by Holly O'Dell
Michael followed me to the kitchen. "So, do you think-"
"I don't want to be rude, but I really don't want to discuss it anymore. Can we just go back to the living room and start our pitch for tomorrow morning?"
Michael ran a hand through his brown hair, which surprised me because I didn't think he'd want to mess it up. "So you were working at Burton Relations when you were seeing Devin, right? Isn't he going to suspect something when Daddy brings him to our office?"
I briefly panicked; Gwen would have me on a one way train to Philly by sundown tomorrow. But then I remembered who we were talking about.
"Trust me, he won't remember where I work. Heck, I'll be surprised if he even remembers my name." That's exactly what I needed, a reminder of Devin's selfishness to keep me motivated to stay on the account.
With a sense of empowerment, I breezed past Michael, sat down on the floor of my den, and plowed through the magazines with the efficiency of a factory worker. Michael followed my lead.
The articles definitely came under the heading of too much information, featuring the gaudy details of his recent romantic encounters.
"Gotta hand it to the guy, he gets around," Michael said mildly.
"Would I sound naive if I said that he wasn't like this when we were dating?" I shook my head in bewilderment. "So he liked to look at the ladies, but that was about it. He enjoyed his drinks, sure, but he was never sloppy around me, at least."
Michael was concentrating on his laptop and didn't reply.
I exhaled a relieved sigh when I knew that Michael wasn't paying attention. This was the Michael I knew, not the guy who kept asking me what happened with Devin, and looking like he actually cared. I grabbed another magazine and halfheartedly flipped through it. Okay, maybe I was flipping through my memories more than the magazine in front of me, but it was all data.
As though he'd heard my thought, Michael raised his head. "I don't suppose you know anything from your time with Devin that will help us, do you? I mean, we have to think of a way to straighten him out"
I thought of the end of our relationship, dates cancelled not by Devin but by his assistant, proclamations that he would be settling if he stayed with me, and, of course, Devin's infamous ways of "shielding" me from the public. It was all too humiliating to share with anyone but Anna-and certainly not Michael. I feared mockery. "Let me think about it," I evaded.
"Ugh" Michael sounded genuinely disgusted.
"What?"
"It's nothing."
"It doesn't sound like nothing." He attempted to tuck the magazine away, but I hastily reached over and snatched it out of his hand.
There Devin was, eyes half open, with his hand cupping a buttock of the April Playmate. I slid the magazine back to Michael.
"There's being a playboy, and then there's hanging lecherously all over a Playmate" Michael shook his head. "Creep"
For the next two hours, we urgently took notes on paper and on our laptops, attempting to put all our information together for a cohesive presentation. We agreed not to make this a personal attack on Devin, which went completely against my instinct.
"So, earlier today, you seemed pretty confident that this was going to be a cakewalk. But I'm still curious to know who you worked with in L.A." Please say Courtney Love. Please say Courtney Love.
"Ah, just the usuals. Derrik Train is a big one."
"Yeah, I don't much get into that whole scene, but he does sound somewhat familiar."
"Derrik plays the main character on Long Beachyou know, a Dallas for the Gen-Xers? Anyway, he took a joyride with a young woman who claimed to be a reporter for a college newspaper. He was driving pretty fast, missed a curve, and wrapped the girl and the Mercedes around a telephone pole."
I gasped. "That's awful! What happened to the girl?" And how did I miss this whole story when it happened? That's why it's better to market products rather than celebrities, I suppose. Or that may be what made Michael such a great publicist-he made us all forget that it ever occurred.
"Well, the good news is that they both walked away without a scratch. The bad news was that the girl lied about her age-she was a 14-year-old fan"
"And, of course, you had to swoop in and try to spin Derrik's bad judgment?"
"Yeah, my boss really wanted me to play up that this young teenage girl was a floozy and all but seduced Derrik, but I just couldn't do that. I mean, she's just a kid. Derrik should've known better."
"Wow, that's dicey," I said, shaking my head. "What did you do?"
Michael shrugged. "I got on the phone with the tabloids to tell them that it was one big misunderstanding. Derrik assumed she was older, he made a mistake, nothing happened, Derrik was a perfect gentleman, police reports show there was no alcohol or drugs in his system, it was a dark road with a curve, he was actually bringing the girl back home when he realized the mixup with the girl's age . . " Michael sighed through his nose. "See why I needed to get out of L.A.?"
I cleared my throat. "Well, should we get back to Devin? As far as I know, he hasn't done anything like Derrik, but it sounds like we'll still be able to strongarm him tomorrow."
"Strong-arm him? Isn't that a wrestling move?" Michael said wryly.
"Hey, I was raised in the Midwest. It's what I know."
"Guess I'm not surprised." He spoke with a hint of condescension.
I opened my mouth to reply, but quickly shut it. What did that mean, `Guess I'm not surprised'?
"Why so quiet?" he asked a little while later.
Yes, go ahead and insult me, and then wonder why I'm not chatty. "I'm contemplating whether I should use The Claw or The Hulk Hogan on you, that's all"
He set aside his laptop, clutching his gut from laughter. "You didn't think I was serious about the wrestling comment, did you?"
"For starters, it's `rasslin,' not `wrestling."' I sheepishly joked back. "Sorry for getting a little saucy back there. I just get a lot of `you know you're from Missouri if' commentary out here, so I might be a little quick with the sword."
"Might?" Michael winked.
I felt myself blush. I prayed he didn't see that.
I flipped the switch inside my office door, and the fluorescent lights hummed a moment and then blinked on. There was no natural light coming in through my window at this time of day, in this dreary March. The pitiless clock on the wall boasted 6:45.
This was supposed to be my morning of victory, or so Anna had told me. I was supposed to bound in to the meeting bursting with health and style. Instead, I was creeping into the office before the paperboys had even finished their deliveries, my eyes still stinging from the sleep I didn't get. Not that I hadn't tried after I'd sent Michael home at about 2 A.M. I'd tossed. I'd turned.
I'd given up.
On top of the sleepless misery, I couldn't bear the thought of watching cheesy early-morning television. The only alternatives were staring absently at my closet, waiting for a knock-Devin-dead outfit to throw itself at me, or coming to work two hours before everyone else in Manhattan. I chose both, only the latter of which was successful. After pulling shirts from dresser drawers and skirts from hangers for an hour, I begrudgingly decided on a sleeveless black cowl-neck sweater, a brick-red skirt that hit just above the knee, and strappy, wedged Mary Janes.
I sauntered to the office kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water. What I really needed was an I.V. of java, but getting within ten feet of coffee would guarantee that it would become an unwelcome addition to my already shaky outfit. Instead, I opted for a nice, cold bottle of water-safe option.
Back at my desk, I stared at my notes, waiting for inspiration to hit. I supposed that I didn't need to worry about it; after all, the plan Michael and I had set into place was pretty straight-forward: Don't threaten Devin, be his friend, give him a list of high-end events to attend and people to be around, and so on.
I didn't much care for the idea of poring through all these notes again, but still, my experience as a public relations executive told me that pr
eparation was essential. Anna always said I was blessed with the gift of speaking off the cuff, but overconfidence in such an ability could devour me. I imagined worst-case scenarios of blanking when Fox Underhill asked me about the strategy for Devin or when Devin himself questioned my involvement in the project. Shaking my head to clear it of the negative visions, I grabbed my notes, circled my office, and began practicing how I would start the meeting before handing it off to Michael.
"Well, well, well, this must be the famed Devin Underhill I've been hearing so much about." I extended my hand for an imaginary handshake. "It's a pleasure to place the man with the name-all those pictures in the magazines really don't do you justice." I smacked an open palm against my forehead, partly out of frustration, partly out of embarrassment for myself.
"Devin is never going to go for this." I said as I turned back to the desk to scavenge my notes. "He will blow my cover, we will lose the account, Gwen will fire me, and I will be shuffling through the streets of New York in a tattered overcoat, pushing a shopping cart and talking to myself like the crazy person I am"
"You should charge admission for that routine."
I gasped and jumped back at the voice. There, leaning against the doorframe, was Michael, dressed in a navy-blue jacket and a white Oxford shirt with one button undone.
"No tie."
"Good morning to you too" Michael looked down. "Oh, should I have worn one?"
"No, I'm just going into shock because I've never seen you without a tie, that's all."
"I see that your wit is always on, twenty-four-seven."
"What can I say? All that sleep I got last night just jazzed me up" I picked up my folder with notes and immediately dropped it on my desk. "Just so you know, when this meeting is done, I'm leaving for a big, fattening, fancy lunch and I'm not coming back until tomorrow morning."
"That sounds pretty desperate"
"The situation is pretty desperate"
"I don't think so" He stepped closer to me. "I think we've got a plan and a good approach. I think we'll do fine. Either way, I'm tagging along with you to your big, fattening, fancy lunch."
I gave a humorless laugh. "Trust me, as soon as Devin figures out what we're talking about, he's going to be ticked off and gone, pretty much in that order."
"I'm not so sure. I think he'll stay, if only to try to make himself look good"
"Wait, wasn't I the one who dated him?"
"True, but I'm betting he's going to stay"
"You serious about that?"
He blinked. "Why? What do you have in mind?"
"I think Devin is going to storm out of the meeting and I'm willing to make a bet on it. If he stays, I have to buy your meal. If he goes, you are picking up my entire bill. Overpriced hors d'oeuvres and all." I grinned confidently because there was no doubt in my mind how this meeting would end. Whenever Devin didn't get his way or didn't know how to handle an adverse situation, he left the room. Toward the end of our relationship, Devin and I had been discussing what movie to see. Devin wanted an action flick; I wanted a comedy. When I pointed out to him that the last three movies we had watched had been action-oriented, Devin turned his back on me, walked out of my apartment, and didn't talk to me for three days.
"It's a deal," Michael said as he shook my hand firmly. A soft hand, yet still masculine.
I broke from the handshake and smoothed my skirt. "Now if you'll excuse me, Michael, I have some notes that I must blankly stare at" As I sat down at my desk, I watched Michael leave my office. I could not wait to win our bet so I could show him what girls from the Midwest really do for grins: eat till we can't see-and watch the boys pick up the tab. I giggled girlishly. This was going to be fun. Michael? Fun? What an interesting concept.
"It's showtime." Gwen peered into my office as I applied powder to my face. "This isn't a beauty contest, Brown. Devin and Fox are going to be here in five minutes, so pack up your girlie stuff and get in the main conference room."
When I first started at Gwen's firm, I teared up each time she barked orders like this one. But over the years, I learned that Gwen's drill-sergeant demeanor was how she channeled her stress. With that, I looked up from my compact and saluted-okay, more like shielded myself from her blinding yellow suit and matching pumps. Gwen shook her head and walked toward the meeting room.
An eerie, rather unnatural calm had set over me about twenty minutes earlier. I gathered my materials and walked briskly toward the conference room. There sat Michael, Gwen, and Fox, but no Devin. I set my handful of papers and folders on the cherry-wood table and walked toward Fox. Gwen stood up to introduce us. "Fox, this is Kate Brown. Kate, Fox Underhill."
I was reminded how Devin got his striking features. Fox was about six-foot-three with silver hair contrasting tanned skin, presumably from all his travels. His blue eyes were a shade darker than his son's; they offered a sense of genuineness, but you could tell they meant business.
I'd had a similar reaction to Fox the last-and only-time I met him. Devin needed to stop at his father's downtown penthouse, and I had to practically beg to come in with him. When I entered the apartment, I maintained my awe as best I could. It was more impressive than Devin's Park Avenue abode, and I thought that was a jaw-dropper. But there in Fox's home, I was experiencing a completely different lifestyle.
The living room alone, which was the only part of Fox's home I saw, looked like a museum. The floors, Devin later told me, were made of wood imported from Africa. An eighteenth-century French writing table with bronze legs stood in the foyer, while intricate Turkish rugs blanketed the hardwood floors. Two mottled European vases with rich greens and blues on mahogany stands were placed on either side of Fox's sleek, mocha-colored couch. Off to the side I caught a glimpse of the den, which held an antique baby-grand piano-another relic in this untouchable dwelling.
I walked toward the big picture windows, where a stunning view of Manhattan's finest buildings glowed in the setting autumn sun. Devin picked up his items from his father's place and pulled me away from the majestic scene. As we exited, Fox walked in wearing his tennis whites-so apropos for this situation, I thought smugly.
"Hi, Dad," Devin said abruptly as he grabbed my hand and pulled me to the door.
"Devin, aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?" Fox had a twinkle-perhaps one of empathy-in his eyes.
"This is Kate Brown. We were just on our way out."
"Mr. Underhill, I've heard so much about you," I lied. On the contrary, in fact. Devin rarely talked about his father. Come to think of it, Devin and I hadn't talked about much of anything. I'd wanted to spend the evening with Fox, but when I turned to Devin to make the suggestion, he shifted restlessly from foot to foot.
"Well, I'd love to stay and chat, but Devin and I are going to be late for a concert," I begrudgingly fibbed. "I hope we can talk again soon" At least that part was truthful.
But "talking soon" never came. Unless soon was today, two years later. Looking at Fox now, it was apparent that he did not remember our first brief encounter, nor did I expect him to.
"Mr. Underhill, it's such a pleasure to meet you" I shook his hand. "We're all very eager to work on this account."
"The feeling is mutual, Ms. Brown," Fox said with a smile.
I seated myself next to Michael. "So, where's the man of the hour?" I asked Fox in what I hoped was a casual tone. Perhaps Devin had found out what Fox had planned for him and refused to show up. Then who would win the bet between Michael and me, I wondered? I frowned at myself. The last thing I needed was to get distracted. Focus on the task at hand, not the delicious food after said task at hand is completed.
"Devin's running late. Had some sort of appointment on the other side of the city, he tells me."
"Is he still unaware of the purpose of today's meeting?" Michael asked.
Fox nodded vigorously. "Definitely. I couldn't jeopardize that. This is too important to me."
I looked over at Gwen, whose grin reminded me of myself as a
thirteen-year-old with a crush on Benji Waters. Man, did I love that boy, his oversized glasses and curly blond hair and all. Of course, Benji came out of the closet a decade later, but that was par for the course, I figured. I knew what that crush felt like sixteen years ago, and I was sure Gwen was going through the same thing right now. Perhaps Michael and I were right-Gwen had more invested in this account than just financial matters.
Michael must have noticed, too, and slightly nudged me. Without looking over, I acknowledged him with a slight tilt of my head.
"Let's talk briefly of your concern for your son's public image," Michael suggested to Fox. "Gwen filled Kate and me in this week, but we would love to get the full story from you."
Fox straightened his tie. "The company has been receiving complaints from family friends, who happen to be the biggest clients and supporters of Hotel Bella, about Devin's behavior."
"Could you be more specific? What do you mean by 'behavior?"' I inquired, even though all of us already knew the answer. This meeting was becoming a form of torture, with my asking questions that I didn't really want answers to.
"Within the last year or so, he has been out all night with some of New York's, uh, characters, and his encounters keep appearing in the press. Within the last few months, he has been coming to work late, blowing off meetings with investors, and refusing to talk to reporters about anything related to the company" Fox purposefully rolled back in his chair away from the table. "It might not seem to affect our hotels on an individual basis, but the overall image is declining. I'm sure you've seen the results of our last guest survey"
Gwen, Michael, and I nodded in unison. I pulled out a binder and spoke. "According to the survey, overall appeal of the hotel has dropped 22 percentage points since the last survey four years ago. That's a pretty big hit."
"Here's my question," Michael interjected. "We've all seen the articles and gossip columns and pictures of Devin's nightly exploits, but what makes you think that it's your son's after-hours reputation that's spoiling business for you, rather than the economy, or the general state of the world today?" Gwen shot me a panicked look, as if to say, "Shut him up! This isn't what I'm paying you guys for!"