Page 35 of Is This for Real?
Rory is still talking with Bernie. Bernie has his back to the storyboards. Now that I see it, I can’t unsee it. I say to Rory, “Darling, I have to fix something.”
Rory looks confused.
I widen my eyes to signify “crisis.” “I’ll be a minute.”
I walk away, but then glance back. Rory has a puzzled expression on his face. I use our hand signal to point toward the sign. He shakes his head. He doesn’t see it. Bernie starts to turn around. I come back and gently place my hand on Bernie’s elbow to steer his vision away from the offending sight. Rory is still looking at the ad boards. He blanches. He talks earnestly to Bernie about the location scout results.
I rush over to the easel, pick it up, and move it closer to the rest of Disha’s campaign boards. Disha comes over.
“What are you doing?” Disha asks.
“Someone moved this away from the rest of your campaign.”
Disha shakes her head. “I told the waitstaff that these had to be together. They said something about the fire code, but my client interrupted me. Thanks for putting it back.” She flags down the head waiter and asks what the issue is. I help her set it up so it’s not blocking an emergency exit.
Rory comes over and puts his arm around me. “Thanks, Curls.” He frowns. “I need to change that slogan. Back to the drawing board. That’s not good. But I have to raise that sexual connotation to my boss.” He wrinkles his brow.
At that moment, Rory’s boss walks over and congratulates him on the campaign. Rory looks nervous and asks if they can speak in private. They go off to the side. His boss nods, says something, Rory bites his lip. Rory is talking, and the boss looks concerned. I probably look like some crazy, possessive girlfriend staring at them from the corner of the room, nursing my drink with its pink flamingo topper.
They approach Bernie. Rory smiles at me. It seems to be going okay.
Rory comes back to me. Apparently, the British office also commented that “All in” could mean “knackered,” so they’ll work up some new ad slogans. They still like the campaign itself. Bernie, however, doesn’t mind the sexual connotation of “All In, All Good.”
Rory is so relieved. “Freaking roller coaster of a night.”
I suddenly put my finger to my face to point out that Myrtle is approaching. I nearly poke out my own eye.
Rory stills. “Behind me?”
“Yes, about twenty seconds to touchdown.”
“Hopefully not literally.” Rory turns and puts his arm around me. He whispers, “Carissima, put your arm around me, and your hand needs to be playing defense.”
I put my arm around Rory and slide my hand into his rear pants pocket. Maybe that’s too constrained. Then it’s not free to swat any other hand away. Maybe my hand should be playing defense like a windshield wiper. I slide my hand across Rory’s butt.
Rory jerks his head in my direction. “What are you doing?”
“Windshield wiper defense?”
Rory snorts. “Let’s stick to in-the-pocket defense for now.”
Bernie joins us and says, “I still like ‘All in, all good.’”
“It’s always good to explore other options,” Myrtle says. “Although what I really love is the ad story. Was it your idea, Penelope?”
“No, definitely not,” I say.
“Just her influence,” Rory says. He did share his ideas for the campaign with me. Since he’d given it a romcom flavor, he wanted my “expert” opinion.
The lights dim for a few speeches. Rory gives a short one, and I feel like he’s looking at me for encouragement. He does well.
As people are gathering coats to leave, Disha comes over to invite us out dancing to celebrate with other colleagues. We pile into cabs and head Downtown to Lola’s Bar. It’s a casual place with a long, wooden, old-school-style bar and tables upstairs. A flight of carpeted stairs leads to a dance room in the basement, complete with a disco ball. We order drinks at the bar and take them downstairs.
The DJ is in a booth in the corner, and red, velvet banquettes line the walls with little, round tables in front of them. The club is packed with people who just want to dance and have a good time. The music ranges from the seventies to now.
At first, we’re dancing with his colleagues, but then we separate off. It’s just the two of us in our own groove, copying each other’s moves, finding our rhythm together, the music pulsating. His glance holds mine as I shimmy close to him, teasing. I step back. He follows. My shoulder tilts forward, holds it for the beat as his leans back, as if we are connected by a tight string.
A slow song comes on, and he pulls me close. My head rests against his chest, and I feel so protected in his arms.
