Slave to Love - Julie A. Richman Page 0,2

love the sales reps out there and our clients are to-die-for awesome. We provide outsourced services to all the major movie studios and a prestigious array of Silicon Valley companies and Napa/Sonoma wineries. I have just landed a big fat slice of heaven.

“You love Pinot Noir.” I smile at Cuntessa as I reference the wine coming out of Oregon.

Her expression is less than friendly.

After three hours, Angela has lunch brought in for us as we continue to review accounts and quarterly projections. Cuntessa is still sulking over California and giving her best shot to wear down Kemp for at least San Francisco, as he attempts to eat a corned beef on rye. As I finish my sandwich, Angela places a steaming cup of hot dark roast coffee in front of me.

“I love you hard.”

“Is this your first of the day?” she whispers discreetly.

She’s surprised when I nod, then turns to Kemp, “Shall I make dinner reservations for all of us at the Old Homestead?” It’s his favorite ‘Old Boys’ Club’ steakhouse.

“I won’t be joining you.” Everyone turns toward him in surprise, he never blows off staff dinners when the whole crew is in town. “And I’ll be needing these two for drinks,” he points to me and Susan, “but they’ll be back with the rest of you for dinner.”

Generally, he does private sessions with me and Cuntessa that don’t include the remainder of his directs. I assume we’re going to get some dirt on his last conversation with the nut job, Laura, that he just canned, as well as some inside scoop on what’s going on with top brass.

Kemp McCoy is on the fast-track for a top executive spot, and Susan Smith has made a near full-time job of trying to marginalize me and my team’s success so that she becomes the heir apparent to his current position. One small problem for Susan and her minions – my team has taken the number one spot three years running, so she resorts to backstabbing, and commenting on my skirts and high heels, tits and nipples, to try and diminish me and my success.

My answer to her, go sell something, bitch. (Or “Did you and Hillary Clinton coordinate on pants suits and shoes again today?”)

We wrap up at 5:30 and my brain is mush.

“Do I have time to go back to my hotel or are we going straight out?” I ask Kemp.

He looks at his watch. “You have time to go to the bathroom. Hurry.”

Sitting in a cab in rush hour traffic, I watch the wilting people walk the stewing sidewalks of Madison Avenue and I’m profusely thanking the cab gods that the one we hailed actually has air conditioning, because there’s way too much body heat being squished in the back of a cab with two other people on a June afternoon.

“Are we meeting someone?” I wonder if we are since he hasn’t given us any prep information.

“You’ll see,” is the odd response I get.

Cuntessa finally asks, “Where are we going?’

“That I will tell you. The St. Regis.”

“The St. Regis Hotel?” her voice rises an octave.

“The bar,” Kemp clarifies.

I look at him, wondering who we are meeting at the King Cole Salon, the St. Regis’ famed bar. I silently snicker thinking it’s more of an infamous bar in my case, as my dating past includes the bar manager from when I was living in New York in my early twenties. Lesson learned from that relationship – if a guy tells you he has a history of commitment issues – believe him. No, you are not special. No, your relationship isn’t different. He’s got commitment problems. Believe him and run, if commitment is what you seek. Do not get attached to a man with commitment issues.

I’m smiling as the bellman escorts me out of the cab. The St. Regis is truly one of the grande dames of old New York. I am lost to visions of boyfriends past and hot, passionate kisses against walls, and champagne splashed on my body, while lying on the bar long after the last patron has gone for the evening.

Before we enter, Kemp stops us. “Okay, I don’t want you two to go crazy, but drinks tonight are with Hale Lundström.”

“Oh my God.” Susan locks my upper arm in a death grip that I’m sure will leave nasty purple bruises.

I’m clueless, looking from Cuntessa to Kemp and down to what is surely going to be a bruised biceps. “Who’s Hale Lundström?”

“You’re not serious?” I can tell Kemp