I 'VE BEEN TO MORE CORPORATE events in my life than I think is normal for a thirty-year-old.
When I was younger, before the business was on the rise, Dad thought charity galas were the ultimate sign of sophistication and success.
Having so much money he could freely give it away and be praised for it was always the goal for him.
The charitable side was more of a by-product than anything else.
My mom would take me to fittings where I'd be stabbed and pulled until my dress fit like a glove, my hair would be blow-dried to within an inch of its life, and we would smile on someone else's red carpet and pretend to belong there.
Max was always allowed to stay home with Grandpa and watch The Lord of the Rings or Star Wars , but I was made to go to all the ones labeled as family events, whether that label meant anything or not.
Usually, it meant I'd make awkward conversation with kids my age who would also rather have been home eating popcorn and staying up late for fun reasons.
When Davenport partnered with a children's charity and threw its first gala, Dad thought he'd finally made it, and so the annual Davenport December tradition was born.
Except this year, we're celebrating twenty years of the product that put us on the map.
The one little Clara designed and received no credit for. The one that paid for that first gala.
I wouldn't say I feel bitter, but I do feel a deep sense of misalignment with what's happening today. I think I've been feeling that deep sense of misalignment with Davenport for a while.
The noise of my childhood home is a welcome change from the silence of my own home.
The emptiness and distance from everyone that I once found freeing now feels suffocating.
Even if the noise of my childhood home in question is my mother barking orders at her stylist, it's still better than the quiet.
"Clara, why do you look so miserable today?" Mom asks as she passes where I'm sitting in a Hollywood-director-style chair in the middle of the living room. My hair-and-makeup guy is running late, but I don't want to admit that to her or it'll make her panic.
I've always used the living room to get ready for these types of things, ever since I was younger. Now it would feel weird to get ready somewhere else, even if I'm not the best company currently. "I'm sick," I lie.
She moves closer until she's standing at my knees and presses the back of her hand to my forehead. The diamond sitting on her ring finger scratches just above my eyebrow. "Do you want me to heat you up some chicken soup?"
"No, thank you. I'll be okay."
"Did you try your dress on?" she asks, looking for it in the room.
I nod. "It's perfect, thank you."
I thought I'd found the perfect dress the day I obliterated that kid's snowman.
I sent my mom a picture and received a text back that just said "No" and the cowboy emoji, which I assumed was an accident.
Twenty-four hours later, she sent me a video of ( someone I hope was) a sales associate wearing a stunning red evening gown.
"I'm going to make you a hot tea to help you feel better." She kisses my temple and disappears into the hallway, and I'm left sitting alone again.
I could be doing something useful or interesting, but instead I'm staring at her perfectly decorated Christmas tree. The one that looks identical to the tree I found in my own living room when I got home on Sunday night.
I looked at it from every angle before deciding I hate it. I hate every color-coordinated bauble. I hate the delicate decorations with all the parts still attached. It feels sterile and out of place.
The tea does make me feel better but I'm not sure if it's the product or the act of being taken care of.
I zone out while my face is poked at and my hair is forced into identical waves.
I know as soon as people show up here it'll be difficult to have this time in my own head, and I have a lot to think about.
When Dad appears with his golf clubs, it's almost time to go.
He does this every year, with zero care for how much it stresses my mom out.
We could be physically in the car ready to leave and he'd be just getting into the shower.
He argues that it doesn't matter when he gets home, he will always be ready to go before her, but he's only right half of the time.
Two minutes later, Honor and Max appear. "Look who I found lurking outside," Max says, throwing himself into the seat beside me.
"I wasn't lurking ," Honor argues. "I was timing my entrance so I didn't have to make small talk with your dad."
"Very wise," I say, looking my best friend up and down. She's glowing in a way I didn't notice when I saw her two days ago. The black dress fits her like a glove. I don't think I've seen it before. "You look breathtakingly gorgeous and I've missed you."
She gives me a bright smile. "Right back atcha. And I missed you too."
"Didn't you guys hang out on Monday?" Max says, looking between us.
"You wouldn't get it because you're only friends with people on the internet," I say flippantly, reaching into my purse for my phone.
"Gaming with my friends online doesn't make them people on the internet. They're not bots, Clar. They're definitely people."
I hum in acknowledgment that I heard him but check my messages instead of getting into a debate with him. It's a quick task because I have none, and the only people who do contact me are currently in this house.
Great.
Max leans over. "Can we talk privately?"
This is honestly the last thing I need today. "Anything you want to say to me you can say in front of Honor. You're just saving me from having to try to remember what you said to tell her later."
Honor nods along with me. Max looks like he doesn't understand but accepts it anyway. "This is unprofessional, just so you know."
I'm not being lectured by someone who's spent more time in classrooms than offices. "You should vet your potential business partners better then."
"So you are still a potential business partner?" he says, and the hope in his voice hits me square in the chest. Somewhere that's taken quite a beating this week.
I want to rub the tension out of my head with my fingers, but my mom won't let me leave the house if I ruin my makeup.
Maybe that's the solution to my problems. "I'm still thinking about it.
I told Dad I've been headhunted. I didn't say it was by you ," I say, answering his question before he even asks it.
"I want to know what his countermove is before I make a decision."
Max unbuttons his suit jacket and rests his arm on the back of the couch. "And if he doesn't have a countermove, what then?"
"I'm going to ask him to credit me for creating the Clara doll. The twentieth anniversary is the perfect time to bring it up. If he does it, I'll know that he values what I've contributed to the business."
"And if he doesn't?" Max asks.
The reality isn't something I want to picture. I sip from my champagne flute. "Then I'll find out how I really feel about my future at Davenport."
Honor's eyes are focused on the doorway. "I think your dad is coming down the stairs, guys."
We swap conversations immediately and focus on theories about who will get too drunk tonight, who will make a pass at someone in front of their wife, who will donate the most money and whether it will be out of the kindness of their heart or as a flex.
It kills time until Dad eventually appears and points to his suit.
"See? Why ruin a perfectly good round of golf to rush back when your mother isn't even ready to go. "
Max doesn't say anything. He hates when Dad treats Mom like she's some ditzy housewife who can't be taken seriously. When in reality, if you added it all up, she's spent months of her life supervising the planning of events.
Back when we only had the illusion of status, she'd plan everything herself. I remember when I was younger hearing her blaming the event coordinator for a mistake with some flowers, knowing that Mom had organized everything.
All Dad has ever had to do is show up, do a speech, and sign off on the bill.
Dad sits on the couch beside Honor and she smiles at him in the polite but awkward way she has done since we met.
Honor became the unofficial third Davenport child at these events when we were teenagers.
I would tell people she was my sister just to watch them be confused.
I had to stop when someone started a rumor that my dad had a love child and Mom was furious with me.
"Have you written your speech yet, Dad?" I ask, half expecting the answer to be no.
He pats his chest, indicating his inside pocket. "Of course. This one was easy after looking at the doll for twenty years."
I swirl my champagne, watching the golden bubbles dance in the glass. "Have you mentioned that she was my idea in your speech? When you no doubt talk about her impact on the company."
Dad looks taken aback, an expression I'm not used to seeing from him. My father is cold and calculating; he's never shocked because he's always a step ahead. Except this week apparently, where I'm doing a number on his ability to hide emotion. "I haven't. I didn't see how it was relevant."
I stop swirling and drink. "It isn't, I guess. It would just be nice to receive some acknowledgment for my work. She's our star product after all, and she literally has my name."
"The work of a ten-year-old is not the same as the work of the people who have done every prototype, modification, and upgrade in the past two decades, Clara."
"But she was my idea. I sh—"
I don't get to finish my sentence because he holds his hand up to silence me. "If it is so important to you to get your fifteen minutes, then fine. I will tell everyone that you did a drawing that looked a bit like a doll that we now sell. Happy?"