“She’s in here,” I shout back, soaking up the puppy cuddles and affection given so freely.
Mrs. Winters pops her head around the door. “Oh, Roxy! I’ve told you to leave the designer alone.” She looks to the array of materials strewn across the floor. “I’ve tried all morning to keep her out of your hair, but she's a curious little thing who always has to be slap bang in the middle of mischief.”
“She’s gorgeous. What breed of dog is she?” Roxy’s soft fur tickles my cheek. I love how friendly she is with me. It’s heartwarming, and I wonder what it would be like to have my own pet one day.
Mrs. Winters walks further into the den. “She’s a Pomeranian, and with that pedigree, she thinks she’s the queen of the castle.” Slipping her hand into a tight pocket, she takes out a small brown nugget. “Come on, Roxy baby, let’s leave Romi to create a stunning show piece.”
The dog jumps from my lap and trots behind her owner, leaving me dazed with the pressure of a show piece interior.
Another few hours go by, and blanks are still shooting from my head. Damn, this shit is tricky. Well, I guess if it was easy, everyone would do it. I’m confident an amazing idea will pop up eventually, but that's the problem - I need it to blossom now.
I can see the potential of my business; I just need to stick with it and push through the uncomfortable times. Once I master the forced creative process, and stop doubting my ability, then I know I can make a successful living from interior design.
My knees are stiff from sitting crossed legged. I groan a little when I stand, tossing a navy sample on top of the pile. That’s enough self-torcher for one day. Maybe something will come to me when I’m not staring at these four walls.
My father wants me to attend a boring social event this evening. It’s the last thing I want to do when I should be focused on the Winters project. What father wants; father gets. I gave in to his request, even though I know he’ll introduce me to all the respectable wealthy men who are on the lookout for a young wife.
I choose a gold floor length dress from my collection and pin my hair up in a loose bun. There were times when I went to the salon and paid a makeup artist to help me prep, but these days, I tend to go low key. I flick through the internet on my cell phone during the entire cab ride. There are plenty of interior design collages and creative concepts, but still, none of them hit the nail on the head.
The cab pulls up in front of another prodigious hotel, with another fancy ballroom filled with pretentious guests, taking up another date on my calendar. Don’t these people have anything better to do with their time other than attend these events? I, on the other hand, have plenty of important tasks waiting to be completed. Seriously, this must be the twelfth boring ball this year, and the year is far from over.
A crowd gathers in the grand ballroom. I choose to keep to the edge, dodging dull conversations and absorbing the tacky gold frame around a beautiful piece of wall art. Then I see overdone, embellished light fixtures and shudder. Why on earth would the designer pair those together? It baffles me how the hotel agreed to pay the designer a big chunk of cash when it clearly looks amateur. I don’t mean to sound so scathing, but it really looks out of place in this already ornate space.
My usual daughterly duty for the night is to walk the floor, plaster on a smile and butter up the generous financial donors. I’ve done this same routine since I was a teenager. My father expects nothing less of his daughter than to socialize at these big events. I guess you could say I’m a trophy daughter who he wants to marry off as a trophy wife. These people are a bunch of elderly, stuck-up business tycoons who are not attractive, especially the watchful oil investors with wandering hands that need to be broken, finger by finger.
Instead of working the room, I decide to perch on a stool by the bar and sip a Cosmo. They can wait for a half hour before I fake the pizazz. I need a cocktail to help wind down and relax after my pressing day. I know if I excel at this project, then Mrs. Winters will recommend my work to all her friends. That's how these things work – by word of mouth.
After the Heartville project is finished, I don’t have anything else lined up, so I need to roll up my sleeves and put in one hundred percent of my time to make sure the den turns out epic.
My father appears behind me, leans in and kisses my cheek. “You look beautiful, darlin’. Come on over here and talk with this group. There’s plenty of time to be sitting around when you’re at home.” He pulls back before I get the chance to refuse. I bet my entire salary from the Winters’ project that we’re going to chat with his best friend and business partner, Jack. I swivel on the stool, reluctant, but still slip off and follow my father’s loud booming voice to a group of men.
“Jack, how are you, my friend.” Bingo. I won the bet. It’s Jack, my father’s business partner of nearly thirty years, and his ugly son, Allen. Life drains from my body when I see Allen’s smug face again. He hasn’t exactly fallen from the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. I mean, he is incredibly handsome, and to anyone who doesn’t know him, charming as well. What makes him unattractive to me, are his lies. This is the guy with a wandering dick, which let me add, is not spectacular and definitely dimensionally challenged.
Our parents have this warped fantasy that I’ll marry dickless Allen. Their dream almost became a reality. He’s my ex-fiancé. And a man I’ll never touch again, not even with a ten-foot pole.
After a few years of dating, Allen proposed during a holiday in Cabo. Back then, he was chivalrous and desirable. I fell for the idea of loving a man who I’d been brainwashed into thinking was my destiny. Mother and I chose a dreamy white dress, and the wedding planner organized an event fit for royalty.
A few minutes before I walked down the aisle, linking arms with my father, I rushed to the restroom because nerves always play havoc with the water works. My dress swooshed like a princess until I heard my prince’s voice behind a door. That same familiar voice groaned out a name that wasn’t mine. I pressed my ear to the door and heard a grunt, the same sex sound he always makes before he cums.
I opened the door. Yep, you guessed it. My fiancé had his mediocre dick in my, now ex-best friend, Rebecca’s pussy while she was bent over a utility cart. Dreamy scenario. I slammed the door and bolted for freedom.
He told everyone I got cold feet and ran from the altar. Which is why our parents continue to hope. I can’t tell them that Allen is a cheating prick because I have no proof, and they’ll think I’m being malicious now that he’s in a steady relationship with none other than Rebecca.
Once I passed thirty and failed to marry the wonderful catch that we know and despise as Allen, they began to panic about having a spinster for a daughter. If only they knew the humiliation and pain I’ve had to live through since that day. I was a fool who ran before showing my father the amazing Allen with his pants down screwing Becca. My instincts made me run from the devastation, to protect my heart and shame of not being good enough for a man.
“Hello, Mr. Caldwell, you’re looking great. So good to see you.” Allen shakes hands with my father, his face all smarmy and composed. Asshole. He turns to me. “Romi, you’re stunning as always.” He leans over and presses filthy lips to my cheek. I refrain from wiping the repulsive wet aftermath off my skin.