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“And you think he’ll be happy with this?” She peers at me over the rim of her glasses, looking distinctly unimpressed.
“Not at all,” I say cheerfully. I lean across the table, avoiding Cynthia’s mostly untouched plate of pasta, and tap the screen. “Thisis the budget design. Mr. Hawthorne isn’t convinced our services are worth the price you initially quoted, so I agreed to send over two design concepts and costings. He can pick between the two.”
And I know which one he’s going to choose. It’s not like the budget concept is a bad design by any means — it’s just not what he’s looking for. You might see something like this in an airport lounge or a mid-market hotel lobby. Not bad, but not special.
He’s going to absolutely hate it, and the thought fills me with a sadistic kind of glee.
“Thisis the actual design,” I say, swiping across the screen. My initial concept for the third floor bathroom fills the screen. I’ve gone for decadent pink wallpaper with bold floral prints, pastel onyx carved sinks, and floor-length ornate mirrors on either side of the room.
The vibe is different from the New York location, where the walls are painted in moody blacks and blues and the only light comes from the Edison lamps sparsely dotted around each room. It’s been exquisitely designed, but members clubs using that style are a dime a dozen over here. The August Roomneeds something bold. Something that’ll stand out from the rest and put it quickly on the map on this side of the pond.
Cynthia continues to swipe through my concepts and I bite back the smile I can feel tugging at my lips. Playful, decadent, eccentric — it’s going to be a fast favourite among London’s artsy upper class.
She hums quietly once she reaches the final slide. “Not bad.”
My smile falters. Not bad?Not bad? “Is that—” I swallow. “Is that it?”
Cynthia shrugs and sets the tablet down. “You’ve done a fine job. Send it over to Hawthorne and get his thoughts.”
This is…odd. Cynthia isn’t shy when it comes to critiquing my work. She once spent ten minutes tearing into me because she’d disagreed with my choice of wood for a kitchen island. She’s usually happy to take any opportunity to poke holes in my work all under the guise of “helping you grow”, so her silence now is unnerving.
I eye her warily, wondering if she’s going to suddenly switch and attack me for my choice in wallpaper. “Are you sure?” I ask. “What did you think about the second floor lounge? You didn’t think it was too busy? And what about the plasterwork in the reception? Did tha—”
“Like I said,” she says abruptly. “The concepts are sound. Let’s get Hawthorne’s thoughts on them now.”
This is new territory with Cynthia. I don’t think I’ve ever come out of a design meeting with her without a notebook full of amends and my self-esteem shot to pieces.
“Send them on my behalf,” she adds casually. “Let him know I’mveryexcited to be working on this. Maybe we should organise a lunch together as well. Will you sort that out?”
I sink into my seat and grit my teeth. It’s not enough that she’s going to steal the credit for my workagain, I also still have to play the assistant role? “I’m sure Kirsty can organise a lunch for you two.”
Cynthia shakes her head. “No, I don’t want Kirsty anywhere near this project. She’s got too much going on, what with taking on your extra work.”
She says it likeI’mthe one who asked for this.
“I don’t want to overwhelm her. That’s when mistakes happen. You’ll handle everything to do with Hawthorne and The August Room. Check my calendar for a lunch opening.”
I nod, not trusting the words that might come out of my mouth if I open it, and jot down a reminder to schedule a lunch with Hawthorne.
We sit in silence for a few minutes. Cynthia pushes her pasta around her plate and sips her tea, seemingly unaware of the quiet fury simmering inside me. Or maybe she is aware and just doesn’t care. I wouldn’t put it past her.
It’s only when I’m sure that the next sound out of my mouth isn’t going to be a frustrated shriek that I speak again. “This is a huge project,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “And I’m grateful that you think I’m up for the task.”
Thatgets her. She glances up from her plate and there’s a gleam in her eye that tells me I’ve hit just the right note to stroke her ego.
“Well, darling,” she drawls. “I’ve always thought that you’ve got talent, you just needed the right mind to nurture you. You’re a bit rough around the edges still, but you’re well on your way to becoming an impressive designer in your own right.”
I smile through clenched teeth. I’m pretty sure that’s her version of a compliment, no matter how backhanded it might be. “Yes. Exactly. And I really appreciate your mentorship and all the advice you give me.”
Her lips, painted a bright pink today, stretch into a pleased smirk.
“With a project as big as this, I think it’s the perfect opportunity to prove that I’m ready for the next step,” I say quickly before she can interrupt. “Once this is over, I’d love to discuss promotion opportunities.”
Her smirk drops almost immediately. “Apromotion?” She says the word like it’s dirty. Like it’s personally offended her in some way.
I don’t say anything, letting the silence between us grow wider and wider so she can tell that I’m serious about this.
“Isuppose,” she says slowly, drawing out each syllable like it’s hurting her to say it. “I suppose, given the scope of this project, that we could discuss a promotion once you’ve delivered.”
