And if the solution makes Priscilla’s life miserable, I consider that in everyone else’s best interest too.
I thought there was nothing that would tarnish Priscilla’s halo as far as Elle was concerned. That is until a few months ago, when Melissa, in a fit of new pregnancy hormones, lost it on Priscilla in between cubicles in front of Elle’s office. Regrettably I was downstairs, in my office, but I heard later that Melissa was on fire. She tore Priscilla to shreds for completely flaking on one of Melissa’s clients at a major red carpet event. Priscilla didn’t even call another publicist to secure a replacement. So Melissa’s irate client called Melissa to vent, and Melissa took her complaint straight to Elle. And she came armed—with printouts of the emails back and forth, wherein Priscilla had practically begged Melissa to allow her to cover the client. According to Lucas, whose cubicle was a front row seat to the wild scene, Melissa actually stuffed the pages down the front of Priscilla’s perfectly tailored Armani jacket. After shoving them in her face close enough that Priscilla’s lip gloss transferred to a page.
And all this occurred in the seconds it took Elle to get out of her office to break it up. Obviously no one else was interested in stopping Melissa’s rampage—just about all the people there wished they had pregnancy hormones to blame so they too could lose it on Priscilla Hasley.
Anyway, Melissa saw a flicker of doubt cross Elle’s usual composure as Priscilla tried to outtalk Melissa rather than accept any responsibility for her actions, despite the undeniable evidence. After that episode, Melissa and I hung on to the hope that Elle would one day have to face Priscilla’s inadequacies. Believe me, I would never normally wish for someone to get in serious trouble, but Priscilla is the kind of serpent who literally drives you to extreme measures.
So, to that end, I am hoping I can use my new accounts to help Elle see how little Priscilla actually does for the company. Backup files in hand, I head toward the elevator bank. I know Elle’s office is only one flight up, but very rarely am I motivated to take the stairs unless I’m hiding from someone.
“Elle?” I knock on her open door as I step in.
“Morning, Sophie. Come in.” Behind an enormous Parsons-style white lacquered desk with its exotic potted orchid and mercury glass table lamp, Elle’s facing her computer yet shoves away from the keyboard as she finishes her sentence. “What did you want to see me about?”
“I wanted to bring you up to speed on everything. With Billy Fox and the Nintendo launch.”
“Excellent. I know it’s a lot to have on your plate right now. But you can use as many assistants as you need, and I was thinking of officially assigning Jeff to you as well.”
“That’s exactly why I wanted to see you. I have some backup with the Nintendo account, and Billy Fox is keeping me busy, but I think it’s going really well.” Uh-huh. Like Dad says, always lead with the positive. “What I wanted to run by you was maybe reassigning one of my other clients until after the Nintendo launch. The United American Wrestling account in particular needs more maintenance than I can truly deliver right now. And, I was thinking… this might be the perfect opportunity for someone like Priscilla to get her feet wet handling a major client.”
Or a rope long enough for her to hang herself.
“If she’s up to the responsibility,” I continue, “my contact with American Wrestling is great, and since it isn’t a new account, Priscilla should be able to ease right into the day-to-day stuff.”
There was a moment of silence.
Look, feelings aside, Priscilla was the obvious choice. She doesn’t handle any big clients, but she’s loosely considered my in-office peer. It’s noticeable that she isn’t as busy as the rest of us. In a fair world, she should do this.
But will Elle see it that way or continue to protect her?
“You’re right, Sophie. I think Priscilla is ready to take on more clients.” She leans across her desk to press the phone’s intercom. “Lucas, is Priscilla in yet?” I covertly glance at my watch. It’s now 9:50. If she isn’t here yet, it would be so perfect. Another mark against her that Elle couldn’t deny, since I was here to witness it. An evil fantasy spins through my mind, visions of Priscilla hours late, and Elle finally ripping into her the way everyone in the office has always yearned for.
“She’s in her office,” Lucas’s voice interrupts to tell us. “Should I send her in?” Of course, my hopes are crushed. Back in reality, I realize that I should have been tipped off that today wasn’t going to be that easy.
“Yes, please.” Elle swivels in her executive chair to face me with her full attention. “Sophie, I’m so glad you thought of this. It’ll give you the perfect chance to focus in on your new clients, and Priscilla can begin taking on more responsibilities.”
“Happy to be a team player,” I add, forcibly suppressing a smirk.
“Good. I’ll tell her that your door is always open for any questions. Be sure she knows she can turn to you for help if she needs it.”
Ah, the other shoe drops. Great. Now I’m going to be babysitting Miss Priss? And every screwup will be laid at my door because I’ll be ultimately responsible. Not quite what I had in mind. Talk about karma for my plotting.
“Good morning, Elle.” Priscilla’s dulcet tones distract me from my defensive strategy. “Love that blouse. Isabel Marant, no? Exquisite taste.” Somehow she manages to make the compliment seem so offhand that Elle doesn’t see the brown-nosing. After a few words of idle small talk, during which I manage to remain polite, Elle finally brings up the matter at hand.
“Priscilla, Sophie has a lot on her plate right now, and I think it would be the ideal opportunity for you to take on a little more responsibility. We’re handing you the Wrestling account.”
Elle either ignores or doesn’t see the brief look of unfiltered malice Priscilla shoots my way when the word “Wrestling” comes up. Frankly, this is the first time I’ve ever been on the receiving end of one of Priscilla’s death stares, but they’re infamous in the office.
I mean, I know it’s not the hottest account at Bennett/Peters, but seriously? Who does Priscilla think she is? I was psyched to take on the major account—tights, costumes, and all—because it was a chance to prove myself. I’m shocked that even Priscilla could be so shortsighted. She should be nauseously kissing Elle’s ass for the opportunity.
“Really? Elle, I too am very busy right now. Don’t you think this is something Jeff could handle?” A junior publicist? Is she kidding?
“I would have thought you’d be jumping at the chance to step up.”
Go, Elle! Way to call her out.
“I am stepping up. In fact I was just emailing you about the new strategy I’ve worked up for the Jones and Jones account. And I am trying to cross-promote—”
“I know everything you’re working on, Priscilla. We’re all busy here. I’ve discussed this with Sophie and you’re going to handle American Wrestling. Sophie will fill you in on where the account stands today, and if you have any problems you can always ask her. But it’s your responsibility now.” Elle doesn’t change her volume, but her tone tightens up and I’m glad she isn’t looking at me. “Thank you, ladies.” And we are dismissed.
Priscilla glides out the door ahead of me and struts to the elevator bank. I follow and automatically press the down arrow button even though it is already lit. We ride the elevator one floor down in silence. I’m not feeling triumphant exactly, but definitely vindicated. I replay Elle’s words to Priscilla in my head as I stare blindly at the polished elevator doors. When the ding announces our arrival, my eyes refocus on Priscilla’s reflection. I see complete and utter hatred in her eyes for the second before the doors open and her face disappears. It almost makes her unattractive.
The sheer venomous look catches me so off guard that I hesitate for a split second as Priscilla calmly steps off the elevator and disappears around the corner toward her office.
All of a sudden my self-preservation radar goes off. As I head back to my
department, I do the math on everything I’ve heard about Priscilla and decide I’d better watch my back. Well, in the immortal words of Kirsten Dunst, Bring It On.
Billy climbs into the back of the stretch limo as I switch seats to give us a little distance. While I hire limos and car services for celeb clients all the time, I’m very rarely in them myself. It’s a huge vehicle. An entire prom entourage could fit back here, but this ride it’s simply Billy Fox and me. Tonight he looks the part of a movie star—perfect and absolutely gorgeous in a slim silhouette Paul Smith tuxedo. I had arranged with the Paul Smith people to lend him the suit for the benefit event, but knowing it was coming did nothing to prepare me for the full impact of Billy Fox in evening wear.
“Hi, Billy. You look great.” And the Understatement of the Year Award goes to… Sophie Atwater. I clear my throat. “Everything go okay at the fitting this afternoon?”
Billy leans forward, and for a split second I hysterically think he’s going to grab my shoulders and kiss me like in some old forties movie. But he doesn’t. Instead I hear “Thanks” as he brushes his lips on my cheek, getting a corner of my mouth by accident, and then continues the forward motion to reach into the mini fridge for a bottle of water.
“It was easy. They had some great suits to choose from. I feel very Sean Connery in this.” He offers me a bottle too, but I shake my head. Retreating back to his seat, he stretches his long legs out. I use this move as a desperate excuse to scoot farther back in my facing seat.
Swallowing a completely inappropriate giggle, I randomly remember a silly email forward that went around several years ago about which urinal in a row a guy should choose under different circumstances. Like if there’s a guy already at one end, you have to take the farthest urinal away. Because guys don’t want other guys to think they want to be near them. Or something weird like that. Anyway, that’s how I feel in the back of this huge car. With all this empty space, I am obsessed with making sure Billy doesn’t get the wrong impression about how I feel about him.
“Is it my breath or something?” Billy jokes, followed up with a test exhale against his cupped fingers. “Slide over to this side, will you?”
How can I refuse without looking even more like an idiot? I take his hand and cross over the divide, settling in beside him, but not too close.
“Um, how else was your day?” An inane question, I know, but the best I could come up with. The cheesy ambient “mood lighting” is making me a bit self-conscious. But maybe Billy doesn’t notice. After all, celebrities are used to traveling in stretch limos; maybe it’s always like this.
“It was fine. My agent gave me a new script to read. I really like it. It’s a challenging character; I’d have to learn an accent. I’m kinda nervous about it actually.”
Okay, wow, Billy Fox is opening up to me. Confiding in me. I can handle this.
“Sounds intriguing. What kind of accent? I thought your role in Bonaparte was pretty challenging. You played the villain well.” And I’m not lying. For all his People’s Most Beautiful appeal, he’s an equally fine actor. There’s no need here for the often job-required flattery.
“Thanks. I couldn’t wait to play bad. It was such a one-eighty from all I’d done before. But this is different… It’s special.” And as if proof I watch this look come over his face. The way you’d always want a guy to look when he’s thinking of you, I guess. Thinking of what he loves. And clearly Billy is focusing on his one true love—acting. How can a girl compete with that?
And—yes, I’m aware—I’m taken. Why am I even wondering if a girl could compete with that? I certainly don’t want to.
“Well, I can’t wait to hear more about it. I mean, if you want to tell me…”
“I’d bore you to death on this one.”
“No, really,” I say, and again it’s the truth. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve suffered through a million actors waxing rhapsodic about the “craft” of acting. Detailing their characters’ “backstory” and “subtext” until you need toothpicks to keep your eyes open. But as I listen to Billy explain the story of his probable next picture, his low, sexy voice describing his character’s development, I am entranced.
We arrive at the hotel with no warning. One second Billy has me in the imagined wilds of Africa, and the next, the doorman of the Beverly Hills Hotel is opening the car door. Thank God Billy is closest to the exit, because I need the extra few seconds to regroup.
“I’ll tell you the rest on the way home. It gets really good after that,” Billy says, as he takes my hand and extricates me from the back of the limo.
“I look forward to it,” I think I reply as I find myself standing not four inches from Billy’s face, looking up into his incredible ice-blue eyes. I can’t back up… the limo is right behind me. If anything, I should be moving forward to allow the doorman to close the door. But I can’t move forward, because Billy Fox is standing right in front of me, his hand holding mine, and he is looking at me.
“Billy! Billy, right this way.” I recover from my momentary trance and glance over Billy’s shoulder to see Darren White working his way through the crowd toward us.
Billy has seen him too, and the moment is gone.
“Billy, this is Darren White. He’s in charge of the auction this evening. Darren, this is—”
“Billy Fox, of course. It’s a pleasure. Thank you so much for hosting our charity event this evening.” Darren places his arm through Billy’s and begins proudly escorting him toward the paparazzi line. Gay men are equally entranced by Billy’s charms. I follow close behind, listening to Darren’s rundown. For those keeping score, my blood pressure has returned to normal, and the faint crescent marks on my palms from my fingernails are already fading.
“Sophie, where are you?” Billy turns around in the middle of Darren’s recitation and draws me up beside him. “Thanks for the walk-through, Darren. We’ll see you in the green room, then?” I watch Darren’s face fall before he recovers, and now the three of us are walking toward the wall of press gathered at the edge of the red carpet. Obviously, I’m not the only one susceptible to fantasies when escorting Billy Fox. The Texan is a walking heartbreak.
“See you inside, then. Thanks, Sophie.” Darren kisses both our cheeks and then disappears into the crowd.
“Okay, are you ready?” I give him a once-over to make sure he’s camera-ready (it’s a good habit—you don’t want your talent stepping in front of a hundred cameras with a ketchup stain on the tie or an open fly) and approve him with a mental thumbs-up.
“As ready as always.” Okay, so he’s clearly not lacking in confidence, but that slight twang completely mitigates any hint of unattractive arrogance. Billy seems good-natured about running the gauntlet of international paparazzi and press. But as I guide him through the reporters with their camera crews and audio recorders, I see a different side of Billy. He’s as polite and charming as always, but even more polished.
Billy definitely wins points with me as he smoothly handles each reporter with grace and skill, from answering questions about the hospital’s charity—he’s obviously done his homework—to subtly evading questions about his personal life.
”Billy Fox, man about town,” a practiced female correspondent in a low-cut, sparkly evening gown says. “What brings you here tonight?”
“I’m here to support the amazing work the hospital does. I can’t say enough about the work they do, not just for the children, but their families as well. When the hospital asked me to participate tonight, I couldn’t say no… I am thrilled to support this hospital, and I encourage everyone watching to check out their website and, if you can, give a little something for a really worthy cause.” Billy knew the statistics and supplied gossip-hungry reporters with enough personal stories, mixed in with the hospital’s talking points I’d sent over to him earlier, to be sure they’d make it on air.
I found myself watching Billy in interview after interview put a different spin on each story, giving people a fresh, personalized v
ersion, with the same unflagging amount of charm as when we started. One thing’s clear. He’s an undeniable pro at delivering exactly what you might wish.
“Billy, thank you so much for your time,” says the last reporter. That’s my cue to pull Billy away from the press line and get him situated inside.
“Thank you, Shandra. Mitch.” I wave to the producer on his cell phone behind the camera guy and then lead Billy through the behind-the-scenes crew to the green room. I flash our credentials, and we’re in.
“Damn, there is a lot of press here tonight. That’s it, though?” And then seeing the stern expression on my face, Billy immediately adds, “I mean… I could do more, I just…”
“No. I’m kidding. You did so great out there, I wondered if you’re even human.”
“Not human, huh?” Billy chuckled. Why did I try to tease him?
“I mean, you never seemed tired or unsure of yourself. I was just thinking you’re the perfect client, and then you had to ruin everything by being normal!” Always go for the joke when you’re about to totally embarrass yourself.
“What exactly is ‘normal’ in your world, Sophie?” Billy stands next to me, and the moment has become unexpectedly intimate. Or maybe I’m just paranoid.
“Well, my life is the opposite of normal. Just ask my boyfriend.” Okay, okay, I know that wasn’t the subtlest move in history. I panicked. A gorgeous movie star with I-want-to-run-my-fingers-through-it golden hair and a lanky cowboy frame flirts with you and see if you stay all calm and cool.
But Billy just lifts up the edges of his ridiculously beautiful lips and gives me a completely unfathomable look. I really don’t know what might happen next. My mind is running through a million scenarios. But luckily, it doesn’t matter what I might have done if Billy had kept looking at me in that inscrutable way. Because Darren saves the day, again.
The Star Attraction Page 6