From: HRManagement@CrispyKoob.com
To: Undisclosed Recipient
Subject: Corporate Retreat 25th and 26th of July
Dear Employees,
Crispy Koob Corporation is glad to announce the upcoming yearly Corporate Retreat. As we are celebrating our fiftieth year in business, we are happy to announce that this year we will be hosting a special two-day event at the Hilton Chicago Indian Lakes Resort. All full-time staff members and their families are invited.
This special weekend will be a unique opportunity to unwind after our busiest year so far and enjoy the company of fellow employees outside the office blah, blah, blah…
Participation, albeit not compulsory, is strongly recommended for all employees.
Dress code is semiformal for Saturday and Sunday morning, sportswear for Saturday afternoon, and formal for Saturday night’s Gala.
Schedule
The first business session begins promptly at 9:00 a.m. on Saturday with a continental breakfast available beforehand. The program ends at 5:00 p.m. on Sunday.
Registration
You can register directly blah, blah, blah. Online registration will close on Monday, July 22.
Meals and Lodging
Blah, blah, blah…
Directions
The Resort is located approximately half an hour’s drive west of Chicago. Follow I-290 W to Bloomingdale, then take exit 7…
The email continues with a list of directions I won’t need, as per my Prius’s built-in navigator.
The Corporate Retreat. I completely forgot it was coming up. Will Vanessa come with James? If she does, I’ll be in the same place as James for two whole days. I didn’t expect it so soon, but what better occasion to find out what he’s hiding?
On the other hand, I hope they’re not too cute and cuddly when Vanessa’s parents are not there. I don’t think I could stand it! It could be either the perfect opportunity, or a recipe for disaster.
I need to clear my head. I’m still wrecked from the weekend. Housekeeping is an exhausting job; last night we didn’t get home until after ten. In fact, after serving dinner on Saturday evening we discovered that the maid job was a two-day engagement. We were lodged in the servants’ quarters (not joking) for the night, and had to attend to the pretty family for Sunday brunch. Unfortunately, nobody had anything interesting to think about for the whole time, and they all left as soon as the meal was over.
We weren’t so lucky. Miranda the Plump didn’t let us go until the whole house was pristine and every little piece of flatware, glass, and linen was perfectly clean and back in its rightful cupboard or closet. After that, once we got finally home, I spent half of the night mulling over Saturday’s dinner, wondering if James still loves me and why Mr. Van Horn is so sure that he doesn’t love his daughter.
I’ve never been so tired in my entire life; the only hope lies in coffee. I’m glad my company fully understands the link between good coffee and employees’ performance, ensuring staff members never lack their needed dose of caffeine by offering complementary Starbucks in the office kitchenette, which is where I am headed right now.
Pouring the dark, hot liquid and inhaling its rich scent makes me feel better already. I lean against the countertop and relish the strong taste of my get-up-and-go elixir, closing my eyes. Mmm, I needed five minutes of peace.
“Excited about the retreat?” Vanessa’s voice snaps me out of my little serenity corner.
She startles me so much that I spill the precious beverage all over the place, luckily missing my body, or I’d be in for third-degree burns by now.
“Um, yeah, sure,” I reply distractedly while wiping the mess I created—or should I say that she created—with a paper napkin. Did she follow me here? I turn around, decided to find out immediately.
I wonder how she will cope with two days of seeing James and me together.
That answers my question; she came here on purpose and to brag. Is she the only one who didn’t notice something is terribly wrong in her so-called love story with my James?
“Will you bring someone?” she asks casually.
I bet she’ll come alone, single and pathetic.
All the sympathy I may have had for her after meeting her mother vaporizes faster than a vampire who has met the sun, along with any idea I had of losing her a few of the pounds I’ve given her. Nope, she’s keeping all fifteen of them.
“Yeah, I’ll bring my boyfriend.” The lie escapes my lips before I can think about what I’m saying.
A boyfriend? She just made it up. Even more pathetic.
“I didn’t know you were seeing somebody. What is the lucky gentlemen’s name?” she asks instead.
“Arthur.” Again, words seem to be coming out of my mouth of their own volition. But the look on the genie’s face is priceless; he’s here but invisible, still coming to work with me every day and following me around.
“Arthur what?” she asks rather rudely.
“Uh, hmm…P…Pemberley.” Did I just name the genie after Mr. Darcy’s house? I was never good at thinking on my feet, and I guess the only British name my brain could associate with the letter P was Pemberley. I’m going to strangle him for not telling me his real surname.
“Pemberley? It sounds familiar, where have I heard it before?”
Only in Jane Austen’s most famous novel, you ignorant cow.
“Well, enjoy your coffee,” she adds. “I can’t wait to meet this Arthur beau of yours.” If he exists. “Ciao.”
Needless to say, my quiet, relaxed moment is irremediably disrupted.
“May I inquire what came—” The genie tries to ask me something, probably an explanation for the recent turn of events.
“No.” I cut him short. “I need to think.” I don’t have any explanations to give; I need to form some of my own first.
What now? There’s no going back. I sit at my desk, follow the registration link on the email, and fill out the registration form for two guests. I will not give Vanessa the satisfaction of turning up alone. The genie will have to come with me to the retreat as my boyfriend; at least he won’t have to be a girl this time.
Right, I need to cook up a romantic version of our usual story. I’ll keep it basic. The best way to go undercover is to stick to reality as much as possible. I’ve watched my fair share of spy flicks.
Past history: we met in England all those years ago.
Recent history: he moved to Chicago a few months ago and we fell madly in love.
Yes, it will do; by now we know each other well enough to sustain a two-day farce. I’ll just have to pinpoint some details. This could actually be a great idea. Good job, brain! I’m going to make sure he’s the most attractive man at the party. Vanessa will drool over him if it is the last thing I do, and James will be sick with jealousy.
“Let’s go,” I mouth as soon as the clock strikes five p.m.
“And where is it we are going?” he asks once we are in the street.
“To buy you some expensive trinkets.”
“Who am I to complain?” he enthuses. “May I ask why?”
“If we’re going to do this, I need to bling you up,” I reply, pushing my way into Tourneau.
It’s the day before the retreat. I’ve kept a low profile in the past two weeks and nothing relevant has happened. I’ve bought loads of expensive clothes and accessories to transform the genie into the perfect, rich, and absolutely enviable boyfriend, planning the weekend’s outfits to the last detail. Our bags are packed, and I only have one final test before I declare us ready for the retreat.
“Read it and memorize it,” I tell the genie, handing him a piece of paper and interrupting his newspaper-reading session.
“What is this?” he asks, reluctantly putting down the Chicago Tribune.
“A list of basic stuff a boyfriend should know about me.”
“I am pretty sure no one is going to ask me your favorite brand of tampons,” he comments after quickly scanning the list.
“You never know, we’d better be thorough. Tomorrow you’ll have to play your part to perfection. You should get started on it. Let me know when you feel confident enough.”
While he’s studying, my phone blips, and I quickly look at it.
Brooke: Are u free this we?
Ally: Rain check, corporate retreat! Bitch coming with J.
Brooke: U going?!
Ally: Yep!
Brooke: Alone?
Ally: No, Arthur coming as fake boyfriend.
We chat in quick sequence, but after my latest text the “typing” icon appears by her name and then disappears, only to come back a few moments later. I guess she wrote something, then changed her mind and decided to go with something different.
Brooke: Fake? U sure?
Ally: 100%, He’s only doing me a favor.
Brooke: Sleeping arrangements?
I’m not dignifying that question.
“I think I pretty much have it,” the genie says as I press send.
“Just a second.” I hold up a finger to silence him and finish my chat.
Brooke texts to call her as soon as I get back. I promise to, say bye, and focus on the genie.
“You’ve already memorized all of it?” I ask. “In only thirty minutes. Are you sure?”
“I am,” he replies, confident.
“Okay, let’s test you, then.” I smile devilishly, snatching the sheet of paper from his hands. “What is my middle name?”
“Rose.”
“When was I born?”
“November 22.”
“Where is my hometown?”
“Lake Forest, Illinois.”
“What are my allergies?”
“Anthony Johnson,” he says on autopilot. “Wait, you changed the order,” he adds, realizing his mistake.
“You can’t simply memorize the list in its precise order. You need to be able to randomly access all the information in here,” I say, tapping the paper lightly.
“You are allergic to bees.”
He’s challenging me. Very well, game on.
“Father’s name?”
“Anthony Johnson.”
“Mother’s name?”
“Lily Cooper.”
“Siblings?”
“No.”
“How many kids do I want?”
“Three. Two boys and a girl.”
“Favorite movie?”
“How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days.”
“Favorite food?”
“Breakfast food in general, croissants, and pizza.”
“Favorite ice cream flavors?”
“Pistachio and yogurt.”
“Favorite drink?”
“Lemon drop martini.”
“Favorite perfume?”
“Light blue, Dolce and Gabbana.”
I shoot one question after the other, but there is no tricking him. He gets correct my job, college, all the names of my friends and of a few cousins, my dream vacation destination (Italy), favorite pet (Sugar, that was easy), and favorite TV shows, songs, and books (I don’t have an absolute number one). I have only two questions left.
“What was my nickname in high school?”
“Ally Jelly.”
I wait a while to see if he’ll ask me why.
“But we do not talk about it,” he adds, reciting my side annotation.
“Good,” I comment. “And finally, what are my lingerie sizes?”
“A small for panties,” he says, blushing slightly, “and a thirty-four B for bras.” His cheeks turn a deeper shade of scarlet.
“Good job, Genie! I think we’re ready.” I exclaim, getting up from the couch to go to bed.
“Should you not learn the same things about me?” he asks, not moving from his position on the armchair.
“I made up all the lies about your life. I’m sure I have it under control.”
“I think we had better be thorough. After all, tomorrow you will have to play your part to perfection as well.” He annoyingly mirrors my speech word for word.
“Okay,” I concede, flipping the paper to write on the other side and sagging back on the couch. “I’ll ask you the same questions.” This could turn out as a good opportunity to finally gain some information about him.
“Do you have a middle name?” I start.
“No.”
“I know your birthday is the twenty-ninth of March, we say my same year, and you were born in London.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised. “Where then?”
“Nantes.”
“You are French?”
“By part of Mother.”
“What was her name?”
“Konstanza.”
“Beautiful,” I comment. “Surname?” I ask, uncertain.
“Invent one.”
“I don’t know any French surnames, you tell me.”
“Breizh.”
“Doesn’t sound that French. Father’s name?”
“Geoffrey.”
“The surname is going to be Pemberley as yours, of course. Siblings?”
“I had three sisters, but they all passed a long time ago. You would not want to include them in your report.”
“I’m sorry, Genie.”
“Don’t be. I’ve had centuries to overcome my grief.”
“Allergies? Phobias?” I try to continue as neutrally as possible. I write everything down nonetheless for a thorough follow-up Google search.
“No.”
“How do you like coffee?”
“I prefer tea. I take it with lemon, no milk, no sugar.”
“Ah, there. You are English after all,” I comment, still writing.
“Favorite drink?”
“Scotch.”
“Ewww. Favorite food?”
“Steak.”
“How manly of you.”
We reuse the information we already fabricated for studies and work, and choose some believable items for books, music, and motion pictures.
“Genie, one last thing,” I suddenly worry.
“Yes?”
“Do you have any documents?”
“What kind of documents?”
“Like identification papers—they will ask for them tomorrow at the hotel.”
“I should have my calling cards in my coat.”
Calling cards?
“Um, no,” I say, mildly amused. “We’ll need something more official, like a passport.”
“I am afraid I do not possess such a thing.”
“But can you make a fake one?”
“I believe so, if you show me how it looks.”
ID forgery, what’s next?
Half an hour later we have a complete set of forged papers: British passport, Illinois driving license, and a green card. You know, just in case.