URSULA
It’s a picture-perfect summer evening in Midtown, New York City. Warm enough to go strapless, but cool enough to still wear your hair down without it getting frizzy. Times Square is packed with tourists, the bars are packed with the locals, the bustling traffic is being policed by New York’s finest, and you can just feel the energy crackling in the air.
It’s palpable.
It’s perfect.
In fact, this is the kind of night that makes working for the most narcissistic man I’ve ever met all worth it. We’ve got two important events on deck for tonight, and I’ve made sure to dot every i and cross every t in preparation for them, except I have uncharacteristically forgotten one important thing.
Shoes.
When I finally remembered that I didn’t have a single decent pair to go with my scarlet red evening dress, I realized I only had three hours left to get ready. Yet thanks to my boss’s trusty American Express black card, I was able to zip into Neiman Marcus and quickly buy a pair that works. Well … they sort of work.
I am now the proud owner of a pair of brand new, seven hundred dollar, nude stilettos that miraculously elongate my stubby legs but hurt like all hell. I’ve come to the conclusion that whoever invented high heels was a man who hated women. I’d rather wear a pair of chucks any day.
“Hey, Courtney.”
My phone is ringing off the hook today. Seems like every assistant in town is trying to secure a spot on our guest list.
“No, you should be fine for tonight. I’ve got you down for four in the VIP section. Just give the guy at the door your name. You’re welcome.”
Another call comes in as I wait for the car to pick me up.
“Hi, Millicent.”
“Ursula, I had to make a few adjustments to the seating at the last minute. Mr. Barnes is still in the first row of course, but I’ve shifted him and his parents, specifically, about five seats over and had to put the rest of you in the seats directly right behind him.”
“He wanted the entire first row.”
“I know but that doesn’t work for the camera angles and all of that jazz. They wanted the seats all centered.”
“What?”
That makes zero sense.
“I’m sorry but you know I don’t make those decisions. The production team has a way of doing things that works for them. I just go with it.”
I see my car pulling up and even with the slightly tinted windows, I can tell that my boss is already inside, so I need to end this conversation. It’s my job to keep mistakes and missteps from him. All he wants to worry about is football. Nothing else.
“You know we don’t like last minute changes, but I trust you, Millicent,” I say quickly wrapping our call up. “I’ll see you in a few.”
“Thanks, love. See you in a few.”
I try to hide it, but I can’t help but grimace, as I painfully slide into the back seat of Coop’s black SUV. His full-time driver, Tito, never misses anything and notices. He gives me an extended look of concern in the rearview mirror and then silently nods hello.
“Hey, Tito,” I say with a smile and then I address my boss. “Hey, Coop.”
Since he doesn’t even acknowledge that I’m in the car (as per usual unless he’s bitching), I decide to grab a moment of relief and slip my feet out of my heels. The structured leather of the shoes has already begun rubbing the back of my left ankle. Scraping it raw.
I’m in some pain, but I don’t really have time for it. This is going to be another long night serving the man I work for. Tonight’s “Athlete Influencer Of The Year” award winner—Cooper Barnes. Superstar tight end for The New York Nighthawk national football franchise, philanthropist, television personality and according to Forbes Magazine—one of the wealthiest men in America under the age of thirty.
This particular award is one he’s wished and waited many years for, and tonight is a night that I’ve worked tirelessly to make happen.
Believe it or not, these awards aren’t just randomly given out. The selection is not made by a committee but a group of his peers. So, you have to actually campaign for it, although you can’t be blatant about it, and nobody “quietly” campaigned as hard for their athlete like I did for Coop.
I didn’t just work this hard to get him this award because it’s my job, but because it’s my last hurrah. I want to go out with a bang. Leave my mark. Because once this night is over—I’m out of here.
I quit.
“What’s up with the feet?” he asks me. Finally taking a moment to look away from his phone. A phone that drives him to complete distraction. All day, when he’s not playing football, he checks texts, tweets, snapchats, Facebook, Instagram and any other form of social media that may make mention of him on a daily basis. Funny how he rarely uses the thing to actually talk to people.
“They hurt.” Obviously.
He raises an eyebrow at my response but not out of concern. I’m sure that he’s thinking that somehow my sore feet are going to affect his big night—a night that I had everything in the world to do with making happen for him by the way—and he doesn’t like it, not one bit.
“Relax,” I offer before he says something that’s going to make me want to karate chop his neck. “I’m going to run into the store and grab a Band-Aid and some Neosporin.”
“How long is that going to take?”
I roll my eyes (to myself of course) then plaster on one of my trademark smiles. I’ve used this smile for the last three years to get through many tough days as Coop’s assistant.
“Five minutes tops. You won’t be late. You can start walking the red carpet while I fix myself up in the car.”
Coop places his phone down in the space in between us, looks at me with determined eyes, then to Tito.
“Pull over.”
