I could practically hear her tapping her way through her calendar app.
“Maybe I could do something next month?” she said.
I pumped my fist with excitement. Kendra was one of the people I’d been counting on. She was a part-time recruiter for the most renowned makeup and fashion companies in the world, so she knew firsthand what made a resume sing or an interview crash and burn.
Flipping to next month’s schedule, I said, “What about the ninth or the sixteenth?”
“Hmm. Oh. Wait,” she said.
My pen drooped, and I braced myself for what was coming next.
“Gosh, it’s just that I’m going to be inMonte Carlo,” she said with a tragic sigh. “You understand, don’t you? We’ll have to reschedule when I get back.”
“Sure,” I said. “That’d be great.”
After I hung up, I threw my desk calendar across the bedroom. I’d spent my entire morning on the phone with people like Kendra. People I’d met at galas or fundraisers or parties, who had expressed such genuine interest in See Yourself that I’d thought they would jump at the chance to be directly involved in shaping the future of these women.
Instead, whenever I called and tried to actually get them on the schedule, they all had excuses. For Kendra it was Monte Carlo. For the Wirtzes, it had been the annual shareholders’ meeting in Paris. Lily was in Tahiti “for the season,” while Maddie’s assistant informed me she was away filming a documentary on the homeless canine population in Athens.
None of them were available, but each of them had offered to write a check.
So, sure. I’d be happy to take their money. I couldn’t in good faith turn down operating funds for the program, but at the same time, it wasn’t what I needed. I neededprogramming. Gurus, educators, people who could help me and my students network. Not just open wallets.
After all, the whole point of the nonprofit was to teach these girls life skills with the help of actual mentors—but even when I got someone to agree to teach a class (which was rare enough), they tended to want to centerthemselvesand focus more on how good they felt about offering their time, instead of the people I designed the organization to help. One husband and wife entrepreneurial team had even brought their own camera crew to record the class they taught, solely to be edited down and used in Instagram ads later.
Which I had allowed, because hey, more publicity.
But I was starting to feel like I was fighting an uphill battle. And I was doing it all alone.
I’d been in bed for hours with my calendar and my computer on my lap desk, trying to work. I couldn’t use Ford’s office, where the only available surface was the same desk we’d gotten down and dirty on top of. The desk he’d bought with Claudia in fucking Paris. There was no way I could’ve gotten any work done with all of that on my mind.
Setting my lap desk aside, I rolled over and face planted on the bed, letting the bedding muffle my exasperated groans.
Of course, my husband chose that exact moment to wander in.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
My head shot up, my hair—already in a haphazard bun on top of my head—flopping to the side. Ford was standing in the doorway of the bedroom, looking irritatingly casual and handsome as he ate an apple.
He probably never had problems with people promising things they would never deliver.
“I just wish people would actually keep their word,” I said.
All the women I’d spoken with were acting like Claudia. It was exactly the kind of thing she would do—agree to volunteer because it made her feel good, and then when it was time to actually do the work, back out and write a check instead.
“Keep their word about what?” he asked.
“Just frustrating charity stuff,” I said.
He frowned. “You’re working on a Sunday?”
“I have to!” I said. “It’s my nonprofit.”
Walking over, he sat on the edge of the bed. Ever since he’d agreed to “respect” me, we’d managed to more or less keep our distance. As if there was this unspoken agreement that even though we were sleeping in the same bed, we shouldn’t really touch each other.
“Talk to me,” Ford said gently.
Because I was able to actually prioritize the ex-models—unlikesomepeople—I launched into a brief description of my issues with the flaky socialite volunteer-wannabes without being catty or mentioning the Claudia comparison. An accomplishment of which I was quite proud.
