Party Girl (2 page)

Chapter TWO

I’d been so excited to find out that the offices of SSE sit on the busiest part of Beverly Drive, with its cute boutiques and great-looking restaurants, but I barely even notice them as I sprint down the street in heels.

It’s 9:22 a.m. by the time the elevator stops at the top floor of the building where SSE is located.

The doors open, and I walk into a small reception area. It’s all clean lines and stark white. A pretty girl, probably my age, sits at a modern-looking desk in the center of the small space. Behind her, a faux wall with the SSE logo on it separates the reception desk from the large industrial-style office behind her. The whole place looks expensive and gorgeous, and I’d be in awe if I wasn’t sick with the knowledge that I’m probably never going to work here since I was incapable of showing up on time.

I walk over to the desk, but before I can get any words out, the receptionist’s phone beeps. She punches a button with her finger and speaks into the microphone of her earpiece.

“SSE? Yes, absolutely.” She punches a few buttons, then looks up at me waiting.

“Hi, I’m—”

As the phone beeps again the receptionist’s finger flies up, the universal signal for I’ll-be-with-you-in-a-second.

“SSE? Yes, may I ask who’s calling? One moment.” She jabs the buttons again, and I wonder fleetingly if she takes out her frustration on that poor phone. She speaks into her headset. “Hi, I have Meryl for you . . . I don’t know, you know she never remembers your direct line. OK, here she is.” She abuses the phone again and then looks up at me.

“I’m—” The phone beeps and that single digit flies up again, telling me to hold on. I’m already so late; my chances of keeping this job are depleting with every call she takes. When she looks up at me again, I pounce.

“Hi there, I’m Landon Brinkley,” I explain.

“And?” Her eyes narrow, and because her hair is pulled back into such a tight ponytail, I think it has to be painful to make that expression.

“I, um . . . I’m starting my internship today.”

“Of course you are,” she says sarcastically. “Who’s your contact?”

“Oh, my contact is McKenna. Um, gosh, now that I think about it, I don’t actually know her last name.” I laugh nervously.

The receptionist is not amused.

She punches numbers into the phone.

“Hi, there’s an intern here for you. Hmm . . . OK, uh-huh . . .” As she listens to whoever is on the phone, she looks at me with even further disdain.

Crap! Crappity-crap-crap!

“You were supposed to be here at nine,” she says.

It’s the nail in my coffin; I can tell by her tone. Normally I would grovel, or cry, or start apologizing profusely, but I know instinctually it won’t make any difference. I’m gonna have to lie. I hate lying, and I’m terrible at it, but it’s my only option if I want to keep this job.

“There must be some confusion.” I try and sound as authoritative as she does. “I was told to be here at nine thirty. In fact I came a bit early in case I couldn’t find parking.” Jeez, my first day on the job in LA and already my moral compass is bent sideways.

“She says she was supposed to be here at nine thirty,” she speaks into her headset. “I don’t know . . . Yes . . .” She gives me a quick once-over. “Cute enough, I guess . . . OK.”

She stabs the phone with her finger and looks back up at me. “Wait over there.” She nods in the direction of the modern white lounge furniture set up in the corner. The phone beeps again and she looks down, dismissing me.

I sag in relief. I don’t think I’m out of the woods yet, but at least they didn’t throw me out. I walk over to the waiting area, trying not to let my heels make too much noise on the polished cement floor.

I’m too nervous to sit down, so I stand next to the fancy sofa and stare at the framed photos that hang on the wall. They’re a montage of sorts, hung gallery-style with images of various sizes and shapes. Each picture shows elements of different events: modern centerpieces at a cocktail party, a long elegant dinner table set for at least thirty people, red-carpet arrivals of various movie premieres . . . Each image is more gorgeous than the last, evidence of a designer with exceptional taste and an unlimited budget.

“You’re lucky I couldn’t find the e-mail with your arrival time,” a voice says from behind me.

I whirl around to face the handsome, perfectly dressed man-child standing next to the reception desk. He’s not much taller than I am and dressed like a professor from the 1950s with his oversize glasses and his bow tie. His outfit fits his thin frame to perfection, and each piece—slacks, button-down, dress shoes—is black and stands out against the all-white decor in the office.

“I’m sorry, what?” I ask, confused.

He smirks. “I said you’re lucky that I can’t find the e-mail proof that your start time was nine. I know for a fact you’re late, but you get some credit for having the balls to lie about it. Follow me.” He turns on his heel and starts walking off. I have no choice but to hurry after him.

Balls?

Behind the faux wall SSE is a hive of activity. The office is one large industrial-style room, with desks that look like white glass cubes, and is cooler than any workspace I’ve ever seen. The desks are arranged in a perfect rectangle of three rows of five. Even with big desktops, most of the workstations are overcrowded with paper, magazines, linen samples, centerpiece mock-ups, and invitations in every style imaginable. The employees are going at a feverish pace on computers, on phone calls, on design samples and mood boards . . . It’s cooler and prettier than I ever could have imagined!

As I hurry to follow the professor, I notice the white decor continues in this room too. Everything—the walls, the desks, the oversize Apple screens—are all stark white. In contrast, the staff of SSE, who are fifteen or so of the prettiest under-thirty set I’ve ever seen, are dressed just like the professor and the receptionist in all black. I look down at my polka-dot pencil skirt, my blue blouse, my pink cardigan, and the bubble-gum purse in my hand.

Crap.

At the far end of the office, walls of opaque glass create one large room and a smaller one next to it. I follow the professor into the latter. He closes the door behind me and takes a seat at one of the two desks in the room. He puts a headset on while waving at me to take the chair next to his desk.

“OK, we’re off to a bit of a rocky start here, Brinkley. You and I both know you were late, but since I can’t prove it I’m giving you until the end of the day to impress the hell out of me, or you can pack off to whatever quaint hamlet in West Virginia you hail from.”

“I’m—”

“Nope,” he cuts me off, “not interested in whatever it is you’re about to say. I don’t have the time or the inclination to hear your excuses. I’ve got work to do. Do you want to be a part of that or not?”

I’m so embarrassed and don’t trust myself to speak without breaking into tears. Instead, I nod.

He nods once in response and types quickly on his laptop. His iPhone chirps and he grabs it and reads the screen while talking.

“There are three things you need to remember here at all times. First of all, nobody wants to hear what you think.”

I must wince or something because he looks annoyed.

“That’s not me being an asshole, that’s just a fact. Interns are a dime a dozen and everyone whose opinion
does
matter has earned the right to that position. So keep your mouth shut. Secondly, whatever someone asks you for, they needed it
yesterday
. We’re constantly handling millions of dollars’ worth of events at one time, and the pace here is fast. If you can’t keep up, you’ll get run over like roadkill. Got it?”

“Sure, I—”

“Nope,” he cuts me off again, “remember, I’m not interested. Just nod please.”

I nod.

“You’ll be working directly for me, and I work directly for Quade. Quade, of course, works directly for Selah. Just do whatever either of us asks you to do as fast as possible without fucking it up. Understand?”

I nod again.

“OK, come with me.”

I stand, place my bag under the small chair next to his desk, and follow him just outside the door. He points to a low bookshelf that runs the length of the frosted glass of the office wall. It holds a mess of binders in every color, some half-hanging off the shelf and some lying on their sides. Colorful pages have been ripped out of magazines and haphazardly inserted here and there in the lineup.

“Organize these.” He points at the mess.

“Is there a particular order y’all want them in or—” I ask before I remember that I’m not supposed to be speaking.

“Oh, she’ll
hate
that accent. You better do something about it.” He turns to walk away while I stare after him, dumbfounded.

What? How is that even something to hate? I can’t help the way I talk!

I want to tell him to shove it and that I’m from Texas,
not
West Virginia. I want to mention how hard I’ve worked to get here today and that I won’t have it destroyed by some snobby, overdressed jerk. But I don’t say any of those things; I just stand there and stare at his back as he goes to turn the corner, and before I can think better of it, I call out.

“What’s your name?”

He turns back. “I thought you realized.” He walks towards me with his hand out, apparently finding, or faking, some manners. “I’m McKenna.”

“
You’re
McKenna?” I say, shaking his hand. “I’ve never met a man named McKenna. I didn’t realize who you were.”

“My name is Will, but as far as Selah’s concerned, I’m McKenna, Samantha is Quade, and you’ll be Brinkley. It’s last names only here.”

“But my name is Landon,” I say, more confused than defiant.

McKenna cocks his head to one side and smirks. “Don’t you get it? Nobody cares what your name is, Kansas. You’ll either fade into oblivion or find some way to earn your keep; the means by which you make your impression are up to you, but in either case your name is irrelevant.”

With that he turns and goes back into the little office.

I stand there a moment, perplexed.

I’d always known people in LA were going to be tougher than people from back home, but I hadn’t expected them to be so openly rude. Oh well, not much I can do about it now. I look down at the offensive bookshelf. I might not be able to make McKenna like me, but this cluttered disaster I can handle. I start pulling binders off the shelves and get to work.

I don’t know how long I’ve been down on the glazed cement floor, but it’s got to be hours because my knees hurt like hell. Even still, I’ve managed to organize each of the binders into some semblance of order.

It took awhile, but eventually I discovered that these binders are inspiration books filled with tear sheets. Every binder housed a different party element, and I’d labeled each one appropriately with the little label maker I’d found buried on the shelf. Some were obvious: centerpieces, candles, tablecloths in solid colors, and tablecloths in patterns. Others took a little more thought to figure out, and in some cases required a bold-faced assumption. Those included things like “fish-based appetizers,” “unique cocktail vessels,” and “atmosphere/air.” This last binder was filled with images of bubbles and smoke . . . I took a guess.

Now that each binder has a label, I set out to alphabetize and place them back on the shelf. I grab the first stack and begin to sort through them on the floor around me. I’m on my third stack when I hear the clip of heels coming my direction. I look up just as a willowy brunette with a perfect A-line bob and an angry-looking girl with pin-straight black hair both come to a stop next to my binder city.

I look up in awe. Selah is easily one of the prettiest people I’ve ever seen in real life. She’s also the only person in the room wearing color (well, besides me). She’s in tight gray slacks that hug her long legs and an ivory blouse that’s only partially tucked in messy perfection. Her black ankle boots have a peep toe and gold buttons laced over black suede. I can see the red peeking out from their bottoms, and even I know how expensive that makes them.

I smile up at her. She’s so cool—exactly like I knew she’d be! Every single thing about her is crisp, tailored perfection. She’s my biggest idol come to life, and she’s . . . glaring at me like I’m the blight on her otherwise perfect day.

McKenna comes out of his office to meet her, but before he can say anything, she speaks in an overly loud voice as if she needs everyone in the room to pay attention.

“Isn’t there something else
this girl
could be doing with her time other than cluttering up my floor?”

I hold my breath, too terrified to respond. McKenna told me that no one cared what I had to say. It doesn’t escape me that Selah spit the words “this girl” with the same venom one might use to say the words “crack addict” or “puppy rapist
.
”

My stomach is churning. I’d imagined meeting Selah Smith for years. I had it all planned out. I was going to tell her how much I loved her design aesthetic and how the Pucci tablecloth she used for Margo Reeve’s fiftieth birthday party set the stage for one of the prettiest tablescapes I’d ever seen. I never imagined she’d hate me before I’d even opened my mouth, or that she’d blow away just as quickly as she’d arrived with her two minions in tow, leaving me sitting on the floor with a binder labeled “Animal Entertainment (Mammals)” on my lap.