The Matchbaker (A Romantic Comedy) Read online

  I’m confused. “I thought I had the latest numbers,” I say. “The presentation is all set and ready to go.”

  “Well, these came in this morning. I would have given them to you, but…” She drops her glasses to her nose and raises her eyebrows. “I couldn’t find you.”

  If Lucy hadn’t just discovered her boyfriend was cheating on her, I would kill her.

  As it stands, I have a whole night of work ahead of me, re-crunching numbers and re-doing about a thousand PowerPoint slides. But I can’t let on that I’m shaken by this news, so I paste on a smile and grab the folder from Celia. “No problem,” I say and then step aside in an obvious gesture for her to leave. “Better get to work.”

  She steps past me and heads for the door. “I’ll meet you at Le Bar at one tomorrow afternoon. We should know what they thought of your presentation by then. Make it count, Candace!”

  The door slams behind her. “Make it count, Candace,” I repeat, mocking her. If I didn’t have so much respect for Celia, I would want to punch her in the face.

  There’s another knock at the door and I realize I’m still in my towel. I grab the robe on the back of one of the tufted chairs and tie it around me as I run to let Lucy in. Her blonde hair is wet and she’s in a pair of Victoria’s Secret pajamas. I know they’re Victoria’s Secret because I have the same set of pink striped flannel PJs.

  “Hey,” she says as she brushes past me. “Are we ordering room service?”

  I sigh. I hate to break this news to her. “Actually…there’s a change in plans.” She looks up at me with bloodshot eyes. Clearly she’s been crying some more. “Celia stopped by. I have to redo all the numbers for tomorrow’s presentation.”

  “No!” Luce is outraged. “But you already worked so hard to get the original numbers. How can she do this to you?”

  I’m tempted to tell her that I would have had it done by now if I hadn’t gone to Madame Antoinette’s with her, but I don’t want to make her feel worse than she already does. “She just got them herself.”

  Lucy stares begrudgingly at the folder I’m still holding in my hands. “Do you want some help?”

  “Thanks, but it’s okay. I know you have your own work to do for Celia.”

  “Not that I’m going to be able to get anything done tonight,” she says. “God, Steve is such a dick.”

  “I know. I’m so sorry, Luce.”

  She stifles a sob. “It’s okay.”

  God, I’m such a bad friend. I hate letting Lucy down—it makes my stomach hurt. But what am I supposed to do? If I don’t nail this, I’ll lose my chance at the promotion. “All right,” I say as I follow Lucy back to the door. “Goodnight.”

  The door closes and I’m tempted to open it again and say, “Screw Celia!” But I can’t. This job everything to me, my whole life. Lucy and I can hash out the whole Steve thing tomorrow. Once I’ve had my one o’clock rehash with Celia, I’ll be done with work and devote the rest of the day to Lucy.

  Feeling better about my situation, I race back to the desk and plop down, ready to work. But then again, I could probably use some wine to get me through the night. I’ve been dreaming about that Bordeaux all day, I should at least have a glass or two.

  I quickly pop the cork and pour a hefty portion into a wine glass.

  “Okay, now I’m ready.”

  As I look over the numbers, I get increasingly more frustrated. The numbers are ridiculously close. Mere dollars apart. I can’t believe I have to change everything for a few dollars difference.

  I take a gulp of wine. And another. I need to be completely desensitized to get through this night. Otherwise, I might do something I regret.

  ~*~

  Oh, God. Where am I? I must be in the hospital because I’ve definitely been hit by a truck. I blink. The sun is so bright. Am I outside? That doesn’t make any sense. Why would I be asleep outside?

  I raise my head and realize there’s something stuck to it. A piece of paper. As I reach to remove it, I knock something over. It’s a glass. Of wine. Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. This can’t be happening. I fell asleep? I fell asleep!

  I pick up the papers before the wine gets to them and then reach frantically for my phone. Dead. Crap! I rush to the bedside and nearly collapse with a heart attack when I see the time.

  8:45 glares back at me, mocking. Oh, my God. I’ll never make it. Not in a million years. The cab ride alone is fifteen minutes and I’m not even dressed. I never dried my hair last night, so I’m sure I look like a frizzy version of Medusa.

  Even so, I know I have to try. My career depends on this. My life depends on this. I have to make it.

  I devote thirty seconds to each task. Teeth bushing. Makeup application. Hair. Clothes. Finally, I stuff all the papers Celia gave me back in their manila envelope and toss them into my briefcase along with my laptop.

  There’s a sinking in my stomach when I realize I never finished re-doing the numbers. I’m actually not sure I even got started.

  Oh, God. I’m screwed.

  The last thing I have to do is put on my shoes and I’m dreading it with every ounce of my being. But I don’t have much of a choice. I open the closet where my shoes are laid out, side by side. Every one of them expensive, designer and horribly uncomfortable. I decide the Ferragamo loafer pumps are the best bet, even though they aren’t the best choice for this suit.

  As I slide my feet into the right shoe, I’m accosted with pain. Oh, my God. I can’t do this. I don’t think I can make it to the elevator, let alone stand for more than an hour to deliver a presentation.

  I bite my bottom lip to redirect the pain as I run down my list of options:

  1) Grin and bear it (not really an option at all, because, seriously, it hurts)

  2) Tell Celia I’ve had a family emergency and I have to fly back to the states ASAP, and then hide out in my room until the hotel assures me she’s checked out

  3) Go barefoot (yuck)

  4) Go in open-toed shoes that show my scabbing sores

  5) Quit my job

  I pick up my barely-charged phone to call Celia when my gaze lands on the bottle of wine I’d opened last night. I hardly drank any of it before I fell asleep. It would be a shame to waste it. And maybe a sip (or five) would help with the pain.

  I toss off my shoe and rush to the bottle. A few swigs and three ibuprofen should do the trick.

  ~*~

  Okay, I may have over done it just a little. But honestly, I feel great! I can’t even feel the blisters on my feet anymore. I mean, wow! I thought the wine would help, but this is fantastic. It took a few minutes for it to kick in, so the walk to the limo was a bit rough, but now that I’ve arrived, I can hardly feel the pain anymore. Or is just that I don’t care? Either way, I feel ebullient.

  The chauffeur holds the limo door open for me. I smile up at him and he smiles back.

  “Thank you so much,” I say as I stumble out of the car with a giggle. I’m not exactly sure why it’s funny, but I can’t help myself. “Um, can you pick me up in about an hour? No, make it two! No, wait…an hour and a half.”

  The driver gives me a nod and shuts the door. I turn around and stare up at the massive building before me. It’s really tall. Like, the Michael Jordan of buildings. This thought tickles me and I giggle again. God, I’m drunk. Okay, I really have to get a hold of myself. I smooth my skirt down and run my fingers over my pulled-back hair. I’m ready.

  It’s nine-twenty by the time I make it to the boardroom and everyone is standing, clearly getting ready to leave. Crap.

  “Hello!” I say, and fifteen or so pairs of eyes turn to look at me. “Sorry I’m late, but, um…traffic was awful.”

  “I am Pierre.” A tall, good-looking man approaches me with his hand outstretched. “You must be Candace.”

  “That’s me!” I can tell I’m way too cheerful for this group of French business people but I can’t stop myself. It’s the wine. “Shall we get started?”

  And now it’s time to
panic because not only am I twenty minutes late to the meeting, but I’m about to show them a presentation with outdated numbers. Drunk. I start to pray for the fire alarm to go off or for someone to puke on the table. Preferably not me. Anything to get me out of this.

  Everyone has taken their seats again. They’re staring at me, waiting for me to do something or say something. My heart is racing and my head is swimming. Deep breaths. I can do this. I can. I just have to focus.

  I open my laptop and go to the Power Point presentation while Pierre connects me to the projector. And then I begin. Despite the fact I’m far too drunk to be delivering a presentation upon which my entire career rests, I’m doing a pretty good job.

  Pierre casts a glance across the table to some woman with a pixie haircut. I take a brief moment while I scroll through the slides to contemplate whether or not I could pull off that style. Probably not. I really need hair to frame my face.

  Pixie Girl leans over and whispers to the older gentleman beside her. They all look very serious, and I’m sure they’re saying what a wonderful job I’m doing.

  A half hour later, I open the floor for questions and field them like a pro. The wine is starting to wear off, thankfully, so I’m able to think a bit quicker, though the pain in my feet is increasing by the second.

  “Anymore questions?” I ask once it seems things have died down. No one else says anything. They just shrug or shake their heads. “Wonderful. Thank you all for your time.”

  Pierre stands up with a smile on his face and reaches out to shake my hand again. “Very impressive presentation,” he says, and I nearly collapse. I can’t believe I actually pulled it off, even drunk and without the revised numbers. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Thank you,” I say. He leaves and I pack up my things, feeling giddy. Up next, meeting with Celia, then I can spend the rest of the day helping Lucy get through the Steve thing. Tomorrow I fly to Berlin for another presentation, but for today, I’ll finally have time to relax.

  Once I’m back at the hotel, I knock on Lucy’s door. There’s no answer, so I assume she’s working in the lounge. It’s almost one, anyway, so I drop off my stuff in my room and head to Le Bar downstairs. Celia’s already there, waiting for me, tapping her shiny red nails on the marble table.

  “Well, well, well,” she says as I approach. Her petite Chanel-clad body is ensconced in a deep, red-velvet chair. A snifter of scotch is before her, no doubt something that’s been aging for three thousand years and costs just as much.

  I order an extra dirty vodka martini and take the chair opposite Celia.

  “I heard from Pierre a few minutes ago.” She’s wearing her tight-lipped version of a smile, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. It never does. “Well done, Candace.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “Have they already made a decision?”

  “You did it. They’re signing the papers as we speak.”

  I’m tempted to jump up and shout “Hooray!” But I refrain, and instead say, “That’s great news,” in my most business-y of voices, as the waiter places my martini in front of me. “So, what about my promotion?”

  She pauses and I’m certain it’s for dramatic affect. I take a gulp of my drink. Oh, God, please let it be good news.

  “I’m sending you back to the states this afternoon,” she says at last.

  My mouth drops open. “What? Why? I’m going to Berlin tomorrow. I’ll barely have time to brush my teeth before I have to be on a plane again—”

  “You’re not going to Berlin.” Celia is looking at me like I’m crazy, and honestly, I kind of feel crazy right now.

  “What are you saying, Celia?” Oh, God. Am I being fired? Did she find out I didn’t use the new numbers and she’s firing me on a technicality, even though I sealed the deal? This is so unfair! I’m about to tell her so, but she speaks first.

  “I’m saying…congratulations.” She says the word slowly, as if talking to a room full of Kindergartners. “You got the promotion. But Bill is leaving ASAP, so you’re flying back today to prepare to take over his position. I hope you’re ready for this.”

  I’m floored. I can’t speak. It’s my dream come true. Adrenaline is rushing through me as I hear the words I’ve waited so long to hear. “I am,” I finally manage. “I promise, I was born for this job.”

  Now all I want to do is go find Lucy. I know she’ll be thrilled for me.

  “Great.” Celia drinks the last sip of her scotch and then reaches into her purse. “Here’s your ticket home. You better get packed. The limo is picking you up at three.”

  Three? It’s one-thirty already. Crap. I need to find Lucy.

  “Um, sure,” I say absently. “You haven’t seen Lucy, have you?”

  “She’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “On her way to Berlin.” Celia is already walking away. “I had to replace you with someone, and Lucy seemed like the obvious choice. See you in New York.”

  ~*~

  Okay, this is fine. Everything’s fine. The only reason Lucy isn’t answering her phone is because she’s on a plane, in the air, obviously without service. I’m sure she’ll call me when she lands.

  Of course, by then, I’ll be on my way to the U.S., so who knows when I’ll talk to Lucy again? I feel like such a bad friend, but what was I supposed to do?

  The worst part is realizing the new numbers supposedly didn’t matter at all for the presentation and that I could have spent the evening with Lucy.

  Okay, actually, that’s not the worst part. The worst part is that I’m sure Lucy has no idea what she’s getting into in Berlin. How could Celia send her there? She’s not like us. Lucy is sweet and innocent, and she’s such a basket case right now.

  The ringing of my cell phone interrupts my thoughts. I toss another pair of shoes into my suitcase and lunge for the phone, hoping it’s Lucy. No such luck.

  “Hey, Mom. Sorry I didn’t call you back, but I’m kind of crazy over here.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you are, honey. But we need to talk.”

  I grab a handful of panties out of the top drawer and plop them into the suitcase. I’m usually a very organized packer, but there just isn’t any time to be meticulous right now. “Listen, I’m headed back to New York in a couple hours. Can I call you when I get in?”

  “No, Candace!” She sounds pissed, which annoys me. Doesn’t she understand how busy I am? “You can’t keep putting me off. This is time sensitive.”

  I roll my eyes. This is so my mom. She did this to me last year. Call after call, insisting it was urgent. Turned out to be about a Christmas present for Dad—a limited edition rendering of the old Yankee stadium. They were only going to make 150 of them, so if I didn’t get it right then I’d miss out on the perfect gift for him. Turned out they made about a million of them and the claim of 150 was just a fear-of-loss tactic. Mom’s a sucker for stuff like that, which is why she’s not allowed to watch infomercials anymore. She could seriously start her own “As Seen On TV” store.

  “All right, fine. I’m putting you on speaker while I pack then.” I set the phone down, hit speaker and then start running around like a chicken with my head cut off. “Okay, go!”

  “Well, honey, we’re looking to make some changes at the bakery.”

  I have no idea how this could possibly involve me.

  “You know, it would actually be easier to explain in person. Do you think you could plan a trip up this weekend?”

  Is she serious? “Mom, I don’t know. Look, I just got promoted, and I have a lot of work to do.”

  “Promoted?”

  “Yes, finally. I’ve been waiting for this for two years.” I hear her whispering to someone in the background. “Is Dad there?”

  “What? Oh, yes, hang on, honey.”

  Sure, no problem. I have all day.

  “Candy,” she says, coming back to the phone. “Listen, it’s really important that you come here this weekend. We’ll pay your train fare, if that’s what you’re worried
about.”

  I want to laugh. My mom clearly still thinks of me as a poor college student. If only she could see where I’m staying right now…or my bank account. She’d surely have a heart attack.

  “No, Mom, that’s not necessary. I just…” I’m beginning to think it might be easier to go and get whatever this is out of the way. She’ll just bug me until I do. “Yeah, all right. I’ll hop on the train Saturday morning.”

  “Great! We’ll see you then. Safe travels, sweetheart!”

  Three

  The next two days were pretty much a blur trying to get acquainted with my new position and, more importantly, my new office. It’s a corner office. A corner office! Floor to ceiling windows, with a view of the Hudson River. I swear I’ve pinched myself a thousand times. I have arrived.

  Now it’s Saturday morning, and my train is just pulling in to the closest stop to my parents’ home in Connecticut. They live in Sagehaven, which is where I grew up. They’ve lived in the same house for thirty-five years, and it has the same shag carpet, the same ugly drapes, and the same tacky lamps it had when they moved in. Of course, my room has been turned into an office and my sister, Holly’s, into a craft room. I’m pretty sure my parents never use either one.

  My phone rings and I look down to see that it’s my sister. Speak of the devil.

  “Hey, Hol!” I say. “What’s up?”

  “Is that your train pulling in?”

  “Uh, yeah. Where are you?”

  “I’m waiting for you outside the station,” she says, as if I should have known she’d be there. Never mind she lives in Boston and visits just as often as I do. The last time we were both home was eight months ago for Christmas.

  “Okay, I’ll be there in a minute.”

  The train comes to a stop. I grab my small Louis Vuitton suitcase from the top rack and join the crowd of people leaving the train. The New Haven station is even grimier than Madame Antoinette’s, so I do my best to keep my hands to myself as I descend the stairs, walk the long corridor and hop on the escalator to the exit. My sister is standing next to her Mercedes, which is parked in the handicapped space. Someone with an actual handicapped sticker is honking at her and there’s a traffic cop headed her way, but she’s completely oblivious.