Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Shutting down social media, I pull out my trusty notepad and pen.
Making a list is always my favorite way to self-soothe in times of trial.
WHY THIS LONDON TRIP IS
GOING TO BE GREAT!
(AND IS NOT EVEN A
LITTLE BIT DOOMED)
1. You have AN ENTIRE WEEK to interview vendors, woo the celebrity florist, and finalize sample menus before the meeting with Fletchers. That’s plenty of time to recover from jet lag and be ready to wow the client in ways a client has never been wowed before.
2. British people love Americans (Source: Hugh Grant movies and that guy at the pub last summer who said he loved the way you said “aluminum.”)
3. The Brighton wedding was NOT a fluke, and any imperfections were due to Fate, not personal folly. The seagull incident was beyond your control, and the groom should have known better than to wear a poorly secured toupee.
4. The Winthrop Mayberry is a fantastic hotel: v. chic, v. British, v. good WiFi. (Also v. close to favorite bakery in case emergency scones are needed in addition to emergency chocolate.)
5. Belinda Moore, AKA The Botticelli of Bloom, has agreed to squeeze a meeting into her insanely crowded holiday schedule. That’s basically a yes. Otherwise, why waste her precious time? You’ll see her first thing, seal the deal, and secure your ace in the hole. When Fletchers sees that you’ve landed THE florist, they’ll have no choice but to declare you THE planner. This is basically math, and not even girl math. It’s also science, as proven by the Proximity Principle. Note to self: Those psychology classes were NOT a waste of time, even though you changed your major Junior year.
6. Willow and Stone landing a pitch meeting has NOTHING to do with your talent and everything to do with nepotism. Additional Note to Self: In your next life, arrange to be born into a well-connected family. Or at least a British family, so that you won’t have to worry about how you’re going to secure dual citizenship. Also, arrange to have fewer sweat glands. Why are you so sweaty? Did you remember to put on deodorant?
7. You did. You smell fine. You ARE fine. This is all fine. Now, recline, relax, and try to get some rest.
Tucking my trusty notepad away, I wrap my travel pillow around my neck and close my eyes, doing my best to clear my head.
But my thoughts won’t stop spinning.
After all, landing this job would only be the beginning. This gala is the event of the year for Fletchers and attended by the crème de la crème of London Society. It’s white tie, steeped in tradition, and almost aggressively British. They’ve never let an American planner take the lead.
If I’m hired, I’ll be paving the way—or poisoning the well—for my entire nation, and a year isn’t that long in the elite party planning world.
I’ll have just twelve months to transform a Georgian ballroom into a world of Dickensian elegance—where candlelit refinement meets the immersive enchantment of a midwinter fairytale forest. I’ve already had graphics made to match my theme, as requested by Fletchers. They want to announce the new event theme (and planner) after the holidays, while everyone’s feeling festive and generous.
It’s smart, locking in sponsors while they’re high on Christmas spirit and looking for tax write-offs.
But what if they don’t like the “gilded mirror as a portal to fairytale magic” imagery? What if they want something new at the last minute? My graphic designer is a boss, but she’s also a mom to three, counting down to Christmas. What if I have to find another artist at the last minute? Yes, I have a backup, but he’s not nearly as reliable, and he also has young children.
What if he’s busy, too?
Why didn’t I make sure I had a backup to the backup?
And maybe a backup to the backup to the backup, just in case?!
My eyes fly open, panic dumping into my bloodstream as the flight attendants push the beverage cart into Premium Economy.
“Would you like something to drink?” the taller one asks in a round, cozy English accent I’m pretty sure means she’s from the north somewhere.
I force a smile. “Coffee, please. All of it? And a water, no ice?”
If I can’t relax, I can at least use these hours trapped in a chair to my advantage.
As soon as the drink cart passes, I fetch my binders—earning myself another glare from 12B as I rearrange the ukulele, which has already shifted in flight. I ignore him, but silently decide that maybe ukulele players aren’t all whimsical people who love Hawaii and cute instruments, after all.
Two hours in, I’ve reorganized the binders twice, practiced my pitch beneath my breath until I’m pretty sure I could recite it backwards, and eaten every bite of my bangers and mash with a small side salad.