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Because they were a not-for-profit, the entire conference had to be planned with an eye toward savings and so everyone attending, from the lowliest newbie (Georgiana) to the CEO, had to partner up with a colleague to share a hotel room. Georgiana would be sharing with Meg from the grant-writing team. Meg was only a few years older than she was, but an incredibly intense person who kept an industrial-size jar of Advil next to her computer and ostentatiously took three every afternoon because of the overwhelming stress of her deadlines. Meg wore slacks, flats, and button-downs every day, her fluffy blond hair pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail. She didn’t wear makeup, she rarely smiled, and she carried herself as though she might one day run for president but could be thwarted with a single typo or verbal trip. To Georgiana she seemed like the love child of Tracy Flick and Ann Taylor.
Brady was going to D.C. as well, and Georgiana had elaborate and nerdy daydreams about them racing up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, laughing, and taking selfies at the top with the Mall spread out behind them. In reality, she wasn’t sure she’d see much of him, never mind humongous Lincoln. She would be stuck at the booth the entire time, handing out pamphlets and directing people to their panels, while Brady was attending speeches on leadership technique, policy challenges in different regions, and best practices learned from other sectors. Brady was even giving a talk one day, part of a small panel on overcoming language barriers in medical care. It was sexy stuff, really.
The weekend before the conference Brady came over after their run and saw her carefully packed suitcase sitting on the floor. “You literally packed a full four days before the trip?” he asked, laughing.
“It’s my first business trip!” she said defensively, feeling embarrassed.
“Are you going to write that on your name tag for the conference, or just tell everyone you meet?”
“Oh, I was assuming they would have some kind of ceremony for me, was I wrong?” Georgiana pulled off her sweaty T-shirt and swatted him with it. “Or maybe a cake at the booth that said ‘Baby’s first conference’?”
“Yeah, I’m not sure that’s in the budget. A cake could run you at least fifteen bucks, and we’re watching every cent.” Brady caught the sweaty shirt from Georgiana’s hands and tossed it at the hamper.
“I can’t believe people have to share rooms. It’s so weird. I wish you and I could share a room.” Georgiana pulled Brady’s shirt up over his head.
“Well, I’m sharing with Pete, and he might leave after his panel, so there is a chance I’ll have my room to myself the second night. You could ditch your slumber party with Meg and join me. Unless you guys had big plans to give each other pedicures and do face masks.”
“I don’t think robots have toes,” Georgiana joked. “This will be so fun! A cute meetup in DC! I love it.” She kissed him and they didn’t bother spraying the sweat off before climbing into her bed. Love was often gross, really.
* * *
—
When she arrived at the convention center on Tuesday, dragging her perfectly packed suitcase behind her, she was relieved to see that her new posters had survived shipping and the booth was put together just as her binder had promised. She worked alone, building the plastic displays and filling them with trifold pamphlets, arranging books on the tables, and tacking the blowups to the cork board. She honestly had no idea what she was doing, but the guy who had the job before her had made her a detailed instruction manual, and she followed it faithfully and hoped for the best. When she finished, she felt sticky and disgusting from the train and the exertion, so she headed to the hotel to change and find the rest of the team.
Meg from grant writing was already in the room when she got there, unpacking her rolling bag and hanging her suits and blouses in the small closet.
“Hey, roomie,” Georgiana trilled, plonking down on the bed by the window.
“I’ve only taken half the hangers so that you’ll have plenty of space for your stuff.” Meg glanced up briefly from her unpacking. “Also, I like to shower at night so you can have the bathroom in the morning, or we can decide who will go first.”
“Oh, great. I actually got super sweaty down at the booth, so I was going to grab a shower before dinner. Do you know if people are going out?”
“Gail and I are going to meet with some counterparts from Peace Works, but I’m sure someone will be in the hotel bar later.” Meg frowned as she dusted the top of a tasseled loafer before placing it carefully on the closet floor.
By the time Georgiana got out of the shower Meg was gone, so she threw on jeans and an embroidered blouse and brought her book, a biography of Roger Federer, down to the bar. She ordered a vodka soda and a turkey club and alternately read and people watched as she ate. It seemed like most of the guests in the hotel were here for the conference too. There were a lot of white women in saris, a fashion choice that was rampant at her office, everyone coming back from India with reams of silk that they wore around New York with clogs, their hair either gray or tinted with henna. Georgiana’s own mother would sooner wear a bathrobe to the Colony Club than a sari and clogs.
By nine she had finished her sandwich and drink and didn’t particularly feel like hanging around by herself in a hotel bar, so she went back to her room, changed into her pajamas, and read in bed until Meg came home at ten and bored her to death talking about all the really excellent contacts she had made at dinner. If this was business travel, Georgiana didn’t see what the fuss was about.