The Star Attraction

by Alison Sweeney

  “Sophie? I have a question.” It’s Jennifer, our newest assistant.

  “Hi, what’s up?” I keep a friendly tone but, Queen of Multitasking, turn back to my Outlook and continue prioritizing my emails. I like to make sure I get to East Coast people first, so they get what they need before the end of their day.

  Jennifer needs to discuss the contract for Five-Alarm Blaze, a popular rap-rock band Bennett/Peters represents, which is going to perform at the Nintendo launch party. A little synergy for you. I help her decipher the band’s rider. It’s not until she turns to go that the flair of her skirt makes me notice her fabulous, perfect, similar size–looking shoes.

  “Jennifer, wait.” Okay, how do I ask this nicely? But she seems properly intimidated by me anyway, so maybe… “Hey listen, I have an important lunch meeting today, and I forgot to bring heels to change into. May I… borrow yours?” I try to deliver the question as nonchalantly as possible. As though it happens all the time. Wait and learn.

  “Umm…” She seems hesitant. They are nice shoes. Laundry, I’m guessing.

  “Let’s just see if we share the same size, huh?” I smile confidently. She resignedly kicks off one three-inch heel as I pull my chunky boot off. We’re not talking Cinderella magic or anything, but they fit okay. “You’re an eight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I’m a seven, so they’re a little big.” Great. Why not just call her Bigfoot. “But I can manage. If you don’t mind.” From a sanitary perspective, I would so not do this if it weren’t absolutely necessary. “I promise to take good care of them. And I’ll owe you,” I say assertively, the deal done.

  “Okay.” Jennifer smiles weakly, and I know I’m safe. “I’ll come get them this afternoon?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll be back by two. Until then, we have some flip-flops from that Beach Bonanza event last summer in the loot locker. Tell Tru I said to get you a pair.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “No. Thank you!”

  Thank God that’s over. And the shoes look fabulous. Crisis averted. Nothing more could go wrong.

  As I drive through downtown Beverly Hills, on my way to lunch, I can’t help wondering where Jacob fits into all this desperate-for-sexy-shoes-to-see-Billy-Fox madness. Honestly, nowhere. And I don’t intend that in a mean way. The way I see it, I’m just enjoying the fun of a little you-can’t-even-call-it-a-crush crush on my gorgeous new client. He knows I have a boyfriend. And away from the dangerous dim-lit interior of limousines, we can realistically state that Billy would never be interested in someone like me anyway. So I’m having a little fun playing make-believe. It won’t hurt anyone. Especially Jacob, who hasn’t even called me back about watching Survivor tonight, so there.

  Also, I’m bound to see a not-so-sexy side to Billy with all the time we’re spending together, at which point my “crush” will be put out of its misery and I can go back to my regular life. It’s not like I’m purposely ignoring Jacob or our relationship. I’ve got everything under control.

  Unlike some clients who prefer meeting in notorious, paparazzi-lined scenes-to-be-seen-in like The Ivy’s front patio, Billy asked for a more out-of-the-way, relaxed locale with the promise of great comfort food. As such, the interview lunch is being held at Off Vine, a cozy establishment in an adorable yellow-and-white-painted bungalow wrapped in hedges. Once I read about their famous dessert soufflés, I knew it was the perfect spot.

  After leaving my car with the valet, I am relieved to see that I am actually the first to arrive. I like to be early to appointments like this because I don’t trust reporters alone with my clients. And knowing Lisha, in ten minutes she could sweet talk Billy into going to a different restaurant or something and “forget” to leave word. She’s like that.

  Settled in our private room upstairs above the eaves, and waiting for Billy and Elvira, I mean Lisha, to join me, I pull out my BlackBerry to scan yet again through my emails. In the middle of trying to follow a long email chain Elle just cc’d me on, I hear:

  “Hi beautiful.” I look up, only to interrupt what was definitely meant to be a kiss on the cheek, but becomes lip-to-lip contact instead. I can’t even enjoy the moment because I am panicking inside that he’ll think I moved to kiss him on purpose. It lasts only a second before he takes a seat on the opposite side.

  “Hi, Billy.” I strive for a casual, I-kiss-movie-stars-on-the-lips-all-the-time type voice. “You found it okay?” I had MapQuested the directions for him and attached it to his last email. Because I’m a type A publicist.

  “Yeah, no problem. It was easy.” He flashes his killer grin and announces, “I’m starving,” and accordingly begins examining the menu. I take the opportunity to glance at my watch. Lisha should be here any second now. Billy, breaking celebrity rule number thirty-seven, was on time.

  “You’re always starving, aren’t you?” I tease because I can’t think of anything else to say.

  “Pretty much. Especially here.”

  “I thought you hadn’t been to Off Vine before.”

  “No, here,” he says, waving his arms to indicate larger surroundings. “I’m never full in LA. Now, in Texas, they know how to feed a growing boy.” He’s obviously kidding because no one gets a body like his by eating Tex-Mex and barbeque all the time. But I smile and signal the waitress.

  I’d like a gin and tonic please. I wish. I order an iced tea with lemon. Judging by Hi-my-name-is-Mandy-and-I’ll-be-your-server-today’s quick appearance, she already knows who is sitting with me, but she takes my drink order like I’m important too and proceeds to go through the tried-and-true “don’t I know you from somewhere?” method of getting Billy to identify himself. Of course Billy is exceedingly charming and gracious to our waitress, and she is blushing by the time she remembers to go get our drinks.

  “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, Billy Fox!” Lisha appears next to Billy in a tight skirt, sheer blouse, and knee-high stiletto boots. She leans toward Billy, who rises to his feet like the Southern gentleman that he is, and she air-kisses both his cheeks. “Daaarling.” Yes, she leans down to me, perhaps to give Billy a clear view of her perfect ass, and both sides of my face get “kissed” too. While I contemplate her intentions, she comes back to Billy’s side of the table to chummily take the seat next to him.

  Lisha and Billy proceed through standard actor/reporter chitchat (“Did you find the place okay?”) as a conversation icebreaker, and mostly my job is just to listen and only interject if things get uncomfortable. Frankly, it’s nice to be able to sit at the same table as the interview. Some magazines insist that the publicist not be present. As if I would let that happen. In those cases, we compromise, and I end up sitting at the next table over so that I can still hear the whole thing. Either way, I’m not supposed to be actively involved in the conversation (and my presence is duly omitted from the final profile).

  I periodically check my BlackBerry, which is resting conspicuously next to my bread plate, so that I can appear distracted and therefore allow Lisha and Billy an opportunity to have a conversation without it being awkward that I’m sitting there being ignored. As Lisha settles into her warm-up questions, and Billy flows right into his comfortable, honest answers, my eyes lower to the device and I run my thumb over the wheel to scroll through the newest emails.

  “Sophie? Do you know the London premiere date?” Billy is looking straight at me when I glance up, which sets my stomach aflutter. Lisha is also staring at me expectantly. Expecting me to butt out, I’m sure.

  “I’ll email Lisha the details.”

  “Perfect, darling,” she purrs as she turns back to Billy and peppers him with another few questions about the six-month shooting schedule in Prague.

  “I love traveling, seeing the world. It’s tough on a shoot because you really don’t have time while filming to see the sights, but I usually plan to stay at least a few weeks before or after to enjoy the locales.”

  “And? How was Prague? What did you see?”

&nb
sp; Billy describes the romantic Czech Republic’s capital city, and my emails remain unread as I am totally caught up in his obvious appreciation of its historic bridges and castles.

  “Have you ever been?” Billy asks Lisha.

  “I have traveled extensively through Eastern Europe, darling Billy. I love that we have traveled and seen so much of the same beauty in the world. Why I—”

  “What about you, Sophie? Have you been?” I am so caught off-guard by his question that I don’t even realize that he totally interrupted Lisha in mid-sentence. But her shocked look and the death laser she shoots me make her unhappiness transparent.

  “I once saw a little of Europe backpacking with my best friend from high school, but we weren’t brave enough to tackle Eastern Europe.” A simple but specific answer, calculated so that he’ll go back to his interview and stop talking to me. I stare directly at Billy in what I hope is a meaningful way. He knows his media training—he’s doing this on purpose. He can’t quite hide his smirk as he takes a sip of water. And the interview continues.

  But by the time the hour-plus of our meal is up I have lost track of the number of times that Billy has caught my eye to share a private smile or include me in the discussion. He never crossed the line of making me speak again, but his mannerisms made it clear that he was speaking to me as well. Not just for the reporter or the tape recorder. He is sharing his stories and his life with me. And I just don’t know what to make of that.

  Lisha pays the bill on her corporate AmEx and appears satisfied with the interview. We maintain small talk as we exit the restaurant and approach the valet. Lisha sticks close to Billy’s side, leaning against him with each laugh. She’s just a schmoozer. I know she wouldn’t really make a pass at my client. Certainly not in front of me. But it’s still awkward to watch her nestle up to him for a friendly yet non–air kiss good-bye before she disappears into her huge Lexus sedan.

  With Lisha’s departure and life back off-record, I can feel my shoulders relax. “That went great. Sorry Lisha can be such a… so… affectionate.” I laugh to show that I’m not jealous or anything absurd like that but am trying to sympathize with him.

  “It’s no problem. She’s fine, really. It was an easy interview—it went well, right?”

  The valet next pulls my car up. I drag myself from Billy’s company to deposit my heavy shoulder bag in the backseat. I feel Billy following me and am suddenly all a-tingly inside as my “good-bye” kiss takes over my imagination. And then, wham. My heel misses the curb and I can already feel my knees scraping the pavement when Billy’s arms wrap around my waist and pull me up against his body.

  “Oh God. Sorry! I’m such a klutz.” I am seriously mortified by my stumble, and the fact that I can still feel the warmth of Billy’s body pressed up against mine. He lowers me back to my feet slowly and I desperately find my footing. Granted, I’m no ballerina, but why am I so clumsy around this man? Well, it also doesn’t help, I suppose, that I am wearing shoes a size too big.

  “What are you, a buck ten? It was no problem,” he says, smiling. And seemingly sincere. I haven’t seen 110 pounds since high school, so his offhand compliment thrills me to my toes. He ushers me into the front seat of my car and chivalrously shuts the door for me. He remains looking into my eyes through the driver’s side window until the valet distracts him. Billy glances back one more time, waves, and then heads toward his sleek navy Porsche. I still have this ridiculous grin on my face as I drive away.

  All afternoon I can’t focus. I am seriously giddy thinking about Billy. Which is now, officially, not okay. At one point I was tempted to call or instant message Izzy about the butterflies in my stomach. But what would I say? How could I admit that I am insanely attracted to my new client? First of all, who isn’t? Every woman in America is in love with Billy Fox. But I’m the one spending all day working with him, and when I’m not actually with him, I’m thinking about him, planning his days. And, I’ll be honest, having the occasional fantasy.

  But I can already anticipate Izzy’s response: “What about Jacob?” And what can I say except “I don’t know!” And I don’t. I mean, I love Jacob. I do. And it’s not like I want to have these feelings for Billy. But I do, so I have to figure out what that means. I can’t just ignore it. Besides, confiding to Izzy would only have her wisely recommend that I pass Billy on to someone else, which I’m not ready to do.

  For now, I need to figure this out on my own.

  In the memo section of my BlackBerry I’ve even started a reminder list of all the sweet little reasons I love Jacob:

  Lets me have the last bite of any dessert we share.

  Remembers his friends’ birthdays even though he’s a dude.

  Always puts my phone in the charger for me if I fall asleep and forget.

  Never—

  Tru interrupts me with the one thing that I can’t put on hold.

  “Sophie? It’s Priscilla on line two.” I wonder if Priscilla is calling to thank me for the extremely detailed email I sent her with the wrestling account’s entire background. I was extra-diligent and included every aspect of the relationship, because I refuse to give Priscilla any excuse for not doing a good job. I grab for my headset.

  “Priscilla. What’s up?” No point in small talk.

  “I just have a couple questions about dealing with Brandon Falken.”

  “Brandon Falken?” Mr. Falken owns United American Wrestling, and if anyone interacts with him, it would be Elle. “What happened to Christine? She’s the PR contact. Why would you be dealing directly with Mr. Falken?” Oh my God. Seriously? I can’t leave Priscilla alone with this account for a day before she’s ruining relationships I’ve spent years developing?

  “No, no. Christine and I are getting along great.” Maybe Priscilla finally has learned to hear the nuances of stress in my voice, but whatever the reason, I am relieved to hear her explanation. Maybe she’s not entirely incompetent. “Christine and I are working on some big concept pitches. That’s all. And I know that you’ve done some big projects with the account, so I wanted to chat with you about what Brandon is like. What he wants to hear.” Of course she’s already on a first-name basis with the mogul. Priscilla proceeds to ask some absurdly basic questions about the account, and I do my best to maintain my strategy: give her every piece of advice I can, so she can either prove herself—or prove that I’ve been right about her all along. Eventually it becomes impossible not to tune out her irritatingly cultured tone of voice, rattling off mundane details I already know about the client.

  The other half of my mind drifts back to the Billy/Jacob situation.

  I suppose it seems awfully arrogant and perhaps a tad presumptuous to think of it as Billy vs. Jacob. Billy hasn’t exactly proclaimed himself, but he has certainly been flirtatious. And am I seriously even considering breaking up with Jacob, a totally great guy, for what will likely be a short-term fling with a movie star? I’m not naïve. But maybe if I’m even having these feelings, it’s a sign and I owe it to Jacob to be honest with him about it?

  It’s so easy to give other people advice, but when it’s actually happening to you, the right answer isn’t so obvious.

  Priscilla seems blissfully unaware that I am barely hanging on to our conversation. She keeps prattling away at such a chatty pace that for a second I wonder why she is being so agreeable with me all of a sudden. And then the thought disappears when the caller ID shows an incoming call on line one.

  Jacob.

  “… so, when I realized that Christine and I were thinking so similarly, it occurred to me—”

  “Priscilla. I’m sorry but I have to take my other line. Let’s talk later. Or better yet, email me.” I disconnect with her and grab Jacob’s call before Tru can pick up the line.

  “Hi,” I say, followed by an awkward pause. And I’m not usually one for awkward pauses.

  “Sophie. Sorry I couldn’t call sooner. I’ve been swamped all day.” Jacob’s voice seems completely unaware of the tension on
my half of this phone call. “So, what’s for dinner? I’m dying to find out who gets into that fight they teased on last week’s Survivor.”

  Crazy thoughts circle my head. This is the romance in my life? I feel righteously indignant and entitled to an emphatic silence at the very least.

  “Sophie? Are you there?” Even when you’re not on a cell phone it’s become an instinctive question nowadays.

  “Yes. Yes, I’m here.” I flick a pen back and forth on my desk like a teeter-totter.

  “What’s wrong?” Jacob is a cut-to-the-chase kind of guy.

  “Jacob, it’s six-twenty P.M. You haven’t called all day. Actually, it’s been nearly two days since we last spoke. I didn’t know if you were even coming over tonight. You can’t make assumptions.” All of a sudden Jacob’s minor inattention is a problem the size of the Grand Canyon. As if I was waiting all day for a personal email that never came. And now here he is, and he doesn’t even know how he’s ignoring me! Izzy’s faint rational voice whispers in my head, Passive-aggressive much?

  “Sophie, I said I wouldn’t be able to talk yesterday because we were dealing with the bigwigs from New York all day then and today. Remember? I promised you I’d be up for air to watch Survivor together and I am keeping my promise. I’m sorry, okay? You know what it’s like.”

  Oh, yeah. He did mention that his bosses’ bosses were coming into town and that he’d be incommunicado. My haughty tone evaporates in my throat as I also remember why I was distracted over the last few days too. God, why am I behaving like such a shrew?

  “I’m sorry too.” I know I owe him more than a begrudging apology but I still can’t seem to swallow my pride all the way. “See you at eight?”

  “Yeah, okay. What about dinner? Are we still on Indian or how ’bout we revisit Mexican?” Still caught up in my own head-drama, I barely register the kindness and genuine forgiveness in Jacob’s tone.