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My stomach drops as he confirms my suspicions. John and Byron have both been spotted in D.C., and the intel is that they are planning something big.
34
Isabelle
I have been running around like a squirrel all day. Now, at 5pm, it is time for me to get to the large suite that we reserved here at the hotel to get ready for tonight's gala. I am running on autopilot and pure adrenaline at this stage. I ensured the team has been well fed throughout the day, but all I have had is a few cups of coffee, and although I know I'll be fine, I am feeling a little faint.
I still have most of the team downstairs. Some have already changed into their formal attire an hour ago and are now doing last minute prep in the gala room. The rest of us are somewhere here in our reserved suite, getting changed in a hurry in order to be back downstairs to start greeting guests in under sixty minutes.
Kelly is fully glammed and downstairs, running the team through the finishing touches, and as I walk into the hotel suite, I see Beth jumping around trying to get her stockings on while simultaneously looking for her shoes. Some of the other members of the team are putting their finishing touches on their makeup in the kitchen, and others are in the bedrooms getting ready. I shake my head because it is a madhouse.
Everyone is super pumped and ready for a great night. Today things were busy, but everything went to plan. Mrs. Rothschild stopped by this afternoon, and we walked her through the evening, and she is pleased with the set up. I'm still confident that this event will be a huge success, our best yet, and I feel immense pride for my team who have put this all together.
I have to say that the gala room looks stunning. The flowers, the lights, the amazing table centerpieces, it truly is one of the best events my team have ever put together, and it will be amazing. We already have photographers arriving and setting up downstairs, getting ready to snap away at the arrivals. We have our own photographer on hand as well, and he is already downstairs, taking shots of the room and the staff for us to use for our own marketing purposes.
As I look around the crowded hotel suite, I notice the bathroom is free, so I grab my bag to start getting ready. I left my cell phone on the charger this morning and then promptly forgot about it, so I grab that too.
The team and I all converse via headsets, so there is no need for me to use my phone for the event, and Kelly and Beth are the main contact points for the vendors. But as I walk to the bathroom to prepare for a quick shower—the last of my team to do so—I look at my messages.
Seeing one from Jake, I listen to his voicemail. He sounds concerned, stressed. I can’t place it exactly, but he doesn’t sound himself. His message is reminding me to check my emails. I try to call him, but it goes directly to voicemail, so I leave him a message that I will check his email tonight as soon as the event is over, because I am quickly running out of time, and I need to get back downstairs.
I had two of his men inside the hotel with me today. They were both bored out of their brains, I am sure of it, but they were professional and stood to the side as we set everything up. They let out a sigh of relief when I told them I was coming up here to shower, because like me, I think they walked miles today with all the setting up I had to do. I had to promise that I would be straight back down so that they would leave me to it, and I need to find them as soon as I go back downstairs.
My feet are killing me, my hair is a mess, I stink because I have been unpacking boxes all day, and I am pretty sure I have black permanent marker on my face from sorting out a last-minute issue with the table signage. If anyone thinks the life of an event manager is glamorous, then they are completely wrong.
I quickly undress and get under the steaming hot shower, before making fast work of scrubbing myself and getting out. In and out in five minutes, there is no time for relaxation yet.
I have my personal event prep down to a fine art. Throwing on my robe, I make quick work of my makeup; nude eyes with a lot of mascara and bright red lips. I then pull my hair out of the bun and blast it with the hairdryer, resulting in my long blonde locks cascading down my shoulders in luxe, shiny waves. My aim is to look like a 1960’s glam Hollywood starlet, and I have hit the mark.
I pack up my things and head to the master suit, which is reserved for Kelly, Beth, and I. My gown is still hanging up where I left it early this morning, the matching shoes and jewelry also nearby.
Dumping my overnight bag into the wardrobe, I de-robe and get into my gown. It is long, black, and elegant. It gives off a Grace Kelly vibe, and the makeup and hair compliment it perfectly. It is off the shoulder with a hint of cleavage, and although it is long, it is stretchy so I could run a marathon in it if I needed to. It is perfect for events like tonight, where I need to look like a runway model, but also need to run around all night chasing people down.
I tuck my long hair behind my ears, so it falls onto my back. Putting on my beautiful diamond stud earrings and Cartier watch, I feel like a princess. I slip on my black patent leather shoes with the red soles, which I wear for comfort, because they never hurt my feet, then take a quick look in the mirror just as Beth storms in.
“Let’s go, we have fifteen minutes!” she yells, before turning around and walking out again.
Any remaining staff in the suite now scatter, running downstairs to the function room to get all last-minute tasks done.
I look at myself in the mirror one final time and take a big breath to calm my nervous energy. There is certainly a buzz in the air tonight. Maybe it is a full moon? I grab my cell and my headset and walk out the door, ready to get the event underway.
The evening starts off with a bang. The media wall is packed, paparazzi are lining up, taking photos of everyone arriving. Mrs. Rothschild has many connections, and the who’s who of D.C. and Baltimore are here. Beth is trying to push everyone through, and I see her elbow a few paparazzi to get them under control. I smile to myself at her brazen attempt at crowd control.
Kelly and I are inside and monitoring the guest numbers, while the remainder of the team help people find their seats and ensure the kitchen is ready to go with appetizers. With my headset on and clipboard in my hand, I feel my cell vibrate, and looking at it, I see it is Jake. I turn to go to a quiet corner, but I stop short as I nearly run into Richard.
“Wow, Isabelle, you look stunning,” he says as his eyes sweep over my appearance, and he stretches his arms out in an exaggerated display. I look around him and notice he is here on his own.
“You didn’t bring your friends tonight?” I say, rather sarcastically, because to be honest, I don’t really care who he came with, I just want him away from me.
“No, it isn’t really their thing,” he says quickly. “But you, you are most certainly my thing.” He’s trying to be seductive, but he’s just sounding sleazy. Then he steps closer to me. I realize then that my cell is no longer vibrating, so I have missed the call from Jake. Irritated, I look at Richard who is standing too close to me now, and I can smell the stench of whiskey and cigars seeping from his pores.
I crinkle my nose at the smell, and I try to step back to create distance, but he is quick and places his arm around my waist. I look around for my two security guard friends but see them chatting to Kelly over on the other side of the room, and I can’t get their attention.
I put my arms on Richard’s shoulders, and I push him, hard. He stumbles back slightly, not expecting my strength.
“Do not touch me!” I hiss at him, wanting to make a point but not wanting to cause a scene as people fill the room.
“I will fucking touch you if I want!” he hisses back. “You are such a stuck-up bitch, and you will regret the day you rejected me!” He fixes his suit jacket, then looks up and around the room before plastering a fake smile on his face. Walking straight past me, he checks me with his shoulder on the way to his table.
