle. “I’ve never received an award before.”
She winks at me. “Don’t worry, it’s not as nerve-wracking as you think. The speeches take up hardly any time. Our chairwoman, Barbara Dubois, will give her intro speech at eight, the awards are handed out at eight thirty, and by nine everyone’ll be on the dance floor.”
That relaxes me a bit. I wrote a short speech, but I’m afraid it’s not good enough. Or that it doesn’t sound grateful enough. I am, though. Growing up with a mother who was impossible to please, I tend to overcompensate when it comes to my job. I work my ass off, and sometimes I wonder who I’m doing it for. If I’m chasing success for me, or if because I’m still, subconsciously, trying to silence that critical voice that told me I’d never amount to anything.
Those thoughts are too damn dark to delve into right now, though. All I know is that I’m proud of myself. Which, I guess, answers those Deep Questions. I’m doing this for me. Because building this little business from the ground up has brought me a shit ton of joy.
My other source of joy, however, is nowhere to be found. I stare at the front doors, willing Matt to walk through them. He’s ten minutes late, but we’ve got time. The ceremony starts at eight, and the lobby clock says it’s only seven forty.
Plenty of time, I assure myself.
Several more people stream into the hotel. Matt isn’t one of them.
I fish my phone out of my black satin clutch, but there’s no message waiting for me. I take a calming breath. Hopefully he’s parking his car and will be here any second.
I wander over to the lobby doors and watch the night traffic zoom by on Front Street. Three different cars stop at the valet stand in front of the hotel. Matt doesn’t get out of any of them. I check my phone again. It’s seven fifty. He’s twenty minutes late. Damn, I hope he didn’t get held up in customs at the airport.
“Ms. Emery?”
I turn to find the woman from the check-in desk standing behind me. “Everyone is being urged to take their seats,” she says softly.
“Oh. Right.” Torn, I glance at the huge windows again. Crap. I need to get inside that banquet hall. But Matt’s still not here.
The woman follows my gaze. “I’ll tell you what—why don’t you leave me your guest’s name? When he arrives, I’ll personally escort him to your table.”
It’s a compromise I’m not thrilled about, but I don’t have much of a choice. I can’t stand out in the lobby forever. The idea of walking in right in the middle of Barbara Dubois’s speech and causing a scene as I tiptoe to my table turns my insides to knots. That would be mortifying.
“All right. My boyfriend’s name is Matt Eriksson.”
Her expression doesn’t change, which tells me she’s not a hockey fan. Probably for the better. That means she won’t fawn all over him when he shows up.
I follow the signs toward the banquet-hall doors, while quickly keying a text message into my phone.
Hailey: Had to take my seat. Lady out front will bring you to table 3.
I wait for the typing bubbles to appear, but the screen stays silent. No response.
Hailey: Where are you??
The banquet hall is packed. I walk in and all I see are sparkling chandeliers, round tables with elaborate centerpieces, and a sea of well-dressed women. Several of them smile at me as I shuffle to my table. I smile back, and excitement builds again. Holy shit. I recognize a few faces belonging to prominent female newscasters and television personalities. There is a lot of high-powered estrogen in this room. The women outnumber the men two to one, and it looks like many of them didn’t even bring dates. There’s something seriously awesome about that—ladies doing it for themselves and all that jazz.
I find table number three and awkwardly sit in one of the two empty chairs. I introduce myself to everyone and discover that this table is reserved for all the awards recipients and their dates. Unlike the solo women I saw at the other tables, this bunch all brought dates. I’m the only one without a plus one.
He’ll be here.
Of course he will. There’s no reason for him not to be. I checked the forecast only an hour ago and didn’t see any storms or weather events that would delay his plane. He didn’t have any mandatory press events in New York. He literally has to step off the plane, change, and get in a cab. Maybe traffic over at the airport is worse than usual?
“So. Hailey. What do you do?” the woman to my right asks politely. She’s in her mid to late forties and introduced herself as Maryann Winston, but she didn’t say what kind of award she was receiving.
“I own a business called Fetch,” I answer, feeling oddly shy.
Maryann’s husband leans across her to flash me a big smile. “Well, what do you know! I use your services all the time!”
Maryann raises her thin, blond eyebrows at her husband. “You do?” she says in surprise.