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)
I’m reviewing vendor contracts and their various deposit requirements with my third cup of coffee—bless the stewardess and her generous, caffeine-giving heart—when the captain’s voice fills the cabin.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re expecting some turbulence over the next few minutes. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts.”
Turbulence?
My gaze darts to my very full, very uncovered cup of coffee, which is still far too hot for me to gulp down in a prompt or efficient manner.
Pulse spiking, I begin gathering my paperwork, tucking it back into the appropriate padded, waterproof binders as quickly as possible when—
The plane drops.
I bleat like a startled sheep, watching in horror as my coffee goes airborne.
A beat later, the binders follow.
And then…
Well, then, I’m covered in coffee hot enough to make me gasp and prove the guy in 12B was right all along—I was a travel disaster waiting to happen.
And the waiting is now over.
Chapter Two
EMILY
As the plane continues to rattle and lurch, weeks of color-coded, cross-referenced, laminated perfection explode across Premium Economy and into the back of First Class.
“No,” I mutter, stomach bottoming out as I reach for my seatbelt. “No, no, no!”
Before I can unbuckle, the plane does its best broken elevator impression, dipping down so quickly, the entire cabin lets out a collective gasp, and my bottom actually leaves my seat.
Wow! Okay.
Unbuckling is not the play right now.
Not unless I want to know what it feels like to be smashed against the ceiling along with that Gantt chart I spent hours perfecting…
I’m forced to stay put, clinging to my armrests as the chaos intensifies. Soon, my presentation is spreading like a Type A plague intent on infecting the entire plane, and people rows ahead are batting away airborne vendor quotes.
After the longest three minutes in the world, we stabilize—much to the relief of the woman begging the Mother Mary to spare her life somewhere behind me. The second we’re permitted to unbuckle, I dive into the aisle on my hands and knees, coffee-soaked pencil skirt riding up as I hurry to rescue crumpled papers from beneath seats and shoes.
“Sorry, could you please lift your… Yes! Thank you, sorry! Yes, that’s mine, so sorry.” I army-crawl toward first class, where I’ve spotted one of my mood boards wedged under a Gucci loafer. “Oh my God, my color story,” I whimper, throat tightening as I scuttle faster.
Suddenly, the first-class stewardess materializes in front of me, ready to defend her territory against incursions from the slobs in the back. “Ma’am, please return to your seat.”
“I just need to grab my mood boards,” I beg, still on my hands and knees. “The sunset rose fabric swatches are irreplaceable! It’s a unique lot made of recycled fast fashion. Please, I’ll be so quick, you’ll hardly notice I’m there.”
With a curl of her lip that assures me I look as disastrous as I feel, she moves aside, and I crawl on.
Five minutes later, I’m back in my seat, clutching the tattered remains of my perfectly prepared presentation. Some pages are coffee-stained. Others bear shoe prints from passengers who accidentally trampled my dreams. Still others managed to fold themselves in half sometime during the G-force attack.
And to top it all off, my favorite blue pen exploded while I was trying to make a “How to Clean Up this Mess” list.
I look like I murdered a Smurf with my bare hands and am kind of wishing someone would throw me in Smurf jail, if only to spare me the anxiety of figuring out how to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.
I spend the rest of the flight running damage control with wet wipes, my lucky Sharpie, and the fabric glue I keep in my purse for fashion emergencies. The nice flight attendant brings me extra napkins and a fresh coffee—with a lid on it, this time—and even the guy in 12B looks like he’s rooting for a happy ending for me and my binders.
But by the time we prepare for landing, I’ve accepted that my backup plans now look like they were mauled by a T. rex with a caffeine addiction.
Then, as if the universe feels compelled to remind me that my career isn’t the only one on the line, Maya texts during our taxi to the gate.
Maya: How was the flight? Are you safe and sound on the ground yet? Did you get any sleep?
Me: I didn’t, but it’s fine. I’ll sleep when I’m dead.
And I will.
And hopefully, I’ll get to carry this binder disaster to the grave with me.
I can’t tell Maya the truth. At least not right now. There’s nothing she can do to fix the problem, and sharing the bad news will only make her even more stressed out than she is already.
No, this is something I have to carry—and problem solve—on my own.
Inside the terminal, Heathrow Airport greets us with all the warmth of a maiden aunt who never wanted children, the passages chilly and nearly abandoned, even though it’s not quite seven o’clock.