Page 6 of Forked (Frenched 2)
At this point, I experienced a frisson of doubt. I had faith in my ability to design an amazing event, but Angelina might be a difficult-to-please client with over-the-top taste. As if Mia was mind-melding me, which she sometimes did, her next text said,
4. SHE WILL CHANGE HER MIND EVERY FIVE MINUTES AND BLAME YOU FOR NOT KNOWING WHAT SHE WANTS.
My hand shook as I typed in the date on the contract. “Of course I will.” Crap. Maybe I should have asked what all she wanted before saying I’d do it, but it was too late now. “Shall we talk details?”
“Sure.”
“Venue?”
“Easy. My parents’ house. Outside on the lawn.” She gave me a tony address on Lake Shore Road and I wrote it down. It actually wasn’t too far from where my parents lived, which would be helpful. So far so good.
5. HER FATHER’S TRUNK IS PROBABLY FILLED WITH BODY PARTS OF EVENT PLANNERS WHO GOT THE DETAILS WRONG.
At this point, I turned my phone off and dropped it into my purse. “OK. I assume the yard is big enough for a couple tents?”
She stared at me. “Uh, yeah.”
Of course it was. At that address, you could probably set up the Ringling Brothers Circus on the front lawn, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that was on her list of requests. Grabbing my note pad and pen, I elbowed my laptop aside and glanced at the page with the real estate numbers on it. Suddenly they didn’t seem so depressing. Smiling, I flipped to the next blank page and jotted Spackatelli Party at the top. “All right, what else do you have in mind?”
“I want a champagne fountain, a big dance floor lit underneath by sparkly colored lights, a band and a DJ, fireworks, a ice sculpture of me and Lorenzo, and—”
“Wait a minute.” I held up one hand and paused my frantic note-taking. “You want an ice sculpture? In August?”
“Yeah. I saw it on Bridezillas once.”
God help me. “I’ll see what I can do. How about food?”
“Ciao Bella’s gonna cater dinner. The owner is a friend of my dad’s.”
“Great,” I said, relieved. “I’ve worked with them a lot. That makes it easy on me. Are they doing dessert too?”
“Yeah, they’re doing a cake and some pastry trays. I love those anus cookies they have there.” My pen froze mid-word, and I looked at her without raising my head. Had she said…anus cookies? I glanced over my shoulder toward the door, halfexpecting to see a cameraman there, filming us. This had to be a joke. “I’m sorry…what kind of cookies?”
She looked annoyed. “Anus or something? Or maybe it’s Annuss? I don’t know how you say it. But they’re really good. They taste kinda like licorice.”
“Oh, anise.” Relieved, I sucked my lips between my teeth so I wouldn’t laugh and lowered my chin in case my eyes gave me away. Fucking anus cookies. I couldn’t wait to tell Mia about that one.
We went over more details, including tables and chairs, flowers, bringing in the bar, hiring servers and bartenders, arranging for bathroom trailers, and we discussed a few local bands. To my relief, other than the ice sculpture and maybe the fireworks, nothing Angelina wanted seemed impossible, especially with her huge budget. Outlandish, maybe, but not impossible, especially once I explained to her that the city probably wouldn’t let her have caged tigers on the property (apparently her fiancé was a rabid Detroit Tigers fan). I held my breath as she took in the disappointment, but she handled the news OK. While she was there, I made some calls and was able to book vendors I knew and trusted for all rental items, a florist, and a DJ. We put in a call to the talent agent I used for live music, and touched base with the woman in charge of catering for Ciao Bella.
Holy shit, I might actually pull this off. A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth as I noted the vendor names on the contract. No, not might. I would absolutely pull this off by myself, and it would be fabulous. Huge without being impersonal. Fun without being tacky. Elegant without being stuffy. Mia would be proud of me, we were bound to get good buzz if this reality show took off, and with the estimated total cost—at which Angelina didn’t even bat a fake eyelash—I’d make enough money to put ten percent down on the house. I could make an offer next week, even.
See? Stop worrying. This was all meant to happen.
It’s fate.
And then.
“Oh! I almost forgot. I want that Italian chef, Nick Lupo, to do burgers at midnight,” announced Angelina. “Right after the fireworks.”
The floor dropped a few feet, or maybe it was my stomach. I gripped the edge of my desk. “What did you say?”
“I want that Italian guy. You know, the one who won first place on that reality show about hot chefs last year, Lick My Plate? He’s from here and he has a restaurant downtown called The Burger Bar. He’s there like every night. I saw him in there this week.”
“Yes, I know who he is. I just…” Haven’t seen him since he snuck out of our hotel room in Vegas seven years ago. “…think he might be difficult to get.”
Angelina blink
ed at me. “Why?”
