Hell on Heels(4)

“I’ll see you on Saturday,” Leighton said as we exchanged a quick kiss on the cheek moments before our heels descended in opposite directions of the Burrard Street sidewalk.

Joining the flow of pedestrians, my longer than average legs moved me quickly up to Robson Street in the direction of the offices for Smith & Co. Productions, my office.

I guess you could say circumstances led me to become your typical overachiever, the poster child, if you will, for a disheartened workaholic who did so to avoid having to spend too much time alone in the other, less than stellar, areas of her life. That being said, part of me simply chalked it up to my addictive personality and the fault of singledom that brought with it an occasional abundance of free time.

Truth is, when you got burned, you learned to be strong. You make it out alive, or you don’t. I chose to claw my way up from the gallows and use what I got. My heart was weary, but my mind was strong and my face was pretty; the two combined were somewhat of a lethal combination.

In my professional life, I was a sniper. In my personal life, I was a mess.

I graduated top of my class from The University of British Columbia with a bachelor’s degree in Business Management before finally finding my stride at Simon Fraser University, where I garnered a degree in Event Planning. As busy as I remained during the course of my academia, my addiction would still rear it’s ugly head from time to time, and my need to soothe the loneliness inside me would have to be remedied. It was in those such instances I often chose to attempt to develop something with a suitor in my life, thus finding a handsome man to deliver me to heaven and return me to hell.

I had no delusions of grandeur. I didn’t believe being the recipient of a man’s attention garnered me a better person, but it was where the steel in my spine was forged. Without it, my vulnerability grew through the cracks like weeds on a broken sidewalk.

In the summer following the 2010 Vancouver Winter Olympics, on the eve of my twenty-fourth birthday, I founded The Halo Foundation. This charity blossomed from the very core of my heart, where it eventually bled into a well-funded and well-sponsored organization that supported the education of post secondary children on the effects of addiction, as well as the “clean teens” program that aided young users in getting clean and rehabilitating them back into society. It was my heart and soul, my passion project, and yet it paved the way for the development of my company, Smith & Co. Productions, which was formally founded less than a year later.

We were a small event-planning firm that ran a staff of five people year-round, and we were currently days away from hosting the annual Halo Foundation Gala this Saturday evening.

Though we weren’t considered a large firm by any means on the scale of local companies, I was sought out frequently for a number of elite events for my expertise in the field, but more than that, my personality. It drew clients in like a mirrored fishing lure. Ironic, isn’t it? On the outside, nearly everyone I met would deem me a people person at first glance. However, my career had grown into yet another life choice that deceptively cloaked my fear of connection. Not that I was by any means insincere, but my job allowed me to masquerade in plain sight and no one was ever the wiser. It was a comforting yet alarming arrangement that had served my staff and me handsomely over the four and a half years since our doors opened. It was also the reason that each year, The Halo Foundation Gala was a masquerade. I considered it an ode to the dark parts of me, but only I knew that.

Meeting the intersection of Burrard Street and Robson Street, I waited impatiently for the lights to change, when the bass of my ringtone sounded through the leather of the tasseled boho slung over my shoulder. Rummaging through its expansive interior, my fingers finally curled around the vibrating iPhone and brought it to my ear.

“Charleston,” my tone was an edge above chipper. Always answer the phone with a smile on your face, Mom used to say. They’ll be able to tell if you aren’t.

“Did they make you harvest the lettuce for that salad yourself?” my assistant, Kevin, snipped into my receiver.

The man was all sass. From the top of his quaffed salon blowout, to the bottom of his overpriced Testoni dress shoes. He was young, brilliant, gorgeous, and ruthless with numbers. Why was I not dating him? He was also as gay as they came. Sorry, ladies.

“I’m not entirely sure you harvest lettuce in the first place.” I shook my head at no one in particular as the heel of my boots took on the faded crosswalk.

There was a scoff on the other end of the line, followed by an unladylike snort. Before you judge, I compared him to a lady, because in every way was the man a queen. More of a goddess than any of the women I knew, and he wore it well—in Brooks Brothers suits, I mean. “Your 1:30 is here.”

Glancing down at the shine off my watch, my brows furrowed together. “Well, it’s just one. He’s early. Offer him a coffee while he waits.”

“Do you have any idea how much this man is worth?” His voice was barely a whisper and kind of a whine.

I knew exactly how much Beau Callaway, politician for the conservative party and our city’s front-runner for mayor, was worth. He came from a long line of old money and politics. I only took the meeting arranged by his assistant, because it seemed he was interested in providing a last minute donation to the foundation in exchange for being mentioned as one of the sponsors at this weekend’s festivities. There was no doubt the meeting was a campaign strategy, and if I was agreeable, a shiny mention of support and involvement in aiding a local charity would look admirable on the lapel of his young politician’s jacket. Regardless, that was neither here nor there in the scheme of things for me.