Lag (The boys of RDA #2)(15)
The thought returns the smile I’ve been missing since Roger picked me up from my new apartment thirty minutes ago. Riding in his little red convertible confirmed what I’ve suspected multiple times during my first week of work. Roger is compensating for something.
“Make sure and stay with me until we leave. I want to know what connections you make,” he takes my arm in his to escort me into the large white building in front of us. The fabric of his black tux scratches my arm, but I resist the urge to remove it.
The Fairmont Hotel is beautiful on the outside with its large white stone exterior to greet our arrival, but it all pales to the inside of the opulent meeting room we’re in tonight. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling every few feet from one another. The white walls are covered in ornately carved moldings reaching to the ceiling. Tall glass vases display fresh lilies at each table, and their fragrance follows us as we cross the room to a table in the back.
When I don’t respond to Roger’s latest dig he continues, “The Moore family has been one of our largest clients since this branch opened twenty-five years ago. Their grandson, Grant is set to inherit the operation of the family business, but the rest of the money will stay with us in trust funds.”
“Right.” I try to take in all the information and categorize it for later use. Basically, don’t screw up at this event because these people have a lot of money. Got it.
A long table covered with a white cloth and decorated with gold place settings lines the back wall of the room. In front stand two people as they casually greet guests. From this distance they look a little similar, both are shorter and sport greyish white hair in short cuts. Mrs. Moore wears hers in a spikey do and it matches the sparkle of her long floor length dress. Her companion, Mr. Moore has a pouch of a belly, but still looks smart in his tux. It's obvious why these two are a power couple. They still have the spark.
“The Moores,” Roger whispers in my ear and turns us in their direction. I guess he assumes I’m blind as well as incompetent. We close the distance at a quick pace before he pulls me to the side. “Do you think you’re up to meeting them? I handle their account personally, but it would be nice to have someone on backup if I decide you can handle it one day.”
My new boss’ lack of confidence in me has started to wear me a little thin. I’ve spent the last five years with some of the richest families in New York. If I can handle the stuffy East Coast, I can handle the laid back personalities here in the West.
My reply is full of annoyance. “Yes, I’ll be fine, Roger. Have a little faith. They didn’t send you a complete moron.”
“You’re so young, Simone. Old rich people want other old people to handle their money. It lets them know you have experience. Next time don’t wear the red lipstick. You look sweet and innocent not blood thirsty and business hungry.”
My lip twitches at his continued assessment of my appearance. Earlier this evening he told me I looked like a blonde Snow White with my white hair and ruby red lips. I thought he was hitting on me so I did my best to brush off his compliments. Now I see them for what they were, censure. I’ll have to stay on the lookout for poisoned apples in the future.
As we approach the couple Roger leans closer. “Make me proud and don’t mess this up,” are his last words before we’re too close to other party guests for me to make a thinly veiled snarky reply. Instead I plaster on my best fake smile to greet Mr. and Mrs. Moore.
“Ah, Roger. It’s so good to see you, my boy,” Mr. Moore greets him with a strong slap on the back rather than the expected handshake. The move catches my new boss off guard and his face falters in shock. But when I look again his smile is firmly back in place.
I almost correct the bull terrier when he introduces me as a new account executive and then goes on to explain all the ways he’ll be forced to teach me the business before he lets me out on my own. As if I’m a dog that isn’t quite house broken yet. It takes willpower, but I stand with a straight face and put up with all his degrading talk.
Right as I begin to consider following through with my fantasies of hitting him and risking animal abuse charges, the topic changes to past charity events they’ve both attended. As a waiter approaches with a tray full of caviar, the conversation moves to mini foods and which ones are the best.
“We weren’t eating mini hotdogs at our fiftieth wedding anniversary,” Mrs. Moore slowly closes her eyes to show her distress at the idea. When she opens them again, they widen.
“Simone, have you met my grandson? Grant Moore the third, named after his grandfather.”
Oh God, if history is anything to go on, he’s forty with a pot belly. I flinch as my memories of the were-doctor on vacation resurface. The worst part of this job has to be every little old lady’s attempts to set you up with their bachelors-for-a-reason grandchildren.
“No, ma’am, I haven’t.” Another fake smile and I turn.
To my surprise, he isn’t ugly at all and there definitely isn’t a belly on the man in front of me. Is she sure this is her grandson? Grant Moore the third stands about my height. His medium brown hair is gelled and styled back. He isn't wearing black like the rest of tonight’s guests, but instead a dark green suit with a small gold pinstripe design. It’s a bit outlandish, but together the look fits him. The man could have flown here from Nantucket or something. There’s a worldly old-school charm to him. Hand him a lobster and one of those big round boat wheels and he’d fit right in.