The setback, p.17
The Setback, page 17
Alright. I’ll let him process for now. But no matter how many amazing kisses we share, he won’t be able to change my mind. Ellingsons may run, but we’re also very stubborn. We do exactly what we want, we just do it quietly.
At least he’ll have time to prepare, and greedily, I’m delighted that he reacted so well. I put off telling him, because I wanted more time to spend with him before the end. And more time is apparently exactly what I’m getting.
15
Helen
I usually spend Thanksgivings alone. It’s a great time for me to catch up on things I’ve fallen behind on for work, because everyone else takes off. It’s like getting a head start in a foot race, for instance. A dead zone for other people, but a bonus round for me.
Twice in the past few decades, I’ve accepted my sister’s invitation and joined her family.
She always had a room ready for me with fresh sheets, a clean floor, and a connected bathroom. She made sure the kids didn’t bug me too much. She prepared the food. Every year there was a gleaming turkey, cornbread dressing, green bean casserole, sweet potato casserole, fresh rolls, mashed potatoes and gravy, and several different salads. She’d make her famous stuffed mushrooms. I’m sure they’re unhealthy, because nothing with that much cream cheese and bacon can be good for you, but they’re addictive.
Things were perfect, but I never really felt like a part of the group.
I was always the person people forgot was there until I said something. I never got the inside jokes. I never got asked to pass anything to anyone. They’d literally ask the person next to me, but not me. It was probably because they didn’t want to put me off. It was probably well intentioned. But I always felt like the most outside of the outsiders.
So this year, on my third ever Thanksgiving with Abby’s family, I wanted to bring something that everyone would love. I thought back on our Thanksgivings as kids, and the one that stood out the most, the one that was the brightest in my mind, was the one where Mom’s cousin brought us each a box of cherries. We ate them all on the very day of Thanksgiving, and both Abby and I had tummy aches that night.
I’d get my inside joke, and I’d be giving presents to everyone, including the people I was sure didn’t want me there, like Amanda. She may have been the host, but who doesn’t love a good present? I ordered them to be overnighted from the nicest chocolatier I could find online. Okay, fine. I had my assistant order them from the nicest chocolatier he could find online. Still, it was my idea, and I paid for it. When they arrived, I lovingly stroked the shiny blue boxes.
And then when I gave them out, Abby’s eyes sparkled. She remembered that year. Everyone was delighted to eat as many as they could. Which is how, on my third Thanksgiving Day, I inadvertently managed to get my sister’s kids drunk.
My sister who rarely even drinks so much as a glass of wine.
It makes sense—any adult that really had more than one or two would have immediately noticed the liquor, but the kids who were pounding them who had never had a drop?
Not so much.
I’ve been trying my hardest ever since to not think about it. I certainly don’t plan to ever bring it up. Unfortunately, Amanda thinks it’s hilarious to bring it up over and over. I thought working with her might be good. The more I got to know her, the more I hoped that I’d fit in with Abby’s friends here.
That might be a lie.
I didn’t want to fit in. That’s never been my style. I wanted to take over. But Amanda isn’t keen on anyone taking over. Instead, she’s been taking every pot shot she can. So when she shows up at Abby’s house unannounced on the Saturday after Thanksgiving, I don’t even pretend to be happy to see her.
Not that she cares.
“With barely more than three weeks until the wedding, my final selection for the table centerpieces is due today, and Eddy got another stupid emergency call. Some dumb cow got stuck somewhere stupid.” Amanda makes me help her carry twenty different floral arrangements into the house, because you can’t ‘really see’ the arrangements from the car, apparently.
Now Abby and I are both stuck staring at them.
“They all look the same,” I say. “Red flowers, white flowers, pine cones. Greenery.” I squint. “Oh, and that one has candy canes.”
“That’s why I didn’t come over here to get your opinion.” Amanda isn’t glaring. No, instead, she’s using her I’m-half-kidding voice so that Abigail won’t get mad. “I get more than enough of that at work.”
“But you did make me help carry them all in.”
“That’s because Abigail’s pregnant, idiot.”
Why can’t she carry her own stuff in? Because she’s Princess Amanda, and doing things herself never occurs to her. That’s why.
“I think this one.” Abigail leans toward the oval one, brushing her fingers against the huge white magnolias. “But maybe I like it so much because of the Southern touch. I know that’s not really your thing.”
“Why do you have to decide now?” I ask. “It’s not like they’re going to make the flowers in the next few days. You could have just waited for Eddy to resolve the cow emergency, and then he could have picked between white, eggshell, ecru, and snowy.”
“What?” Amanda asks.
Abby giggles, her hand half-covering her mouth. “She’s making a joke about how women always bug their husbands to choose between four different colors of white wall paint.”
If Amanda could bring herself to just stick her tongue out at me, it might be easier on her than maintaining that uncomfortable facial expression. “You’re so clever,” she says. “But I have to pick now, because the next three weeks are the hot time for Christmas flower delivery. To get my arrangements for free, I have to post a sneak peek for my wedding so that other people will want to race out and buy the same thing for their Christmas parties, obviously.”
“I’m so sorry I didn’t know that,” I say. “As someone who buys my stuff, I’m not familiar with the intricacies of freebie-seekers.”
Amanda’s face turns an even darker shade of red, and I suppress my smile.
Abigail ignores us. “If you don’t want magnolias, I vote for the white lilies with the cranberry clusters and poinsettias. Against those crisp white tablecloths, they’ll really stand out.”
“I do like the magnolias,” Amanda says. “But do you think people will say it’s not really on theme?”
“Isn’t the theme Christmas?” I exhale and barely keep from shaking my head. “They’re all on theme.”
As the doorbell rings, I’m dodging a kick from Amanda, so I decide to answer it.
“Who is it?” Abby asks, turning.
A deliveryman hands me a brown package that’s wrapped with festive Christmas tape. “It looks like a gift.” I walk across the room and hand it to her, but as I do, our eyes drop to the address at the same time.
“It’s for you,” Abigail says. “Who even knows you’re here?”
“My assistant,” I say. “And maybe a handful of other people.” But no one who would send me a gift, I don’t think.
“Ooh, it’s a surprise.” Amanda rubs her hands together.
“You’re excited that I got a surprise?” Maybe she thinks we are friends after all. Maybe I’m just not good at interpreting—
“With the way you treat people, it could be a dead rat.” Her eyes widen. “Or a bag of candy with razor blades in it.”
Abby glares at her, so I’m chalking that one up as a win. “Here.” She hands me some scissors.
“You want me to open it right here?” I know Amanda was kidding, but I have gotten some unfriendly mail before from people whose companies I’ve disassembled, and now I’m nervous to open it. I doubt they would be able to find this address, but who knows?
“Come on.” Abby’s looking at it like there might be a puppy inside. “It’s exciting.”
Could it be from her? I slice the top open, and then I lift off the paper. Resting inside, underneath some beautiful packaging, is a large bottle of rum. Ambassador, the bottle says. The brand is Diplomatico.
“I hate rum,” I say. “Who would send me this?”
“Oh, there’s a card.” Abby snags it and opens it toward me so we can both read it.
For our next date, let’s make cherries.
-David
“Oh, Helen. You said it wasn’t a date!” She drops the paper, which flutters to the ground.
“Wait, who’s it from?” Amanda’s looking from Abby to me and back again like she’s going to explode if she can’t find out.
“It’s not a date,” I say. “I’m totally serious. He’s just being funny.”
“Oh, I’d say he is making a joke, at your expense. He wants to make cherries.” Abby’s grin keeps widening, and then disappearing, and then widening again as if she wants to suppress it, but she can’t quite manage it.
“Who?” Amanda asks. “Who are we talking about?”
Abby kicks the paper toward her.
I practically toss the box on the ground and dive for it at the same time. Sadly, with Abby’s nudge, Amanda’s closer, and she gets to it before I do.
And then my phone starts ringing.
Amanda’s already reading it, so I decide that maybe I can use the phone call to get out of listening to her react to it. “Hello?”
It’s my assistant, Roger. He’s one of the few truly capable people in my life. “I hate to bother you, but I thought you ought to know.”
That’s not a good first line. “About?”
“Someone named David Park sent everyone at headquarters a huge box of cherry cordials.”
He wouldn’t really do that, right? “He did what?”
“They all had the same note with them.” Roger clears his throat as if he’s preparing to read something. “If you see her, tell your boss she owes me. Happy Holidays, David Park.”
I’m going to shoot him and then I’m going to tank his stock. And then I’m going to buy more than fifty percent and fire him. No, wait, I’ll buy a competitor and put him under. “It’s just a joke,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.” I pause. “Actually, send them all a huge box of the most expensive truffles you can find from me, with the message, ‘I always pay all my debts. Helen Fisher.’”
“Wait, send truffles to David Park?” Roger asks. “Or to your employees?”
He’s probably right. Sending more things to my employees will just keep them thinking about it. I want to stab David Park in the eye right now. This is my job. How dare he mess with my image? “Actually, don’t do anything. I’ll take care of it.” I hang up, lean over, and grab the bottle of rum. Then I head for the door, grabbing my coat and purse on the way.
“Where are you going?” Amanda asks. “Are you really dating David?”
I pivot on my toe. “By tonight, there won’t be a David Park for anyone to date.”
Amanda’s spluttering something or other to Abby as I walk out, but I can’t be bothered with that right now. My brain’s revving the engine, thinking of ways to retaliate. The fastest and easiest way would be a tweet. I open my phone to think of just what to say.
As one of less than a hundred female billionaires in the United States, I have more than a few followers on my very inconsistent Twitter account. But if I tweet something, Elon will call and want to know what’s going on—he follows his own platform pretty closely for any content from his inner circle—not to mention a dozen other work acquaintances who might call. I really don’t want to talk to any of them.
Plus, if anyone in the financial world happened to hear about his irritating cherry stunt, any kind of tweet I make will just confirm the rumors circling about me and stupid David Park.
That’s the last thing I need.
Anyone whose name is associated positively with mine winds up with soaring stock prices. I want the opposite. I want to punch David almighty Park in the throat, but realistically, I should treat this like training a dog. I should bop him on the nose so he knows that this sort of thing isn’t acceptable.
I’m closing down Twitter when a tweet on my feed catches my eye.
Helen Fisher trawling for sushi? It’s a photo of the two of us at Brownings, and I’m laughing. It was posted by the man I just fired, our long-time business acquaintance, Kyle Saunders.
How did Kyle get his hands on that photo?
He must be having me followed.
The only thing that pisses me off more than David Park messing with me is Kyle acting like he caught me doing something embarrassing. Also, it’s offensive that he’s highlighting David’s ethnicity in such a childish way. It downright infuriates me.
When David Park’s car rolls down the drive and pulls in next to mine, I decide that he’s lucky. Three minutes ago, I was devising ways to claw his eyes out or tank his stock prices. Neither one would have improved the chances that his father would name him as successor.
But now?
My hatred for Kyle after his attempt to steal the board, as well as his tackiness on social media, has made my small-fish enemy into a friend. I open my door and lean against my car.
“Oh.” David startles, and he shifts until he’s facing me. “You’re already out here.”
“I was coming for you,” I say.
“That sounds ominous.”
“Until I saw this.” I swivel my phone around and show him the tweet Kyle Saunders just made.
“I hate that guy.” A muscle in his jaw twitches.
“That makes two of us.”
“So?”
“Well, I obviously plan to call Hank with BCG, where I hear he was thinking of going next, to tell him to steer clear. I’m also going to short the stock in KlinePeter Holdings.” I can’t help my smile.
“I heard he was heavy into that.”
“When others see me doing it. . .”
“You’re terrifying.”
“You should thank him, really,” I say. “I was at least this angry with you before I saw his text.”
“But mine was funny,” David says.
“It might have been if you hadn’t told me I was profoundly broken,” I say.
“Actually, I think I said you were profoundly screwed up.”
“And that’s better, how?”
He shrugs. “I just like accuracy, that’s all.”
That makes me laugh.
“I’m glad Kyle was so stupid that you aren’t mad at me anymore.”
“Oh, I’m still mad at you.” I walk toward him, my Prada snow boots crunching against the old snow. “I’m just angrier with him. And that’s why. . .”
“Why what?” David’s staring at me intently, like he can’t wait to see what I say next, which is a little intoxicating.
I need to focus. This is just the first step in a new strategy. “You know that what we agreed upon were not dates.” I lift my eyebrows. “I agreed to do some consults.”
He shrugs. “Potato, potahto.”
“You were promised access to my business expertise.”
“You did invite me back to your hotel. Was that because you had your files there?” His half-grin is killer. “Or did you just need access to your laptop?”
I press one finger against his chest, right above the spot where his zipper ends. “Kyle’s trying to use you to embarrass me.”
“And what about me?” he asks. “I’m the raw fish in this scenario.”
“You’re not even Japanese.”
“Right? He could have at least called me gimbap.”
I laugh, flattening my hand against him for balance, and then my heart rate spikes. Because the chest I feel under my hand is firm, muscular, and solid. “I’m about to tweet a response.”
David’s brows draw together. “You’re what?”
I spin, leaning back against him, and snap a photo of us with my free hand.
I’m smiling, but David’s not. He looks intense in a way that only the hottest Asian men can manage. His jawline is flawless, his eyes are smoldering, and his skin looks luminescent.
It’s perfect.
“What are you doing?” David looks. . .wary.
“I hope you’re ready for this.”
“For what?”
“When I go trawling, I always reel in my catch.” I type out a tweet. Correction. Helen Fisher caught David Park. And he’s just as delicious as he looks. “Are you ready for your stock prices to soar?” I swivel the phone around to face him. “Because now those three consults have been upgraded to dates. We have a fake relationship to sell, at least long enough to make Kyle look like an idiot.”
“Is he your ex?”
I roll my eyes. “He wishes. He tried and tried to get me to make something official. He was an arm to hold at parties when I was bored.” I pause. “I’ve never, not in twenty years of dominating the business world, publicly announced a relationship of any kind.”
“I think that makes me your first boyfriend.” David reaches out and taps the button on my phone to send the tweet live. “This should be interesting.”
16
Helen
Every time I talked to Abby while she was in school, she had a new boyfriend. Or at least, that’s how it felt. I often wondered how much more impressive she’d be, how much more progress she’d make, if she wasn’t so distracted by all the social and relationship drama. But now that I finally have a boyfriend of my own, or at least, now that people think I do, I almost get the attraction.
I shouldn’t be scrolling through comments or checking all the text messages that are pouring in, but I can’t seem to help it. People I haven’t heard from for years are calling and messaging me.
Reporters, too.
Do people really care more about you when they think someone else does? Are humans really all such lemmings?
“I can’t believe I had to find out from Twitter,” Abby says. I hate that she, more than anyone, is as delighted as she is.
“Oh, please,” I say. “I told you already. It’s not real.”
“Then why are you changing clothes?” She arches that stupid eyebrow into that expression of hers that scares everyone but me. “He’s just sitting outside waiting on you, and you’re in here worrying about what shirt to wear.” She shakes her head. “That’s not something I ever thought I’d be saying to my self-possessed sister.”
