Unravelled (3 page)

Standing next to me, large as life, is no one else but Mr Wall Street himself. What is he doing here? He ought to be in another boardroom in some huge company in some huge city, not a municipal boardroom in Villsburg. Does his presence here mean that I’ll have to work with him? Bottom of all bottoms! It takes a second of rapid blinking (me) for the unwelcoming look (him) to penetrate my thunderstruck brain. I hold my confident posture, but not without difficulty, and recall step number two: Never let them attack and never let them defend. Be the first to befriend.

“Fancy meeting you again.” I stick out my hand, hoping he won’t notice the slight tremble, and give his reluctantly offered hand a friendly shake. “Alex Fields. Very pleased to meet you, Mr...”

“Adam Montgomery.” Geez, I don’t know if my smile will ever be warm enough to thaw the ice coming from his eyes. His name takes moment to sink in. Is he
the
Mr Montgomery?
Erin
’s good friend and the man I will have to work with? The man I will have to work closely with?

What have I done in my previous lives to deserve such bad karma payback? From his conversations on his fancy-smancy phone this afternoon and the look he’s giving me right now, I don’t have to be psychic to know that the next seven weeks is going to be the equivalent of listening to little children practice their piano lessons – slow torture.

“Ms Fields,” he continues in a cordial voice that belies his look. “Let me introduce you to our committee.”

He starts with the man sitting to my left. Jeremy Ashwood. From the scant info I got from
Erin
I know a bit about all of them. Jeremy’s a farmer who’s been widowed for ten years. His family and farms keep him busy and content. Next to him is the unfriendly male voice. I shake hands with George Carlson, a man who looks like a stereotypical real estate developer. And that, incidentally, is what he does for a living. I also immediately distrust him. I’m sorry, but I just cannot trust a man who wears a gold signet ring on his little finger.

“And I’m Earl Foxx.” The smile the black teddy bear gives me is like a cup of hot chocolate on a cold, grey day: warm and giving me courage to go on. He looks like the family man everyone knows him to be and not like a successful business man with four businesses in town. My indulgence in his friendly gesture is rudely interrupted by Zondra.

“Zondra Brennet. We all expected someone different. I do hope that you’ll be able to handle a project of this size and importance.” I’m surprised that she uses multi-syllabic words, since she’s speaking to me as if I’m four years old. I should’ve stayed stranded on the side of the road.

“Is she your expert who will wave her wand and make this work?” George asks looking argumentatively at Mr Wall Street and then nods in my direction. “Is this little lady it?”

I have been called a lot of things, but never little. I have been told that my energy levels make me appear taller than my hundred and seventy centimetres. And with my J Lo physique I would not call myself little.

George and Zondra are now ganging up on Mr Wall Street and I let their arguments regarding my suitability for this job wash over me. Step number six: Don’t take things personally. I reach for my canvas bag and start unpacking while George continues his derogatory remarks that sound like the recording of cave-man gruntings.

They’ve moved away from my competency and are now taking Mr Wall Street on about hiring me without their involvement. It seems like the argument is back to where it started just before I entered the room and is getting decidedly heated. Earl and Jeremy are the only ones not raising their voices at this moment and I make a note in the back of my head to find out more about them. It’s quite obvious that I won’t be getting much help from Zondra and George, but Earl and Jeremy might just make the next seven weeks manageable. I’ve finished unpacking the paraphernalia from my canvas bag and am now rummaging through my handbag. Aha! Found it!

The shrill scream of the police whistle leaves startled looks and beautiful silence in its wake. I did violate rule number four: Don’t make any offensive sounds, but I successfully achieved rule number five: Always be in control. I stand for a moment and weigh my options, and then decide to go the whole hog.

“I was told four days ago about your dilemma and reluctantly agreed to give up my holiday on an exotic island to take this on. I did not know that I was going to have to work with this.” Now I’m breaking all the rules. Sorry Bart. “I asked for a progress report on any and all arrangements for this festival and after three phone calls and no report I had to come here empty handed. The only information I had was a bunch on sketchy descriptions of the people I was going to work with. And that I received from my partner, Mr Cole. Now, who can give me the information that I requested four days ago?”

“I’ve not been informed about your request, Ms Fields.” It’s Mr Wall Street speaking Ice language to me.

“How is that possible? I spoke to your assistant several times on Thursday and Friday.”

“Are you sure?” he asks.

I turn away from the group and face
Mr Wall Street
full on. “Yes, I’m sure. Her name is Cynthia and she kept on promising to email me the progress report.”

“That is not my assistant, Ms Fields.”

“She’s my assistant and I’ll have a word with her about this.” Zondra aka Ms Venom breaks into our stare-down. I hear Earl mumble something under his breath that sounds similar to “go figure”, but I decide to not go into that direction and turn back to the four people around the table.

“Well, that is all a moot point now. I had to come unprepared tonight and can’t even give you an estimate on what kind of subcontracting we would have to do. In order for me to give you a comprehensive plan, I need information on what’s been achieved so far, a mission statement if you have one, people involved, and artists who’ve been contacted. I need everything you have. I’ll also need the documents of the last two festivals.” This is all said in my no-nonsense business voice. I’m good at my job. I can feel my annoyed expression and am sure they can see that I am not in the mood for faffing about.

“I’ll have it on your desk tomorrow morning,” Mr Wall Street says with narrowed eyes weighing me and most likely finding me a few kilos too heavy. I ignore the fleeting desire to squeeze in my bum and stomach, and get back to business.

“I also need to know that you’re not going to fight me all the way on this. I’m hired to make this work and if you’re not going to work with me, this event will not be taking place. Thanks to the limited information I have about your festival and the fact that time is running out, I’d say that we need to work together. Do I have your support or am I going home?”

I am my grandmother’s offspring. I take no nonsense. I know that if
Erin
ever found out about me giving these people an ultimatum at the first meeting, I’ll have to listen to one of his ‘you can
not
speak like this to clients’ lectures. There’s a silence in the room which is beginning to make me wince inside and wish that I had stuck to those bleeding steps. But then, the gods smile on me and Earl is the first one to break the silence.

“You have my support and if I can help with anything, just ask.”

“Me too.” Man-of-few-words Jeremy Ashwood.

“Yes,” Zondra spits out the word with great reluctance. “Anything you need in the legal department, just phone my office.” But can I trust your assistant, I want to ask but bite my tongue.

“Mr Carlson?” I lift my eyebrow and give him my grandmother’s eat-your-vegetables look.

“Yes Ms Fields, you have my support,” he says with maximum insincerity while closing his ego-sized diary. This is not going to be easy, but strangely I’ve never liked easy and this challenge is becoming very intriguing to me.

“I’ll start reviewing the documents tomorrow.” I nod at Mr Wall Street who nods back in mutual recognition of the giving and receiving of documents. “Can we arrange a meeting before the end of this week? I’ll be able to give a better overview of everything and can give you a plan of action about how I would need your help and involvement.”

George starts to complain about his precious time when Mr Wall Street interrupts him in a tone that brooks no argument. “My secretary will be in contact with everyone to arrange it.”

He stands up from where he was leaning against the wall and walks to me at the front of the table, and addresses the group. “Thank you for making the time to be here tonight. I believe that this project can now officially be on its way with Ms Fields heading it and with the full support of this group. We’ll meet again before this week ends. Have a good evening and a good week.”

And with that he dismisses everyone. Amazing how much power one man has. One by one they leave the room. Earl gives me a wink that I interpret as approval and Jeremy gives me a nod that I see as validation. These two men might just become my pillars in this project. Mr Wall Street walks them out and I can hear their voices as they go down the corridor. I shake my head in a doomsday-manner while packing everything back into my bag.

I know the moment Mr Wall Street steps back in the room. I can feel his energy tsunami fields hitting me from behind and I studiously ignore him. An unbecoming sound makes me look around to where he is standing with surprise written all over my face.

“It wasn’t me!” he says with a bit too much vehemence. “Rudolph gave him to me. He said the noise was disturbing him too much.” Standing next to him is a demure looking Blossom. I had left Blossom with the security guard after an embarrassed explanation. Mr Wall Street looks decidedly uncomfortable with an animal at such close proximity.

“Come here baby.” I throw an ugly look
Mr Wall Street
’s way and open my arms to the monster-dog. Like the over-grown puppy he is, Blossom leaps forward and throws himself against me. There are a few moments I think I’m going to lose my balance and land on my ample behind, but manage to stumble backwards until the conference table stops my journey. I now have a hairy black canine’s front paws on my shoulders and an adorably huge face blocking Mr Wall Street’s disapproving look.

I spend a moment wondering whether he disapproves of Blossom, of me personally, or whether he objects to me being the person who will run this project he is so concerned about. I had managed to get everyone’s, albeit reluctant, promises of support, yet Mr Wall Street said nothing and it seems that he’ll be playing an integral part in this art and culture festival.

“Do I have your support?” I ask past a fluffy ear.

“Pardon?”

“Do I have your support?” I ask more strongly and push Blossom’s head on my shoulder.

“Yes, of course you do. You’ll be working from our offices and you’ll have your own office and telephone and the use of my secretary and assistants.” How’s that for support?

“Thank you very much.” But, do I have your support? I leave this question unasked. Right now I need a hot bubble bath and a bed. It’s been a long day of travelling, flatulence and roadside incidents.

“Ms Fields.” What distracts me from his words is the pained expression on his face. It looks like the man is busy laying an egg. “I made arrangements for the co-ordinator to stay in my guest house.” A large egg.

“Your guest house? Hmm...” I pause as if in deep consideration of this option. “Will we see each other in the mornings?” Blossom has moved and is now sitting on my feet.

“No, the guest house is totally separate from the main house.”

This could work.

“And Blossom can stay in the guest house with me?” Hearing his name, Blossom moves off my feet and starts sniffing around. There is no way this dog will sleep outside. Janey tried it once, but had to let him in when her neighbours phoned the police to report animal abuse. He was screaming like a pig by the back door. Neurotic animal.

“Yes.” Another egg just got laid and I’m having fun now.

“And I can park my car in your driveway?” This is too easy.

“Ms Fields.” Oh dear, he’s using a scaringly serious tone and the corner of his mouth is pulled down in grave annoyance. “You can stay in my guest house for the duration of this project and use all the facilities. Shall we leave now or would you like to torture me more with the knowledge of sharing my property with an opinionated woman, a dog straight out of a horror movie and a car I would not be seen dead in?” Oops, I pushed too far.

“Let’s go, neighbour,” I say in my chirpiest voice, but when I turn around to get my bag from the table I close my eyes and inwardly reprimand myself.

That one just slipped out. I really couldn’t help it. Really.

Chapter 3

I don’t know if it’s the hysterical barking or the bone chilling scream that brought Mr Wall Street out of his house, but I am decidedly glad to see him appear on the terrace and then make his way towards us.

Really! Since yesterday afternoon on the side of the road, I’ve had more ‘incidents’ than I’ve had in four months. Is this town under some kind of voodoo spell to grab the thread of my make-over and pull it until it’s totally unravelled and all that’s left is one long string of incidents?

We got in last night and managed to finish the day off rather amiably. I was shown to a guest cottage in the back of the yard which equals the Tuscan villa of my dreams. One bedroom leads off from the open plan sitting room, kitchen and dining room. The bed is big enough to make one think naughty thoughts and the bathroom only adds to this line of thinking. The interior decorating is impeccable and I must admit having had difficulty ruining the scene from a decorating magazine by getting into bed. An Olympic-size swimming pool separates the cottage from the house.
Mr Wall Street
not only looks like money, but he also obviously has it. In bundles.