Page 15 of His Obsession
“I hadn’t considered that,” he says honestly.
I walk him through the logistics of the entrance. He listens intently, watching my pen as it moves over the access points. He isn’t just being polite, he’s genuinely paying attention.
When I finish, he says, “Then we move cocktails to the terrace.”
I glance at the terrace measurements. “Only if you want women in couture heels fighting the floor grates and older donors sweating through their jackets.”
He pauses, mulling this over. “So no terrace,” he confirms.
“No terrace.”
He nods once, as if filing it away. “Fine.”
That shouldn’t be as satisfying as it is, but I take the easy win. We go line by line after that, and exactly as expected, he is difficult.
He asks smart questions, but it’s clear he’s not the expert in event planning he’d like to believe. He has a vision of what he wants the night to look like, but not the knowledge to make it happen.
An hour in, we’re arguing over the catering schedule.
“We’ll have enough appetizers to keep people satisfied during the cocktail hour,” he says firmly.
“You’ll need more than five caterers,” I say, frustrated because we’ve been circling this point far longer than necessary.
“So we’ll hire more caterers.”
“You’ll be over budget for your staffing.”
“So we’ll just increase the budget.”
I look at him over the edge of the packet. “You realize that charity galas are meant to actually make money, right?”
“I’ll fund it myself.” He shrugs. “I’d rather have a full staff than hungry guests.”
I nod, even though internally I’m screaming.
He flips to the donor notes. “You separated top-tier guests.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because your biggest donors don’t want to mingle with the masses. If they have to wait in a single line or fight for a moment of attention, they’re going to throw hissy fits.”
He says nothing.
I lift a brow. “You know I’m right.”
He presses his lips together like the idea of agreeing with me might actually cause him pain.
“Also, your top donors will arrive late on purpose because they think being seen arriving matters more than arriving on time. If you want them handled smoothly, they need their own lane and a separate holding point before photos.”
Another hour in, I’m irritated enough to feel sharp around the edges, which is usually when I do my best work. He keeps pressing. I keep answering. When I think he’s wrong, I tell him so. When I think he’s right, I adjust. It should feel adversarial. Instead it feels like the kind of back-and-forth I rarely get with my clients.
That is probably why I lose my patience when he says, “If timing slips at the top, the whole evening falls apart.”
“That’s amateur thinking.”
Something dark and cool flashes in his expression. I continue before he can respond.
