I’ll send details later. Travel safe.“Mom,” Peyton called from the other side of the bedroom door. “Mom…you still sleep? I gotta leave for school…its 7:30.”
Elle's eyes flashed open, the subtle stripes on the ceiling a blur.
“Mom,” Peyton said again, stretching out the word this time and increasing the decibels.
“I’m awake,” Elle groaned, dragging back from the throes of a dead sleep.
“It's 7:30 Mom…Bennie got a new car yesterday and he's picking me up.”
That last statement demanded Elle's attention and she bolted upright in bed, pulling the covers over her flimsy nightgown.
“Mom… I gotta go,” Peyton repeated. “Bennie's outside.”
“Wait,” she said, “come in here.”
The door opened and her son sauntered around to her side of the bed. “Why you still sleep?” he asked, making a face.
“What's this about Bennie picking you up?”
“He got a car.” Peyton's smooth, brown face lit up. “Bought it with the money he made over the summer. A classic Chevelle, Mom, on 22s!” Glancing at his cell phone, he said again, “I gotta go.” Then bending his long body forward, he kissed her on the forehead. “See ya Sunday,” he said, “no school tomorrow, Dad's picking me up, remember?” He paused, “or I might have Bennie take me.” Grinning wide, he headed for the door.
Elle knew Bennie all too well and the idea of him and a pseudo muscle car was not the least bit comforting. “Wait, can Bennie even drive?” she asked. “I’ve never heard you talk about him driving, or ever seen him behind a wheel.”
Peyton turned to face her, “C’mon, mom.” He rolled his eyes in a dramatic way, as if he knew everything and she knew very little. “He got a car…so obviously he can drive. I’ll text when I’m on the way to Dad's.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Elle said, resigned to allowing Bennie the opportunity to navigate the less than one mile ride to school. But no way was she rolling with the idea of Peyton traveling more than 60 minutes, in rush hour traffic, with another perpetually distracted sixteen-year-old in the midst of a fast-emerging Super-hero complex. She’d touch base with Olivier later this morning to make damn sure he was the one picking Peyton up when the school day ended.
It was Thursday, and the week had already been a thrill-ride of emotions — most especially the gut-wrenching break-up with Darien last night. Thank God, she’d made it to the bathroom before puking her intestines out, just in time to save her favorite pair of Jimmy Choo ballet flats, and the slightest trace of dignity. Once she’d expelled the mix of martinis and pulverized liver, her stomach settled and a measure of relief followed, at least in a physical sense.
While her relationship with Darien was officially over, the same was not true for her son. The two had forged a trusted bond over the years, and eventually the younger man would pick up on the other's absence. Yet Peyton could maintain the alliance, if he desired, without her direct involvement. Elle wasn’t sure how it would work, but she knew what her Mama would tell her, ‘Child, cross that bridge when you get to it.’
Right now, Elle's feelings were a churn of contradictions. Deep sorrow for the loss of a once-cherished relationship was evident, but the sadness was subdued by a heightened-sense of power and accomplishment. Awareness filled her, like never before, that she had full-command of her destiny.
She hauled herself from the calm and comfort of her bed and went to the kitchen to make cappuccino, looking forward to the taste of the sweet, brown coffee more than usual. Perhaps because it portrayed her life continuing in its normal, balanced flow.
In her home office now, she logged on to the computer and into her EGT email account, clicking on a note from Jade.. It included an attachment of the revised grant request, and a short list of candidates to lead TechGirlz. She placed them in an electronic folder titled ‘Win Plan.’
She scanned further for a response from Neville Powell. Her reply request of 48 hours would expire end of day, so there were just a few hours remaining. But if he thought her case was strong, he’d reply quickly, wouldn’t he? (The email had been confirmed as opened.) Anxious, she filtered again through the entire list of unread mail. Nothing. There was, however, a note from Trey Mathers, the COO she’d hosted in New York last week. It read. ‘Elle, received the numbers on the new agreement. Must say, the ROI looks outstanding. And I note the use of translation tools is included for one year, at no charge. Based on last night's board approval, you’ll be getting an order letter in a day or two. Thanks for your advocacy. Well done.’ Elle's mouth fell open and she burst into laughter, thrilled by the words on the screen. There was no way she’d expected the more than two million dollar order so quickly. “Wow,” she whispered, then wiggled a little dance in her chair. Remembering how the smug, boy-bitch had tried to sabotage her deal, she said “I won, muthafucka.” And took another moment to revel in the victory. But her eyes narrowed, as it occurred to her how much she hated (HATED!) that it was McKay who had been awarded the fat prize, the prize that should have been hers. “It ain’t over yet, Punk-ass,” she said. “Not just yet.”
She jotted a reply to Trey Mathers then checked the email string a third time, on the off chance that a note from Powell might actually be there. It wasn’t. For a moment, she couldn’t figure what was next; it seemed she might be forced to wait it out. And when it came to business, waiting was so NOT her thing. Then an ‘aha’. She hadn’t checked voicemail since yesterday morning, having spent the entire day battling uncut anxiety over her upcoming dinner with Darien. After pressing ‘speaker’ on the desk phone, she dialed a two-digit code. ‘You have…five new messages. Message one, from…312.’ Elle skipped ahead, wrong area code. ‘Message two, from…847.’ Skip! ‘Message three, from…212.’ Ah…New York! The message played. ‘Ms. Rollins, this is Sarah Burnham from Neville Powell's office. He received your email and asked me to add you to his calendar as soon as possible. He's traveling abroad, beginning next week, and won’t be available until November 17th. Please call 212… to confirm a date and time. Thank you.’ Elle didn’t hear the number; she was busy checking the calendar posted on the bulletin board above her desk. November 17th? What the fuck? That was almost six weeks out. There had to be a way to see him sooner, otherwise she’d lose her damn mind between now and then. Elle played the message again. ‘…He's traveling abroad beginning next week…’ She hung up and touched the call back key.
“Neville Powell's office.”
“Sarah Burnham, please.”
“This is she, with whom am I speaking?”
“Elle Rollins, returning your call.”
“Ms. Rollins. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly. Are you available on November 18th, 2 PM in Mr. Powell's office?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m not.” Elle shook her head while speaking. “Is there any opportunity to meet with Mr. Powell sooner?”
“I think not,” Ms. Burnham said. “His schedule is quite solid…but I’ll have a look.”
Elle waited a moment.
“I’m sorry Ms. Rollins…the only time available is tomorrow, 9:30 AM I’m sure that's too short a notice…”
“I’ll take it,” Elle said.
“Tomorrow, 9:30?” Ms. Burnham asked.
“Yes!”
“Very well…I’ll pencil you in.”
Elle hung up, her heart already racing, prompted just by the idea of meeting with Powell. Then she dialed the travel desk and asked for first-class, round-trip accommodations to New Castle, New York, departing Chicago this evening, and returning tomorrow afternoon. She also reserved a premier suite on corporate HQ grounds. There were eight such apartments within the New Castle compound, and they rivaled the finest New York City hotels. Each suite, named for a previous Eaton Global Tech CEO, COO or some other such luminary, boasted the latest amenities; 60-inch HD flat screens, ultra-high thread count bedding, and expert concierge at the ready. Only top executives from EGT's most eminent clients (those who perennially spent massive wads of cash) were permitted to occupy them. But Elle gave not one shit about that! She wasn’t gonna get up at the crack of dawn and drive, or ride, the almost two hours from NYC, nor was she planning to stay in one of the stark, dorm-like rooms slated for EGT employees. Over the course of her career, she’d spent dozens of nights in those dreary quarters tucked in the rear buildings of the compound. It was obvious why EGTers had, long ago, labeled the bevy of rooms, the Betty Ford Center. She’d check into one of the high-rollers suites (ostensibly for a client) and use the room herself.
Once the reservations were made, she shot a note to Liam from her personal email, confirming her meeting with Powell. Then she dialed Olivier and shared Bennie's good fortune. Of course, her son's father promised to arrive at Peyton's school early, squashing all other options for a ride to the suburbs.
Now it was time to tighten-up her win-plan and craft her pitch. For the next several hours, she painstakingly reviewed the documents in her tool kit, looking for anything and everything that would support her case. After making two sets of copies, and laying the originals aside, she used her favorite florescent blue highlighter to emphasize certain words, phrases and numbers on each copy. Then she sketched out her pitch, first the framework, and next the precise words she’d use during the presentation. A master at working a pitch and a room, Elle had often been the sole enthusiast amongst a swell of naysayers only to have nimbly edged the dissenters, one-by-one, to her way of thinking. But Powell was a horse of a different hue. No doubt a lawyer of consummate skills, he’d be interested in two things only; what are the facts, and why should he give a rat's ass?
Comfortable with her pitch, Elle pulled the papers together and placed them in the file. She’d review the presentation on the plane. And then practice it out loud, once she was settled in at the compound. The ‘out loud’ part was imperative because it was the only way to know whether the words fit together and audibly promoted understanding; or whether they distracted from the goal by banging up against one another.
Noticing it was already past noon, Elle felt the need to keep it moving. She grabbed her cell phone and began texting Kinte while feeling a tinge of disappointment about missing the chance to see him.
Babe… gotta cancel our workout for 2maro :( Need to be in New York in the AM.
Bummer. U gone all weekend?
Nope… back Friday late.
Cool, how bout u cum thru Sat for dinner? I’ll whip something up :)
Tickled, Elle laughed out loud. He’ll whip something up. But selling Kinte short was sheer folly, as he’d already proven to be more than she’d ever expected.
So she typed, Love 2!!
His reply, I’ll send details later. Travel safe.
Elle smiled, wondering what dinner might include while knowing exactly what she had a taste for.
Packing came next, and Elle walked towards her bedroom thinking how best to present herself for what was (hands down) the most decisive business meeting of her career. Her mind conjured what she wanted to wear, but it wasn’t in the closet. She glanced at the clock, checking to see if there was time to get to the city and back before the limo was scheduled to fetch her. It was a squeeze, but she opted to go for it. After showering and throwing on classic, comfy, traveling clothes; she jumped in her SUV and headed to one of the most exclusive boutiques in Chicago. Aptly situated on the corner of Michigan Ave and tony East Lake Shore Drive, the famous, high-priced shop had drawn her in before. But after perusing the exquisite garments, she’d left with only the smallest tokens; a boucle eyeglass case and a length of bronze chains. Grinning, Elle knew today would be different. She was determined to splurge on something that not only bolstered her personal power, but expressed her femininity in a bold way. While cruising up LSD towards the Magnificent Mile, she glowed, smitten by the prospect of owning, and rocking, her very first Chanel.