Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 65112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
He leans back, one arm resting along the chair. “It raises money for one of our foundations.”
“That’s the brochure answer.”
His gaze holds mine. “Children’s health initiatives through the foundation, publicly. Relationship maintenance and donor consolidation, privately.”
I keep my face neutral. Basically, it’s a shell gala. Publicly it looks like they’re raising money for a good cause, but really they’re greasing the wheels so the power players in LA will look the other way when it comes to their shadier operations. I’ve seen this before, but I’m not going to let that get in the way of this opportunity.
“Good,” I say. “How many guests are you expecting?”
“Four hundred seated. More if we do standing cocktails before dinner.”
“We shouldn’t.” I flip to the venue layout. “Not with this footprint. Unless you want arrivals bottlenecked and donors irritated before they even hit registration.”
He’s quiet for a beat.
“I hadn’t considered that,” he says honestly.
I walk him through the logistics of the entrance. He listens intently, watching my pen as it moves over the access points. He isn’t just being polite, he’s genuinely paying attention.
When I finish, he says, “Then we move cocktails to the terrace.”
I glance at the terrace measurements. “Only if you want women in couture heels fighting the floor grates and older donors sweating through their jackets.”
He pauses, mulling this over. “So no terrace,” he confirms.
“No terrace.”
He nods once, as if filing it away. “Fine.”
That shouldn’t be as satisfying as it is, but I take the easy win. We go line by line after that, and exactly as expected, he is difficult.
He asks smart questions, but it’s clear he’s not the expert in event planning he’d like to believe. He has a vision of what he wants the night to look like, but not the knowledge to make it happen.
An hour in, we’re arguing over the catering schedule.
“We’ll have enough appetizers to keep people satisfied during the cocktail hour,” he says firmly.
“You’ll need more than five caterers,” I say, frustrated because we’ve been circling this point far longer than necessary.
“So we’ll hire more caterers.”
“You’ll be over budget for your staffing.”
“So we’ll just increase the budget.”
I look at him over the edge of the packet. “You realize that charity galas are meant to actually make money, right?”
“I’ll fund it myself.” He shrugs. “I’d rather have a full staff than hungry guests.”
I nod, even though internally I’m screaming.
He flips to the donor notes. “You separated top-tier guests.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because your biggest donors don’t want to mingle with the masses. If they have to wait in a single line or fight for a moment of attention, they’re going to throw hissy fits.”
He says nothing.
I lift a brow. “You know I’m right.”
He presses his lips together like the idea of agreeing with me might actually cause him pain.
“Also, your top donors will arrive late on purpose because they think being seen arriving matters more than arriving on time. If you want them handled smoothly, they need their own lane and a separate holding point before photos.”
Another hour in, I’m irritated enough to feel sharp around the edges, which is usually when I do my best work. He keeps pressing. I keep answering. When I think he’s wrong, I tell him so. When I think he’s right, I adjust. It should feel adversarial. Instead it feels like the kind of back-and-forth I rarely get with my clients.
That is probably why I lose my patience when he says, “If timing slips at the top, the whole evening falls apart.”
“That’s amateur thinking.”
Something dark and cool flashes in his expression. I continue before he can respond.
“Timing slips at the top all the time. Flights get delayed. Hair and makeup runs long. Someone important gets stuck in traffic because they refuse to leave ten minutes earlier than the rest of civilization. That part is normal. Good event management absorbs delay.”
He watches me for a second, then says, “And you know how to absorb it?”
“Yes,” I answer confidently.
“How?”
I flip to a blank page in my notebook and start sketching sequence shifts, showing him all the ways we can build seamless buffers to keep the event moving without anyone noticing delays. When I look up, he’s not looking at the page. He’s looking at me.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
The air between us shifts for a second, goes thinner somehow. I set my pen down.
“All right,” I say on a long exhale. “You’ve put me through the wringer. I’ve given you an hour more than I usually give for initial meetings. Do I have the job?”
He considers me for a moment, mouth pressed into a firm line.
“If anything goes wrong during the gala, you’ll handle it with the same coordination and grace you’ve shown in this meeting.” It isn’t a question. It’s a stipulation.
“Of course.” I nod. “That’s literally what I do. The guests will never know anything went wrong, and you won’t have to deal with a thing.”