stepped from the cab. An elderly woman pulling a metal shopping cart with groceries approached on the sidewalk. She too cast Gill a look as she passed.
Welcome to wrong side of the tracks.
Pulling out her cell phone, she double-checked the meeting time on her calendar and noted she had, as usual, arrived early. Punctuality was something she prided herself on. It showed clients you considered their projects important and of high priority.
Except this wasn’t supposed to be her project, was it? She was supposed to handle the Remaillard aftershave launch. Remaillard was Rosenthal Public Relations’ biggest client and organizing a successful product launch would have virtually guaranteed Gill the new vice-president position.
Enter Stephanie DeWitt. Gill could still hear the mock apology Stephanie gave during this morning’s meeting. “I suggested to Elliot that you were the best person for the job.What with your family owning a Christmas tree farm and all.”
No, her brother-in-law owned the farm, Gill had wanted to scream. And Stephanie wanted the promotion as badly as she did. But Elliot Rosenthal had been right there, so she’d simply smiled graciously, seething inside.
So, while Stephanie took over the launch, with its big budget and luxury setting, Gill stood here, in the worst section of Boston, charged with throwing a kids’ Christmas party. Not just any Christmas party. A magical, stunning, media-attention-generating party with less than a month’s notice. Her only help was the center’s director. Some guy named Oliver Harrington.
Across the street, the store owner chased the teenagers away, hollering what she was pretty sure were obscenities in Spanish. The kids swore back, and one of them tossed an empty can into the street. The rattle echoed in the frigid air. Gill sighed.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Gillian McKenzie. So Stephanie had got the project she wanted? Big deal. Since when did she let a setback get in her way of success? She hadn’t become the youngest account supervisor in Rosenthal PR’s history for nothing. If she wanted something in this world, she had to make it happen. Let Stephanie have her aftershave launch. Gill would throw the best damn charity party Boston ever saw and make sure Elliot Rosenthal would have to promote her.
Confidence renewed, she yanked open the door. Oliver Harrington, look out. Gill McKenzie was here to make some Christmas magic.
A watched water spot never grows.
Oliver Harrington stared at the spot on the ceiling in hisoffice. It definitely looked bigger than when he’d left last night. Somewhere the center had a leaky pipe.
Another expense he didn’t have money for. Along with a new van and replacement glass for the broken rear windows. His list of expenses he couldn’t afford was growing as fast as that leak.
He supposed he could always charge the plumber on his personal card and put in for reimbursement when the center had money. But at this rate his “get reimbursed later” list would be the longest list of all.
Saving the world wasn’t supposed to be this expensive.
Sipping his cold coffee—everything in the center seemed to be cold these days—he turned away from the stain, back to the mish-mash of papers on his desk. Stacks of bills, receipts and forms warred for his attention.
Then there was Julia. The photo of his ex-fiancée beamed up at him from the newspaper. She certainly rebounded well after their break-up, or so it appeared by the way she clung to her current fiancé’s arm. The heir to a pharmaceutical fortune or something like that. Wealthy, a corporate success, socially prominent. Basically everything Oliver refused to be. The guy looked happy enough.
Never was good enough for you, was I?
Sometimes he wondered what life would be like if he had caved to Julia’s demands and taken a job with her father. He’d be senior vice president by now. He’d be driving a luxury sedan instead of a broken-down pickup.
He sure as
Welcome to wrong side of the tracks.
Pulling out her cell phone, she double-checked the meeting time on her calendar and noted she had, as usual, arrived early. Punctuality was something she prided herself on. It showed clients you considered their projects important and of high priority.
Except this wasn’t supposed to be her project, was it? She was supposed to handle the Remaillard aftershave launch. Remaillard was Rosenthal Public Relations’ biggest client and organizing a successful product launch would have virtually guaranteed Gill the new vice-president position.
Enter Stephanie DeWitt. Gill could still hear the mock apology Stephanie gave during this morning’s meeting. “I suggested to Elliot that you were the best person for the job.What with your family owning a Christmas tree farm and all.”
No, her brother-in-law owned the farm, Gill had wanted to scream. And Stephanie wanted the promotion as badly as she did. But Elliot Rosenthal had been right there, so she’d simply smiled graciously, seething inside.
So, while Stephanie took over the launch, with its big budget and luxury setting, Gill stood here, in the worst section of Boston, charged with throwing a kids’ Christmas party. Not just any Christmas party. A magical, stunning, media-attention-generating party with less than a month’s notice. Her only help was the center’s director. Some guy named Oliver Harrington.
Across the street, the store owner chased the teenagers away, hollering what she was pretty sure were obscenities in Spanish. The kids swore back, and one of them tossed an empty can into the street. The rattle echoed in the frigid air. Gill sighed.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Gillian McKenzie. So Stephanie had got the project she wanted? Big deal. Since when did she let a setback get in her way of success? She hadn’t become the youngest account supervisor in Rosenthal PR’s history for nothing. If she wanted something in this world, she had to make it happen. Let Stephanie have her aftershave launch. Gill would throw the best damn charity party Boston ever saw and make sure Elliot Rosenthal would have to promote her.
Confidence renewed, she yanked open the door. Oliver Harrington, look out. Gill McKenzie was here to make some Christmas magic.
A watched water spot never grows.
Oliver Harrington stared at the spot on the ceiling in hisoffice. It definitely looked bigger than when he’d left last night. Somewhere the center had a leaky pipe.
Another expense he didn’t have money for. Along with a new van and replacement glass for the broken rear windows. His list of expenses he couldn’t afford was growing as fast as that leak.
He supposed he could always charge the plumber on his personal card and put in for reimbursement when the center had money. But at this rate his “get reimbursed later” list would be the longest list of all.
Saving the world wasn’t supposed to be this expensive.
Sipping his cold coffee—everything in the center seemed to be cold these days—he turned away from the stain, back to the mish-mash of papers on his desk. Stacks of bills, receipts and forms warred for his attention.
Then there was Julia. The photo of his ex-fiancée beamed up at him from the newspaper. She certainly rebounded well after their break-up, or so it appeared by the way she clung to her current fiancé’s arm. The heir to a pharmaceutical fortune or something like that. Wealthy, a corporate success, socially prominent. Basically everything Oliver refused to be. The guy looked happy enough.
Never was good enough for you, was I?
Sometimes he wondered what life would be like if he had caved to Julia’s demands and taken a job with her father. He’d be senior vice president by now. He’d be driving a luxury sedan instead of a broken-down pickup.
He sure as
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