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“Hello,” he says to them. “So sorry to interrupt you, I just need Sophie for a moment.” He lifts a brow. “You don’t mind, do you? It’s to do with the auction.”
“Of course we don’t mind,” the man on my right says, patting my hand. “You go ahead, dear. We’ll finish our soup.”
Michael lifts a brow at me, and I recognize that gesture. And now I’m the one annoyed because I really don’t want to go with him, but I don’t want to make a scene in front of our donors either.
I don’t know what I was thinking really. Of course he was going to look at the list before the auction started.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell them, standing reluctantly.
“We’ll make sure nobody steals your soup,” the man says.
“Follow me.” That’s all Michael says for the next minute as we walk across the ballroom to the little area behind the stage where the production team is setting things up for the auction. Still not talking to me, Michael picks up one of the lists and shoves it toward me.
“What’s this?” he asks.
“I don’t know.” I shrug, determined not to make a scene here either. I have to work with these people and they’re all avidly watching us.
“Get back to work,” Michael snaps at them. It’s grimly satisfying to see there are people other than me who he doesn’t lay on the charm for. When they start shuffling about again he turns back to me. “I asked you to be auctioned for a dinner,” he tells me. “What’s this nonsense about a personal weather forecast?”
I square my shoulders. “You asked me to be put up for auction and this is what I want to auction off. It’s a much better prize than dinner. Somebody gets three months’ worth of data just for them.”
“And you think that’s a good idea? Do you realize how much work that’s going to take? WVFY is trying to make money, not pay for you to be somebody’s weather slave.”
“I’ll do it on my own time,” I say stubbornly.
“Just go out for dinner, Sophie,” he hisses. He grabs a pen from his pocket and strikes a line through my auction lot, scribbling something above it.
“You can’t do that,” I protest. “Everybody has the paper on their tables.”
“I’ll explain you made a mistake.”
I shake my head, furious. “No you won’t. My auction is staying as it’s printed.”
“You’ll make more money for charity if you just go out for dinner.” He waves his hand toward the stage. “These guys don’t give a shit about a forecast. They just want to take you out for dinner, have you look pretty, and maybe cop a feel or two on the way home.”
God I hate him. And I’m so aware that the production team is still listening in as he berates me. But I’m not going to get emotional this time, I’m just not.
Because that way he wins and I’m not going to let him.
“It stays,” I say again.
“Maybe you can explain to the kids why we haven’t raised the money we need then,” he spits out.
“If I don’t make enough on the auction I’ll make a donation.” There, that should do it.
But instead of conceding he starts to laugh. “You can’t afford it. Jesus, Sophie, how stupid are you?”
I ignore his jibe because it’s embarrassing. “Is that all you wanted to talk to me about?” I ask, my voice tight. “Or can I go back to dinner? My soup is going cold.”
He shoots me an angry glance but says nothing. So I take the opportunity to pick my dress up a little and step over the wiring and boxes the production team has finished setting up.
There’s no way I can keep working with this man without losing my mind. Tonight proves it.
My arm brushes one of the team, but I’m looking down at my feet because I’m not planning on tripping again. And by the time I get back to the table there’s about two minutes left to eat my soup before we all have to rotate.
And I try to be sociable and make small talk, because this really is for a good cause. But inside I’m imagining the slow and painful demise of Michael Rimmer.
* * *
