of shopping my way down Fifth Avenue, I’d found a modestly priced floor-length gown that made me feel like a queen.
I paid the driver and turned around to see where I was in Midtown. The address was on Fifty-Seventh Street, a swanky thoroughfare that cut through the most expensive commercial real estate in the city. Hell, probably the country. The world. A shining tower stretched above me, and throngs of people crowded the sidewalk in front of it. Spotlights threw light back and forth, and there was a long red carpet leading up to an ornate entrance hall with a large lit sign proclaiming proudly, “New York City Community Children’s Hospital Family House.”
I sucked in a breath, readjusted my clutch under my arm, and muttered, “Well, now or never.”
My gown swished around my ankles as I clicked towards the crowd. Despite the nervous butterflies in my stomach, I threw my head back to project an air of confidence. The dress was flattering, a rich silk maroon with gorgeous draping that clung to my curves and a V-neck that exposed the right amount of sexy. The lower half of my back was bare, but a chiffon cape billowed from my shoulders and down my arms to keep it covered and modest.
It was ridiculous, walking up the red carpet with the other guests while the press yelled out and took pictures. I pushed past the crowd, the flashbulbs blinding me as I fought to get to the door to meet with my point of contact.
She wasn’t hard to miss. Her voice over the phone had been stern as she’d told me she’d be waiting for me at the front door at 5:45 sharp and I wasn’t to be late. Now a blonde woman in a perfectly tailored black suit and tall pumps stood by the door, talking to a frazzled man in a waiter’s outfit. She clutched a portfolio and an iPad against her chest, her back straight enough for a protractor to read. Bold red color lined her thin lips, which were pressed in irritation and disapproval. She was young and definitely gorgeous, in an evil European Barbie Robot kind of way.
I inched over and caught the tail end of the conversation. Her voice was laced with a strong German accent.
“—completely unacceptable, we are highly displeased with the delay, the speeches begin in forty-five minutes and—”
The woman’s attention snapped over to me. Her light eyebrows assumed a harsher angle as she gave me an expression that said, “What the hell do you want?”
I held up my NYPD press pass. The pass was overkill for this fundraiser, but now that I was faced with the Berlin Wall I was glad I’d brought it.
“Florence Reynolds, New York Journal ,” I stated simply.
Her eyes darted between my card and my face, and she gave a short nod. She directed her attention to the unfortunate slob who appeared to be two seconds’ worth of telling off away from pissing himself. “Get it done,” she snapped with finality.
The man nodded quickly and ducked back into the building, grateful to get away.
The woman’s attention popped back to me, and I straightened.
“Hello.” European Barbie Robot extended her hand and I met it. She gripped my hand with a force that threatened to crush my bones into dust. “I am Gertrude Werner, Mr. Blair’s personal assistant.” Her sharp eyes flickered up and down my form. “I suppose that’s acceptable.”
I straightened up even more and threw my chin back a fraction, then gave her a saccharine smile.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Gertrude,” I said, using her given name. “It seems we will be working together quite closely for the next month.”
Gertrude’s lips thinned even more, if possible. We stared at each other for a second, and then she said shortly, “Walk with me. We can talk while we go to the ballroom.”
And then with a spin of her heel, she stomped over the threshold and disappeared down the hallway. I hastened to follow, cursing my own shoes. She was on taller ones—how did she walk?
I caught up and sucked in shallow breaths so as to not appear
I paid the driver and turned around to see where I was in Midtown. The address was on Fifty-Seventh Street, a swanky thoroughfare that cut through the most expensive commercial real estate in the city. Hell, probably the country. The world. A shining tower stretched above me, and throngs of people crowded the sidewalk in front of it. Spotlights threw light back and forth, and there was a long red carpet leading up to an ornate entrance hall with a large lit sign proclaiming proudly, “New York City Community Children’s Hospital Family House.”
I sucked in a breath, readjusted my clutch under my arm, and muttered, “Well, now or never.”
My gown swished around my ankles as I clicked towards the crowd. Despite the nervous butterflies in my stomach, I threw my head back to project an air of confidence. The dress was flattering, a rich silk maroon with gorgeous draping that clung to my curves and a V-neck that exposed the right amount of sexy. The lower half of my back was bare, but a chiffon cape billowed from my shoulders and down my arms to keep it covered and modest.
It was ridiculous, walking up the red carpet with the other guests while the press yelled out and took pictures. I pushed past the crowd, the flashbulbs blinding me as I fought to get to the door to meet with my point of contact.
She wasn’t hard to miss. Her voice over the phone had been stern as she’d told me she’d be waiting for me at the front door at 5:45 sharp and I wasn’t to be late. Now a blonde woman in a perfectly tailored black suit and tall pumps stood by the door, talking to a frazzled man in a waiter’s outfit. She clutched a portfolio and an iPad against her chest, her back straight enough for a protractor to read. Bold red color lined her thin lips, which were pressed in irritation and disapproval. She was young and definitely gorgeous, in an evil European Barbie Robot kind of way.
I inched over and caught the tail end of the conversation. Her voice was laced with a strong German accent.
“—completely unacceptable, we are highly displeased with the delay, the speeches begin in forty-five minutes and—”
The woman’s attention snapped over to me. Her light eyebrows assumed a harsher angle as she gave me an expression that said, “What the hell do you want?”
I held up my NYPD press pass. The pass was overkill for this fundraiser, but now that I was faced with the Berlin Wall I was glad I’d brought it.
“Florence Reynolds, New York Journal ,” I stated simply.
Her eyes darted between my card and my face, and she gave a short nod. She directed her attention to the unfortunate slob who appeared to be two seconds’ worth of telling off away from pissing himself. “Get it done,” she snapped with finality.
The man nodded quickly and ducked back into the building, grateful to get away.
The woman’s attention popped back to me, and I straightened.
“Hello.” European Barbie Robot extended her hand and I met it. She gripped my hand with a force that threatened to crush my bones into dust. “I am Gertrude Werner, Mr. Blair’s personal assistant.” Her sharp eyes flickered up and down my form. “I suppose that’s acceptable.”
I straightened up even more and threw my chin back a fraction, then gave her a saccharine smile.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Gertrude,” I said, using her given name. “It seems we will be working together quite closely for the next month.”
Gertrude’s lips thinned even more, if possible. We stared at each other for a second, and then she said shortly, “Walk with me. We can talk while we go to the ballroom.”
And then with a spin of her heel, she stomped over the threshold and disappeared down the hallway. I hastened to follow, cursing my own shoes. She was on taller ones—how did she walk?
I caught up and sucked in shallow breaths so as to not appear
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