“I’m really not in the mood for Mexican. Let’s just get some sandwiches from Westies.” It’s a café literally around the corner from my condo. All organic foods, but not über-healthy. And it’s close and easy. No fuss.
“Sounds good.”
“See you.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.” I hang up, but it takes me a while to look away from the receiver.
Jacob hasn’t been at my condo four minutes and already I’m annoyed.
“I didn’t pick up the food, Jacob, because I didn’t know what you wanted.”
“Okay, Sophie. Don’t snap at me. I just asked if the food was here because I’m starving. I wasn’t attacking you.” Jacob puts his briefcase down next to the wine I opened and left on the counter. He draws me in and offers a peacemaking kiss.
“Well, it felt like you had expected me to read your mind or something.” In my head it was intended as a slightly pointed joke. The reality was much more sharp and bitter. But, unwilling to take it back, I just step aside and refill my glass as Jacob shrugs out of his suit jacket and drapes it over the seat of one of my counter bar stools. I walk away, waiting for him to respond. Am I hoping for a fight here?
“Do you want to walk over there or shall we have them send it up?” Clearly Jacob is an expert in taking the high road and I’m not going to get him off it.
“We’ll walk over, but I have a menu. We can call down so we’re not waiting.” We go through the paces of selecting entrees and calling in the order. By the time I’ve finished explaining to the waiter the specifics of what I don’t want on my salad, Jacob has removed his shoes and tie, and has a bunch of newspapers folded on his lap. He is already engrossed in something on the front page.
“So, I guess I’ll go get the food?” I ask, annoyed again that he’s just assumed I would do it.
“No, Sophie. I’ll go. But it won’t be ready for another couple of minutes yet.” He goes back to his article, the crinkling of the paper on my nerves. I look at my watch and stew. This is so like him, I think, as I sip more Shiraz. Cramming in one more article before dinner. It’s frustrating because I would just go to the restaurant. In fact, I’d rather wait there to make sure I get the food as soon as it’s made rather than imagine it sitting in a bag on the counter for ten minutes while I read the freakin’ paper.
“I’ll just go. Obviously, you still have work to do.” I don’t play the martyr well, but it doesn’t stop me from trying. But this is a pretty obvious bluff. All Jacob would have to do is look up from his paper and see the old, ripped sweats and the stretched T-shirt to know that there’s no way I’d show my face in public like this. But he doesn’t look up, and in fact doesn’t seem at all motivated to get up from the couch. Or perhaps he just won’t take my childish bait.
“Sophie, the food can wait a second. I’ll go get it if you’ll let me finish this one article. Take a seat and relax.” How did he get so engrossed in an article that he just had to finish it before we could eat? And the underlying message that I just don’t understand how important his work is didn’t escape me. Jacob always claims he sees the importance of my job and values how difficult my career is. But in moments like these, I get the sense that he doesn’t feel that way at all. That secretly he thinks his job carries more weight than mine, and his way of proving that is by reminding us both that the world’s news matters, before generously tossing me the Entertainment section.
At least another five minutes pass while Jacob calmly finishes the article he was so set on reading. He puts his hand on my shoulder as he passes my position on the perpendicular sofa. “I’ll be back in five.” As he walks out the door, I put down the book I was only pretending to read and close my eyes.
It is impossible for me to ignore the fact that I’ve turned into a raving bitch, not to mention a lunatic, in the last four hours. I know I’m behaving in a completely irrational way toward Jacob, and his composed reactions are only aggravating me more.
By the time Jacob gets back with our food, I have polished off the rest of my generous wine pour and am working on a third. Without saying anything, he starts setting up our meal on the coffee table. And yes, our food looks perfectly fresh, and his side soup is even still hot, steam rising from its open lid. I watch him work without really seeing his actions. Just clinical, unemotional movements and the crinkling of wax paper.
He doesn’t comment on my wine, and I suppose I am grateful. I can’t stand when he gets all judgmental—it’s not like he’s some teetotaler, for God’s sake. But it’s hard to be indignant and self-righteous when you’re the one getting drunk and you know that your reactions are probably not as levelheaded as you would like. Nonetheless, a disapproving attitude is rolling off Jacob in waves, threatening to drown me, and I intentionally reach for my wineglass to take another gulp in defiance of his obvious censure. What an ass… This is my home and I am entitled to get trashed every night if I want. It’s not like I’m driving or anything.
Jeff Probst begins explaining the “reward” challenge, and I get caught up in the “real” world of Survivor, eager to leave the lonely island of my own making.
The Black Crows’ “Hard to Handle” is annoyingly blasting from far away. Turn it down, asshole, I groggily think from beneath the covers of my soft bed. Trying to sleep here. Even with the ceaseless guitars, exhaustion wins, pulling me back under its comfortable embrace. Happy happy sleep. My fingers curl around the edge of the… sheet? Instead of the familiar smooth Egyptian cotton, I detect soft knit wool. Huh?
My eyes open and reluctantly focus. I’m curled in a fetal position on the living room couch. The wool throw from atop the adjacent armchair has been draped over me.
Jacob.
I must have passed out. The empty wineglass on the coffee table reminds me why.
A never-ending soundtrack is coming from my bedroom down the hall.
My alarm clock.
Oh crap.
I jerk upright, and quickly regret the sudden movement. What time is it? Clutching my head, I check the cable box display. It’s 9:20 A.M. I am supposed to be meeting with Elle and the Nintendo people in ten minutes. How long has that damn alarm been going off?
There’s no time for a shower. I splash some water on my face, quickly brush my teeth (ugh, cotton mouth), and throw on a Nanette Lepore dress. My hair is its bedhead best, but all I can do is pull it back in a ponytail. Grabbing heels and my makeup bag, I race down to my car. As I stop at red lights along Wilshire, I apply mascara and lip gloss and slip my heels on, trying to look semi-presentable. I am desperately scrolling through my BlackBerry as I finally pull into the office building. Tru should be in the office by now, and hopefully she’ll be able to forward me some notes from my desktop when she gets my panicked email, but for right now, I’m winging it.
As much as I wish to ignore them, my mom’s words come back to haunt me: Don’t bite off more than you can chew. I am so not prepared for this meeting. Whereas getting Billy Fox to sign with us was the well-rehearsed song and dance with a personal touch, the more formal Nintendo agenda requires concrete details for their upcoming launch party and media rollout. I had planned to review all the consolidated info and get fully prepared last night. And I totally passed out. I seriously don’t know what happened. In business at least, I’m never a flake. And yet twice in two weeks I’m racing to an important work meeting. I used to only have nightmares about sleeping through my alarm clock and missing my final exams or an important interview. Now I am living them.
Riding up in the elevator, I focus on everything I know about the Nintendo launch. The venue logistics. Jennifer’s work with the band. The confirmed guest list. Melissa left me her notes on the project, but we hadn’t truly discussed it yet. She steered our few short phone calls—technically forbidden as part of her mandated stress-free bedrest—toward office gossip and other business that the fellow workaholic greatly missed. My later attempt to connect found us in a frustrating game of phone tag. And becaus
e of yesterday’s distracting Billy/Jacob agitation, I totally forgot to call Melissa back in time. Now, on the spot, I have a ton of unanswered thoughts about the plans, but I need to check with Melissa before I pitch anything new to the Nintendo team in front of Elle. If Melissa already went over it, I’ll just look foolish, and worse, the company will look incompetent. When you’re the switch point person on a client, the transition has to be seamless. That’s the difference between Bennett/Peters and the competition. I know that, and I fear I’m not going to be able to deliver today.
As I walk up to the glassed-in conference room—dead publicist walking—I catch Elle’s tight expression and her sharp glance toward the clock. Mortified, I check it myself. 9:50. I’m twenty minutes late. Since no excuse will justify twenty minutes, I decide that as they all look up at me I will simply apologize and move past it.
“Everyone, this is Sophie. She’s been handling the campaign since Melissa had to leave.” Elle masks her disappointment, making introductions around the room in a friendly, business-as-usual tone. I feel myself begin to sweat.
“I’m so sorry to be late.” True. “It was unavoidable.” Not true. “I know Melissa wishes she could have stayed on the campaign until the launch, but she is staying in touch—we exchange emails and phone calls daily.” Sort of true, minus the phone calls… and the daily. “Well, I definitely don’t want to waste everyone’s time bringing me up to speed,” I say, taking a seat beside Elle, “so let’s continue, shall we?”
Forget my wish to get Priscilla fired. I’m doing a fine job putting myself out the door first.
Ping. The instant messenger box pops up in the center of the notes I am drafting on what I did and didn’t screw up in the Nintendo meeting. Right now the lists seem distressingly even.
Izzy12242: how was your meeting?
PRCHICK78: how did you know about that fiasco?
Izzy12242: didn’t know it was a fiasco. what happened?
PRCHICK78: wait. Then why did you know to ask?
Izzy12242: What do you mean? I called your office. Tru said you were in a meeting.
Izzy12242: I just saw that you were back online. Are you upset? You seem very uptight.
Only Izzy could get away with saying that to me right now.
PRCHICK78: I am uptight! I was 20 MINUTES late for my meeting with the Nintendo people. And Elle was not amused.
Izzy12242: holy crap!
PRCHICK78: I fell asleep on the sofa, and didn’t hear the alarm.
PRCHICK78: Elle’s face = if looks could kill!!!!
Izzy12242: Yeah, I can imagine. So… what’d you do?
PRCHICK78: Some major tap dancing. I felt like Richard Gere in Chicago. Only I was definitely not as good.
Izzy12242: well he had months to practice and professional choreography
PRCHICK78: haha
Izzy12242: Seriously… what happened? Is everything okay?
PRCHICK78: Yeah, Izzy, yeah. I’m fine. just had a long day yesterday, and I was so psyched to unwind with a bottle of wine, and the next thing I know, I wake up on the sofa, late for work.
Izzy12242: But, wasn’t Jacob with you?
PRCHICK78: Yeah. He was there; we watched Survivor.
Izzy12242: But he didn’t stay over?
PRCHICK78: Nope
Izzy12242: “Nope”? Are you guys fighting? What’s going on?
PRCHICK78: I don’t know. We’re not fighting, it’s just tense and weird. He was all lame about the takeout, and I didn’t really want him to stay over, and I guess he left.
Izzy12242: You guess?
PRCHICK: Well I sort of passed out.
Izzy12242: Oh Soph. Have you talked to him since?
PRCHICK78: Not yet.
Izzy12242: Call me. I’ve got a few minutes free.
PRCHICK78: Actually, I gotta get back to work—make up for what happened this morning. Call you later, okay?
Izzy12242: Sure, call me anytime. xoxo
PRCHICK78: xxoo
I am busy, but I also really don’t want to talk about this with Izzy right now. I mean, what am I going to say? That I’ve turned into a lunatic I barely recognize? And frankly, I am still reeling from the barely disguised disaster that was my morning. My head is throbbing and I am staring at the untouched turkey wrap sandwich in front of me, wondering how I expected to choke down this food. I should have just ordered fries with extra grease and been done with it. I hear Tru answer my line as I pick up the pickle lying alongside my sandwich and am about to take the plunge when she buzzes me.
“It’s Jeff.”
I take it. “Jeff. What’s up?” Anything to distract me from my thoughts.
“Emergency. Code red. Orlando is sick. He has to cancel the Tonight Show booking.”
“Oh, God. When’s he supposed to be on?”
“Today! He’s supposed to be getting into the car in less than three hours. Jesus. Who can we offer them? Help save my ass.” Now, obviously, the producers understand that people get sick. It happens. And certainly Orlando Bloom will be forgiven under such circumstances… but the firm doesn’t want to risk our relationship with the “late night leader” by not at least offering them another excellent guest. It’s only good business.
“Give me ten minutes.” And I hang up. Now it’s time to cross my fingers. I dial, and pray.
“Hello?”
“Billy? It’s Sophie.” Thank God he answered. That’s the first hurdle. “I know this sounds crazy, but I’m wondering if you’re free this afternoon to do a guest appearance on The Tonight Show.”
“What, like today?”
“Yes, in a couple hours actually. You’d need to be there at four for the taping at five. Orlando Bloom—another one of our clients—just got ill and had to cancel last-minute. And so Leno is in a bit of a bind. We’d love to offer them a replacement that’s, you know… on the same… level. You’d be doing me a huge favor.” Oh God… what was I saying? I should definitely shut up now.
“Um… yeah sure, I can do it.”
“That’s fantastic. You’re actually doing us all a huge favor. The show will love you for it too.”
“Yeah. No problem.”
“Okay. Thank you so much, Billy. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Well, you’ll be there, right? You want to grab a drink or bite afterwards?” The warmth in his tone, the suggestion, makes my stomach do a triple somersault.
“I’d love to but…” I have a boyfriend. I’m in enough trouble as it is.
“You’d deny the request of a ‘lifesaver’?” Billy teases.
He’s right. I do owe him a little. And it’s just a bite. Only my overheated imagination needs a chaperone. “All right. You win. I know a fabulous French bistro practically across the street from the studio.”
“Perfect.” And he is gone. A deep breath, and then I am back on the phone.
“Jeff. We’re golden. Billy Fox is available tonight for Leno. Do you want me to make the call?”
“No. With good news like that to soften the blow, is it okay if I do it?” I love this kid and his can-do attitude. And Jeff’s right. He needs to get comfortable doing the dirty work too. And as far as an “I’ve got bad news and good news” kind of call goes, this one has a happy ending. So it’s the perfect chance to let him get his feet wet.
“Call me back. Let me know what they say.”
“You bet.”
With another disaster averted, I lean back and consider an email to Elle. Bottom line, I owe her an apology. Big-time. And even though I ultimately rallied and left the Nintendo folk smiling, I am going to have to eat some major humble pie to get her to forget about this morning. Securing Billy Fox to step in last second isn’t even going to win a half smile out of her. An email isn’t enough. And flowers are too kiss-ass. What can I do?
My thoughts are interrupted by an email.
From: Jacob R. Sloane
To: Sophie
Subject: call me
No note, nothing. Somehow the succinct
email feels very ominous, but then Jacob can be curt in emails without the intent. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. My normal “when in trouble” response is to delay… and spend hours dreading the inevitable. But right now, I’m in a “rip the bandage off” mood. So I dial his work line.
“It’s Sophie,” I say when he answers. The less I say the better.
“Sophie. What happened last night?” He doesn’t sound mad. I sense a trap.
“What do you mean? Nothing happened.” I wouldn’t say it was the most romantic date or anything, but still… it’s not like we had a raging fight either.
“You passed out on your sofa… Before the show was even over.”
“I saw it. I was just so tired I couldn’t keep my eyes open.” I can sense denial’s armor springing up all around me.
“Sophie, you were drunk. You passed out cold.”
I am so glad he’s on the phone because this conversation face-to-face would be unbearable.
“So? I had a bad day and I wanted some wine. I was not drunk.”
“I just hate when we fight, and I have to tell you, we seem to always argue when you’re drinking too much.”
“Since when did you become such a prude?”
“God, Sophie. I have tried really hard not to say anything, but last night has happened a few too many times lately. And I just wanted to discuss it with you—when we can both be rational.”
“Well, now’s actually not a good time for me. I’ve been putting out fires all day, and I just found out that I have to head over to The Tonight Show.”
“I think this is important.” The sensitivity in his voice makes it sound extra grave, but I ignore the shivers it sends down my spine.
“Well I guess I’m just not in the mood to be ‘rational’ right now. I’ve got a lot going on, and working through my presumed shortcomings is going to have to go to the bottom of the list.”
“We were supposed to go over paperwork for the Tribe of Hope committee last night. That deadline is coming up.”
The Star Attraction Page 9