The Opposite of Me - Excerpt

Chapter 2

WHEN THE STRETCH LIMOUSINE glided to a stop outside our building forty minutes late, I hurried to the curb and pasted on a welcoming smile. I hoped I looked okay. I'd gone for a professional, no-nonsense vibe, which was lucky, since those were the only kinds of clothes my closet was capable of coughing up. I was wearing a classic black Armani pantsuit with an ivory silk shell and black sling-backs. My hair was pulled up into its usual twist, and my earrings were pearls encircled by tiny diamonds-a gift to myself for my twenty-ninth birthday last month. Boring, yes, but safe, too. I wanted my clients to be dazzled by my work, not me.

"Mr. Fenstermaker? So nice to meet you." I greeted the head of the Gloss empire like he was Prince William as he grunted and heaved his squatty body out of the limo.

"And this must be Mrs. Fenstermaker?"

As if I hadn't read a half dozen magazine profiles about the Fenstermakers and studied their pictures so carefully that I could ID them out of a lineup of thousands. He looked more like a meat butcher from Brooklyn than a multimillionaire purveyor of glamour, but his wife-make that his third wife-more than made up for it. She could double for a Bond villainess, the icy blond kind who could open a man's jugular with a single swipe of a nail. He shook my outstretched hand, and she swept by me with a nod, oversize Prada sunglasses firmly in place.

"I hope you didn't encounter much traffic on the drive in from the airport," I said as we entered the building, crossed the gleaming marble floors, and stepped into the elevator. He grunted again, and she didn't deign to answer. I hate awkward elevator silences, but apparently the Fenstermakers didn't share my bias, which meant elevator silence was my new bosom buddy.

"I'll be presenting our first campaign," I said as we stepped off the elevator. "We'll be joined by Mason Graham, our agency's president, whom you already know. But first, let me offer you a drink."

I led the Fenstermakers into our oval-shaped conference room, which has glass walls showcasing a gorgeous view of the city. Even though I've seen it countless times, it still takes my breath away. Directly below us were yellow cabs duking it out for lane space and globs of people buying hot, salty pretzels from street vendors and shouting into cell phones and ignoring traffic signals as they swarmed across the streets. Middle fingers were flying and tourists were snapping photos and pigeons were squawking and a crowd was gathered around two guys dressed in togas who were banging on overturned plastic buckets that substituted for drums. I'd heard them before; they were really good. If you squinted and looked farther north, you could just make out the green oasis of Central Park, filled with walking paths and dog parks and fountains and playgrounds and the best outdoor theater in the world. All of New York-the messy, pulsing, glorious city of possibilities-was at our feet. But the Fenstermakers didn't even look at the view. They'd probably had a better one on the way in from their private plane, the one I'd read was equipped with a massage table, a selection of rare single-malt scotches, and his-and-hers glass showers, each with six showerheads. Mrs. Fenstermaker had wanted a Jacuzzi, but the FAA told her the weight would endanger the plane. Apparently she'd reacted about as well as an overtired two-year-old to hearing the word no.

My storyboard and sample ad were still propped up on easels and covered with drape cloths, I was happy to see. I wouldn't have put it past Cheryl to steal my presentation props. Seriously; they'd gone missing a few years ago and I'd unearthed them in a Dumpster fifteen minutes before my presentation began. Cheryl blamed the maintenance man, but she'd smelled suspiciously like old eggs and wet newspapers. (Maybe I wouldn't have to check the "paranoid freak" personality box, after all. I could probably upgrade to the "anal-retentive, neurotic-celibate-workaholic" box. I'd better hire a bodyguard to ward off the men.)

"Espresso?" Mr. Fenstermaker grunted as he sat down.

I'd read that he was as miserly with his words as he was with his money, at least when it came to things other than his personal toys.