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Why don’t I just say no,like any normal person would? Butnoisn’t a very practiced part of my vocabulary. I want my boss to like me. See me as a big contributor, an invaluable part of the team. And with most of the other girls from the office gone for Christmas, visiting family and skiing with boyfriends, this is my opportunity to shine. I want a promotion. More responsibility. And of course, money.
Going away for the holidays isn’t my thing, anyway. I don’t actually have anywhere to go, when it comes down to it. I seldom speak to my father and in order to spend time with my sisters, Charleigh and Evie, I’d have to see him. So, I’m sending them all the Christmas gifts I can afford—Charleigh’s in school and is perpetually broke, and Evie is a high schooler trying desperately to fit in. Besides, they’ve been through some hard times they’ve come out the other side of, so I like to spoil them. It’s not like my father does much to help them.
Hell, I’d move them here to live with me if I could afford it. But life in the big city is expensive, and I don’t earn enough to feed three mouths. In fact, I barely earn enough to feed myself. Ramen noodles are a staple of my diet, except for the times when I can take home leftover catering from the parties I work. Which, fortunately, happens a lot. Otherwise, I might starve or at least come down with scurvy.
So, with nowhere to go for Christmas, it just makes sense to work, and given the time of year, the work is pretty much endless. The holidays fly by for me this way, leaving me little time to worry about being a workaholic or think about all I’m missing out on, like having a social life or meeting guys.
I glance around the gallery storage room, the staging area for this evening’s fancy party, searching for some small tool to get the damn watch clean so I can get back to work.
And have another excuse to talk to the handsome man whose wrist it had come off. I can’t lie. He’s beyond gorgeous, and the way he looked at me had my knees shaking. I always like to imagine the rich men I meet at these things might ask me out, and in fact, one once did. But before we went on our date, I consulted my dear friend Google, and found out the creep was married.
I kept the date with him but stood him up, and boy, was he mad. It was the most fun I’d had in a long time—messing with a cheater. Sad thing is, he’ll probably just do it again to someone else.
I’ve never dropped anything on a guest before. Wouldn’t it figure, the first time I do, it’s on a perfectly-chiseled master of the universe type, hanging out with equally gorgeous friends. It’s like good looks beget more good looks. Seriously, his dark eyes and dimples, and the thick black hair brushed away from his face, it all shows off the incredible bone structure nature blessed him with. And it’s not lost on me that he’s wearing one of those high-end suits I often see men at our parties in. Further, when he removed his watch, I spotted a pair of the gold Cartier cufflinks my boss just gave her husband for their anniversary.
Yeah, she can afford such things.
Because of the people we throw parties for, I’ve developed an eye for the items rich people like, as if these objects are secret name tags for an underground club. The kind where my type is never invited, only allowed to watch through the window, from the outside.
Wanna know how rich I am? Look closer because I’m not going to make it easy for you, is what these symbols of affluence seem to say.
So, I finally get the idea to snag a toothpick from the caterer’s stash and pick out the last of the now-dry, sticky cocktail sauce from the watch’s bezel. I’ve never even heard of a Patek Philippe, the brand name adorning the watch face, but I’m certain it’s something I’ll never own.
I’m going to add this to my mental inventory of ‘rich people things.’
I wipe the watch down one last time as quickly as I can, because I want to see its owner again. Maybe he’ll even let me place it on his actual wrist.
How pathetic am I?
I’ll admit I’ve been spending that evening, in between replenishing the buffet table and spilling shrimp cocktail, spying on the man and his friends. I have a lot of downtime at these events. I’m basically there to make sure everyone else does their job. But sometimes I pitch in. Thus, the spilled shrimp.
I know full well I am so not in the league of guys like these, but hey, looking is free. I do think from time to time how nice it would be to have my own Steady Eddie. Someone to hang out with every now and then, grab dinner with, watch Netflix with, and who also thinks I’m kind of pretty and occasionally tells me so. Is that too much to ask?
As evidenced by my sad record of occasional online dating, apparently, Iamasking too much. Most of the guys I meet online are looking to get laid—not that there’s anything wrong with that. I enjoy a romp in the hay just like any other girl. But if guysaren’tlooking to get off, they are the opposite extreme, attaching themselves to me like leeches, ready to walk down the aisle after two dates.
Isn’t there anyone in between? Like, normal?
Likeme?
So, I’ve sworn off online dating for the holidays, knowing my availability is severely limited because of work, anyway. And because I have pretty much no life outside work, my boss takes full advantage of me. I’m the one always available for last-minute bookings, the one willing to work on holiday weekends, and the one who never complains, no matter how much crap is loaded onto my shoulders. But that’s okay. I’m satisfied, if not mostly content with my life. Truly. It’s predictable, and that’s comforting. I’m not much for surprises, or winging it, or spur of the moment.
It’s nearly midnight. The gallery party should be wrapping up soon, which means I can head out, leaving the caterer with clean-up duty. I plan to pack myself a big doggie bag of leftover food from the buffet, and once home, pull on my PJs, put my feet up, and unwind with a movie likeLove Actually, my holiday season go-to. Given that tomorrow is Christmas, I actually have a day off. In fact, I don’t have another gig until New Year’s Eve, unless the boss has some sort of last-minute party scheduled. I’ll be back in the office the day after Christmas, of course, but there will be a nice break from the late nights.
Although, I don’t mind the nights all that much. It’s interesting to see how a certain faction of New Yorkers live, people I would otherwise never rub elbows with. Not that I reallydorub elbows with them. We’re just in close proximity. But because I’m there to work and not socialize, I’m essentially invisible. I like it that way. I have no ego about the whole thing. I’m just grateful to be floating about a party without the expectation of making clever small talk, worrying if some bitchy lady is assessing the cost of my dress, or having to ward off the wandering hands of male guests.
It's like being a ghost.
I spot a tray of desserts that the caterer forgot to put out. So, I drop the watch into my pocket and grab them. Even if the party is winding down, maybe last-minute grazers will eat some of this stuff the gallery paid so much for.
But just before I push the door open, the floor shakes and a rat-a-tat explosion sears my eardrums. I instinctively bring a hand up to one ear, and jostle the tray in my other.
What in the hell was that?
This particular party hadn’t hired out for a fireworks display. Which is alarming. We usually handle such details, in part because we’re always sure to hire the best in town. If my boss finds out the gallery owner went around her, he’ll end up on her black list. She has so much business she turns away clients who don’t play by her rules. Personally, I wouldn’t mind never coming back here. The gallery owner is a weird dude with a fake tan and overly white teeth.
Anotherboomcompetes with the DJ’s house music as if they’re in a contest to see which can be louder. It’s a toss-up, amazing considering the fireworks are outdoors, as fireworks always are.
I exit the storage room and the first thing that strikes me is the smell of smoke. Wait, not exactly smoke. But something like it.
