Not So Perfect: Greta Goodwin

By Regina Stewart

What happens when a free-spirited young advertising rep gets handed the job of a lifetime—for an attractive entrepreneur she’s very interested in? Can she meet his demands for an eye-catching advertising campaign while avoiding personal entanglement? And what’s she to do about solving everyone else’s problems while her world is in chaos?

Inexperienced ad rep Greta Goodwin dreams of making a name for herself in the cutthroat world of advertising—a dream that may be difficult to achieve, given that no one takes her seriously due to her penchant for eccentric clothing. However, when choice client Simon Wright—who also happens to be drop-dead gorgeous—is unsatisfied with snooty Mae Egan’s proposed elitist ad campaign for his casual British-style teahouse, Greta’s agency is given one final chance to make amends…and Greta is tapped for the job.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Regina Stewart
• Release date: Oct 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540176783

Regina Stewart

Regina Stewart’s love for reading fiction is the reason she pursued a career as a librarian. After obtaining a Master of Library and Information Science from Saint John’s University, she worked as a school librarian and public librarian serving children, teens and adults. When she is not writing the sequel to Not So Perfect she spends her time with her family and friends. She loves traveling and meeting people from around the world.

Book preview

For My Mother

A Perfect Mom

Chapter 1

Hell!

I roll out of bed and run to the bathroom, stripping my pajamas off as I go. I must have forgotten to set my alarm last night, and now I’m going to be late for work. This is not like college, where you could stroll into class a little late. There are real consequences: loss of pay, bad review, or even being fired; just for being an hour late. It’s so unfair, but I’m determined to be at work on time.

I’m going to be the best little employee the company ever had, and I’ll come up with the most brilliant advertising campaigns. I may even get a promotion with a fancy title such as, Greta Goodwin, Vice-President, of Cohen Advertising Company. Yes! I like how that sounds. Or maybe just G. Goodwin, Executive Vice-President—yes, that sounds even better.

Quickly, I shower and try to wash the kinky frizz out of my hair. Eliza my best friend, told me of this great new product that’s supposed to eliminate frizz. So I bought the shampoo and the leave-in conditioner. It’s been working a little; I guess my hair is not as frizzy. After all, it says on the bottle transforms frizzy hair into sexy, shiny, silky curls. It must be a good product; because it came from France, and the French always has great-looking hair. Besides, it was extremely expensive so it must be a great product.

Dressed in my skinny jeans and a new white vintage blouse from my favorite store, Secrets of the Past, I eye my shoes tossed in a corner by the door and consider which ones to wear. The comfortable worn sneakers are calling out to me, but I want to get a promotion, so I slip on my four-inch blue sandals with big, daisies at the toes.

Giving myself one last glance in the mirror, I flatten down my hair, hoping the frizz spray keeps my hair smooth. With very little frizz, I grab my tote bag and head out of my studio apartment to walk to the nearest Starbucks.

––––––––

Tall coffee, with room for milk, I say cheerfully to the boy behind the counter.

I take out my wallet to see if I’ve enough money for a blueberry muffin. Unfortunately, I left most of my money home. Probably for the best, I don’t need the extra calories. 

He hands me the coffee, and I go to the confectionery stand for some milk. I pour a little in, then add a little more for good measure. I turn around too quickly on those blasted four-inch heels and knocking into someone; this causes me to slip and fall down hard on my ass. My coffee spills all over my white blouse, leaving a big brown stain, and now I have a very sore butt. Great! Everyone is gawking at me; they must be thinking what a stupid, pathetic klutz I am.

The person I knocked into stares down at me with the biggest blue eyes, the color of the Caribbean ocean. Not that I’ve ever been to the Caribbean ocean, but I’ve seen pictures. He’s gorgeous, over six feet tall, with dark, unruly brown hair, almost black in color.

Are you okay? At first, I think gorgeous guy is asking, but it’s a woman getting a straw for her latte. As she helps me up, gorgeous guy walks out.

Well, hello to you too; thanks for not helping me up. That’s what I want to yell after him but he is already out the door.

Chapter 2

Just as I walk out of Starbucks it starts to rain, and not a little drizzle–the kind of downpour that comes out of nowhere where the sky turns black and buckets of water flood the streets. I take a deep breath. I hate rain, and to top it off; I don’t have an umbrella. Why does it always have to rain at the most inconvenient moments? Not that there is ever a convenient moment.

When I finally stumble into the Cohen Advertising Agency, my clothes are soaked, my feet are sore from jumping over large puddles in the four-inch daisy sandals, and my red hair looks like a wet sponge that needs to be wrung out.

Greta, there you are.

I turn around, knowing that voice: Mae. Obnoxious Mae Egan, who for fun enjoys embarrassing me whenever she has an opportunity. Mae always has her bluish-black hair smooth and silky in a perfect chin-length bob cut. She’s now sporting a perfect tan after spending a week in Cancun. I’d like to spend a week in Cancun, but with my skin I’ll just burn and come back looking like tomato. Oh, why was I not born with skin that tans?

Greta! Oh, you look...well, like you. Mae puts her nose in the air as if smelling the fish at the South Street Seaport. Well, anyway go make some coffee and bring it into the conference room. We are meeting with a potential client—a very important client, so don’t fuck up. Looking me up and down, she adds, And for God’s sake do something about your appearance.

I sigh, as Mae turns around gracefully on her six-inch stilettos and walks away with her nose in the air.

After making a pot of coffee, I go to the restroom. As I gaze at my reflection in the mirror, I think Mae is right. My mascara is running down my cheeks and my red hair is starting to dry into a frizz, which makes me look like Bozo the clown. I quickly splash water on my face and wipe away the black streaks with a paper towel before reapplying my mascara. I try to smooth down my hair unfortunately the Bozo look remains. Luckily, I always carry in my purse a hair-tie, so I pull it up in a high ponytail. Now I look childish, but at least the ponytail helps reduce the Bozo red frizz look.

I can’t do anything about the big brown coffee stain all over my new vintage white blouse. I love that blouse. I remember the day I bought it; Tabitha, who owns Secrets of the Past, agreed that the blouse was made for me. Of course, the blouse was made in the fifties, and I wasn’t born until the nineties. But somehow the designer foresaw that a woman in the twenty-first century would be perfect for the blouse.

A small gasp escapes me as I enter the conference room. I almost drop the tray I’m carrying. Standing there talking to Fred Cohen, my boss, is the gorgeous guy from Starbucks. Mae is already sitting, looking elegant and business-like at the conference table, along with Patrick and Kevin, the two other advertising agents.

Ah, Greta there you are, Mr. Cohen says, looking over at me as I try to balance the tray. This is Simon Wright, founder of Wright Tea. He wants to open a Wright Teahouse in New York City, and wants us to come up with advertisements for newspapers, magazines and maybe in the future a commercial.

Oh! I say, looking at gorgeous guy who gives a smile that curls up on one side of his face, telling me he recognizes me from Starbucks. I quickly look down, embarrassed at the coffee stain on my blouse. After all, the last time he saw me; I was on the floor with a sore butt, coffee running down my blouse.

Simon takes a seat at the conference table, leaving a chair vacant between him and Mae. Mae gives Simon a little smile and slides across into the once-vacant chair. What is she up to?

Greta. I look up at Mr. Cohen. Please pour us some coffee.

Would you like some coffee, Mr. Wright? I ask, trying to give my most friendly smile. Simon Wright looks to be in his late twenties, and I begin to wonder how he became so successful at his age. Successful and gorgeous, and I’m sure he’s rich. After all, he owns Wright Tea, and is opening more teahouses–he must be rich. That must be the reason Mae is cozying up to him.

Yes, thank you, I didn’t have my coffee this morning. There was a little commotion at Starbucks.

He has a sexy English accent and big impish grin on his face. I quickly look away from him. I feel my cheeks heat up; they must have turned several shades red from embarrassment and now are the color of my hair.

Okay his image of me is a klutz; well, many smart, talented people are klutzes. I just can’t think of any at the moment.

I pour everyone at the table a cup of coffee before I sit down on the opposite side of the table, next to Patrick. I have a rush of relief that I did not spill the coffee. Maybe Simon Wright doesn’t think of me as a klutz anymore. Yes, I’m a professional advertising assistant, no reason for him to think any different.

Mr. Wright, why don’t you tell us about Wright Tea, so we can get an idea what would be the best way to advertise, Mr. Cohen is saying.

Yes, clearing his throat, he begins. I just love his English accent. It sounds so proper and playfully sexy. Can you be proper and playfully sexy at the same time? Yes, you can.

Wright Tea is a teahouse in England. You order a specific flavor of tea, and we also sell biscuits and crisps. It’s the Starbucks of tea. He emphasizes the word Starbucks and looks at me. We sell thirty different types of tea, from the traditional breakfast tea to chocolate mint tea. People will come in before work for their morning tea, or meet friends after work for tea and gossip about their day. Aside from opening a teahouse in New York, I’m also thinking of expanding and sell Wright Tea in the supermarkets.

As I listen to Simon Wright’s charming English accent I’m also being mesmerized into a trance by his ocean-blue eyes. I could almost imagine us sitting together in a Wright Teahouse in the Caribbean after enjoying a day at the beach together. A private beach where we could skinny-dip and then make love in the sand.

Okay, says Mr. Cohen, interrupting my daydream. Does anyone have any ideas what direction we should go?

I think, Mae says with a little flirt in her voice and leaning toward him. Mae is coming on to Simon Wright. She shouldn’t do that; it’s...it’s...it is not professional. I’m sure Simon Wright is too smart to be taken in by Mae’s charms. The advertising should be upscale, high society. People sitting around drinking their tea, as if they were at an old-fashioned garden tea party.

Maybe we can get some celebrities to do the advertisement, like George Clooney, or Pierce Brosnan, Patrick adds with enthusiasm.

Kevin nods in agreement. "Or that guy from the Twilight movies, you know, that vampire Robert Pattinson."

Why don’t we just get Harry Potter? He’s a fictional character, but Harry is English, right, not just a wizard? We’ll get some kid to dress up as Harry Potter drinking tea with all his friends. Patrick is smiling, and I’m not sure if he’s serious or just joking around.

Grow up, you two, Mae snaps, giving Kevin and Patrick a stern look, as if she’s their teacher, and they just disrupted her class.

What do you think, Greta? Simon asks, looking me straight in the eye.

Simon Wright is actually asking my opinion. Everyone turns to look at me. Mae’s mouth opens in disbelief before she flashes me a look that says I’d better agree with her idea. Well, why shouldn’t he ask my opinion? I’m a crucial part of this team, even though I’m only an advertising assistant and not some fancier title.

I...I... I begin to say I love Mae’s idea, but I hate Mae’s idea. It’s all-wrong for Wright Tea. Everyone is now looking at me, waiting for me to agree with Mae. I think the tea party is a good idea, I say slowly. But ordinary people with ordinary lives drink tea too. Then I add in a very low voice, What I’m trying to say is maybe the advertising shouldn’t be so snobbish.

Snobbish, Mae shouts. Don’t be ridiculous.

Well, Simon turns to Mr. Cohen, why don’t you have your team work on an idea. We’ll meet a week from Monday, and I’ll see what you have.

Mr. Cohen exhales a deep breath of relief before he says, Yes, of course, Mr. Wright.

What the fuck, are you doing? Mae yells at me as soon as Mr. Cohen and Simon walk out of the conference room and head to the elevator. Do you want to lose this account? Mae’s face is dark with fury. If she weren’t so tan, I’m sure she would turn red, showing that she is really a little red she-devil. I want to yell back at her but only sink lower in my chair.

I just think it’s wrong. You’re limiting the consumers to only the wealthy.

Even I can hear how sheepish my voice sounds. Note to self: if I want a promotion, I need to be more assertive. Yes, I’ll work on being more assertive, and then everyone will marvel at my brilliant ideas. Perhaps I should stop by the bookstore and buy some self-help books.

Nonsense, she says as if I’m a complete idiot. If you know anything about advertising, people want to be wealthy, live the lives of the rich and famous. Not everyone can do that, but they’ll feel they are when they go to a Wright Teahouse.

I just think... I begin to say, but Mae cuts me off.

And what do you know of wealth or class? You buy your clothes at a second-hand thrift store. She looks me up and down with disgust and then her eyes focus on the big coffee stain, and she gives a little laugh.

My clothes are vintage, I protest.

Whatever! They were still worn by someone before you, and you look like a hippie moonchild playing dress-up from her grandmother’s attic.

Mae storms toward the door, but before she leaves, she turns and says with her coldest smile, Don’t ever disagree with me in front of a client again, or I’ll make sure you’re fired and tossed out onto the street. You and your hand-me-down clothes will never work in advertising again. Then she struts out of the conference room on her skyscraper heels with her nose in the air.

With Hurricane Mae gone, Patrick and Kevin turn their attention to me. Well, that was a nice cat fight. I’m looking forward to the second round, Patrick laughs.

Kevin pipes up with a devilish smile. Yeah, my money is on you, Greta. Mae won this battle, but the war is not over.

I just skulk out the door with my head down in shame.

Chapter 3

Just before five I receive a text from Eliza.

Do you want to have a drink?

I send a quick text back: 

Definitely, I really need one.

A moment later my phone pings with a reply:

Why? What happened?

I take a sip of my coffee that turned cold and type off another text:

I’ll tell you over drinks tonight.

Eliza immediately texts back:

How about 5:30 @ Louie’s?

Looking down at my coffee-stained blouse, and running a hand through my tangled, frizzy hair, I sigh deeply and text back:

I want to go home and change. I’ll meet u @ 6:30.

Eliza Sullivan and I met at freshman orientation six years ago at Hunter College, and became best friends immediately. Eliza is an accountant now and working for some prestigious financial brokerage. It sounds stodgy to me, but she seems to like it.

We had so much fun in college; going to nightclubs and all the college parties. One day, Eliza was so sick with a hangover she ended up throwing up all over our history teacher’s shoes in class the next day. It was the best part of the class; I really wasn’t interested in some battle that happened four hundred years ago. Or was I the one who threw up on his shoes? I really can’t remember. Maybe that’s the reason I received a D for a grade. Anyway, I don’t think I deserved a D for having a hangover in class. What was that teacher’s name? Dr. Rosen, Dr. Really–whatever his name was; he definitely disliked me.

At 6:40, I walk into Louie’s in a clean blouse from the forties, with buttons down the back, and my comfortable worn sneakers. Those daisy sandals really hurt my feet, and now I have a couple of blisters.

I spot Eliza sipping a glass of white wine at the bar. Eliza is looking businesslike in a boring professional blue suit with her blonde hair pinned up in an elaborate twist. How does she do that twisty thing? I tried doing it once, but it seemed to go in all different directions, and I looked like a punk rocker having a bad hair day. Note to self: learn how to do updos. Maybe there is a video on YouTube.

Greta. Eliza waves me over. Two guys are flirting with Eliza. I walk up to the bar. This is Brian and Todd, Eliza says, nodding to the two guys in identical blue pinstripe suits. It’s almost like they’re wearing a school uniform. Yes, the corporate world all thinks they’re in a private high school and have to all look alike. How dull and boring.

What are you drinking? Brian or Todd asks.

Strawberry daiquiri, I say with a smile. I might as well be friendly. Brian and Todd give a little smile between them. They’re really good-looking in that stuffy business-look way. Brian is tall with blond hair and Todd has dark hair and is very stocky, as if he works out