If this little dose of Zen is my future, I’m on the right path.
“Yes. Please close the door.”
Okay, something’s up because at this early evening hour only the cleaning crew might overhear. Oh Priscilla, what have you done…?
I shut the door, my curiosity piqued.
Elle turns around and motions for me to take a seat. I try to read her face, determined to judge the category of shitstorm ahead, but she’s far too Sphinx-like—or possibly Botoxed—to decipher. “What’s up?” I ask neutrally, running a finger across the nubby texture of an adjacent pillow.
“We’ve been working together now for what, seven years or so?” I nod, still trying to piece together where this is going. “You’ve proven yourself repeatedly to be a valuable asset of Bennett/Peters. I’m not always the most effusive with praise, but I want you to know that I’ve come to highly respect and trust you.”
Wow. This is so not what I was expecting—however nice to hear—and I can feel my shoulders relax and sink back more comfortably into the cushion. Despite my recent tardiness and slipups, I am a great publicist. And to be recognized as such by Elle, especially at the end of what felt like the worst day ever, is a sign of hope. Somehow everything—the current mess I’ve made of my life—will work itself out.
And most remarkably, am I about to get promoted or something?! Why else would she ask me to shut the door to start singing my praises? After all the earlier tears, it feels amazing to crack a smile. After the day I’ve had, this is really incredible timing.
“Thank you, Elle. You don’t know how good that is to—”
“And now you’ve put us—me—in a very uncomfortable position.”
Wait. What?
Only now do I notice that Elle isn’t smiling at all.
“I’m worried about your judgment, Sophie,” Elle continues, now restlessly pacing in front of her desk. “I’m concerned about your recent lack of focus.” Each sentence hits me like a rock thrown in the dark. “And I’m very disappointed by some client interaction.”
In an instant, I’m on my feet, cheeks flushed, ready to defend myself. “Elle, once again I’m so sorry about the Nintendo meeting and any other seeming lack of focus lately. That won’t ever happen again, I promise. You know I’m one hundred percent committed to my job and would never—”
“Do we need to discuss Billy Fox?”
Billy. All the incited fight in me evaporates. She knows. I take a step back and sit on the edge of the couch. I feel light-headed. How could I be so stupid?
And it only gets worse.
Elle stops pacing to join me on the couch, at the opposite end, a small cluster of pillows between us. There’s nowhere to hide as she peers at me wistfully. “Understand, the inappropriateness is not the issue. These things happen.”
I meet her gaze. She’s a woman. She understands.
“Initially there were rumors. But gossip is like smog in this town—everywhere, and you simply learn to ignore it. But then photographs—extra steamy photographs shot in what looks to be a back alley—of Billy Fox and his new ‘mystery paramour’ surfaced, ready to circulate in the gossip columns and on the websites.”
Oh my God.
“Luckily a media contact of Priscilla’s got advance word of the photos’ existence and she was able to forewarn us of the imminent scandal.”
The potential repercussions were clear. If the truth got out, it might damage Billy’s and the firm’s reputation. Given that, Elle explains, she and Billy’s manager, Wanda, paid off the source.
I am horrified on so many levels. How did anyone know about Billy’s and my budding romance? We were careful. I’m not a fool. And even I couldn’t predict Billy was going to show up at Saddle Ranch. I don’t recall any paparazzi out front that night—much less hiding behind the back Dumpsters.
Once again, I’m apologizing profusely, insisting she let me repay the cost of the cover-up, anything to redeem myself. But it feels like I’m trying to form a sand castle in the middle of high tide. As hard as I try, everything is slipping through my fingers. Then I remember my earlier decision, the renewed certainty I feel about Jacob. With the photos out of harm’s way, I can fix this. I switch tactics. “And it’s over between us. With Billy. I mean, he doesn’t entirely know, but I do.”
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Elle says, silencing me with a well-manicured raised finger. “You are taking an extended vacation, keeping a low profile, and getting your head together.”
I stare at her like she just spoke Mandarin. Remember, I haven’t taken significant time off in years. Long weekends are a rare indulgence. My family is local. My clients need me. I could never leave my responsibilities in others’ hands for long. The very idea of an “extended vacation” is foreign and absurd. Elle might as well have said I’m heading off to space camp or clown college. “With Melissa on early leave and everything going on, I just need to focus on work.”
“I think you misunderstood me. When I said ‘vacation,’ I was being polite. You’re suspended—effective immediately—with a serious probation period to follow the break if I can get over my personal disappointment.”
“But I have the NYC press junket coming up.”
“Yes, for Billy’s movie. Obviously Wanda and I agree that’s not a good idea.” And then comes the knockout blow. “I’m temporarily transferring your clients to Priscilla.”
“Wait. Priscilla?!” The very notion conjures the thought of toddlers left to entertain themselves with a loaded knife block. Because in some ways my clients are my “children,” my responsibility, trusting me to get them through the system unscathed.
“Yes. Don’t forget she was the one who saved you from a lot of grief and embarrassment. The tabloids would have had a field day with those photos. Second to adultery, we both know how they salivate over a ‘star falls for “the help” ’ angle. Your job is to secure media for our clients, not become news yourself.”
Unquestionably, she’s right. Even if the voyeuristic appeal to the public blew over in a couple of days, Jacob’s pride would never be able to erase the captured image. And my hard-earned reputation would be instantly reduced to “you know, the one who hooked up with her client, Billy Fox.”
The sheer magnitude of the entire situation hits me—my terrible choices, the near miss, the inescapable consequences, and, worst of all, the uncertainty of my future. I’m almost too terrified to ask the next question.
“Will you really have my job waiting after I… regroup?”
Full of surprises, Elle reaches over and briefly places her hand over mine. Her poker face doesn’t show whether she notes my faint nervous shake. “We’ll see,” she says, tapping once. “It would truly make me sad to see you go.”
I honestly can’t decide if that was a gesture of hope or a form of farewell. In either case, the conversation is over.
Back in my office I numbly gather a few personal items (repeating to myself, This is only “temporary,” to keep any more erratic emotion at bay) and update my outgoing messages. Elle’s taken it upon herself to notify my clients and their management. As with many troubled starlets and pop stars before me, the absence will be attributed to inscrutable “exhaustion,” as if I simply overworked myself into a corner, which in a way I did. I force thoughts of Tru, Jeff, and the rest of the team’s private reaction to my little breakdown and sudden departure out of my mind. It’s all too humiliating to consider.
On the corner of my desk a small framed photo catches my eye. I pick it up for a closer look. It’s of Jacob and me from our trip to San Francisco. We’re nestled close in a rowboat at Stow Lake in Golden Gate Park, Jacob’s left arm around me, his right extended out of frame to work the camera. I remember laughing with the unbalanced boat’s rocking, and the trial snapshots chopping off our heads or capturing clouds. There’s simple joy on our faces. I barely recognize that girl of half a year ago. What happened to her?
To us? To lead me here?
The happ
y memory has been staring at me—just to the left of my computer monitor—for months. And yet I’m looking at it now as if for the first time. When did it—Jacob—fall into my blind spot? I slip the slender frame into my purse and without a look back head to the elevators.
Only to encounter a barracuda in Balenciaga.
“Sophie, darling,” Priscilla says, her skinny ass blocking the call button. “It’s such a relief to hear you’re taking a well-deserved break. Good for you.”
We’re alone at the elevator bank. I should have sensed her circling—like a buzzard.
As if for the benefit of a nonexistent audience, she continues. “I can’t imagine how exhausted you must be.” The most condescending smile cracks her face. “Don’t you worry. I’ll take good care of your clients.” She moves aside and calls the elevator for me. “Well, maybe not quite as much personal attention.”
If I didn’t think it would force Elle and HR to make my break permanent, I would have readily decked the smug bitch that helped “save” my job.
Lifesaver, my ass. It worked out too well for her to be coincidental. There’s no doubt in my mind that Priscilla somehow played a major role in my ousting. If it’s my last business at Bennett/Peters, I will find out how and take her down.
Throughout the hour-long drive home, I check my phone incessantly. There’s no word from Jacob. Or Billy, for that matter. And now I’m suspended from work, the place that was even more “home” to me than my condo. To this workaholic, I might as well have been fired. It feels like being fired, the void of the days ahead unbearable. And then there’s the self-disgust. I can’t even look at my BlackBerry in dread of the sure-to-come collective advice of bed rest, boosting vitamins, and homeopathic treatments from those sincerely wishing me a swift recovery.
What am I going to tell Izzy? My parents?
It’s a fine mess.
That’s when I realize I do have a plan. My plan is to curl up on the sofa, drink a bottle of wine, and die. My plan is to stay in the fetal position until someone calls the landlord about the smell from my apartment. And then the police can come collect the body.
Tonight, all I want to feel is numb.
I drop my bags inside the front door and march into the kitchen. I stare at my nearly depleted wine rack. Two bottles? How did this happen? But if I ever deserved wine, tonight is the night. So with complete righteousness, I bypass the Riesling and grab the bottle of Opus One that Jacob bought me when we were touring Napa wineries one romantic weekend. The prized bottle we talked about opening ten years later. It was the first time we really made plans, as a couple, for a shared future.
I remember how exciting that moment felt. Its promise.
And then I recall the hurt look on Jacob’s face as he said my name just hours ago. The foil can’t come off fast enough. The corkscrew may as well be embedded in my heart. I just want to dull the pain. Overcome with grief, I jerk the cork too strongly and it breaks in two, half-trapped in the neck of the bottle.
Of course.
I dig around my seldom-used kitchen drawers for something, anything, to poke it back into the wine. And then I stop.
I don’t want to be that girl anymore, drowning her problems.
If I resist the heavy pull—at least tonight—then I’ve done one thing right.
And really, I’ve got to start somewhere.
I return the wrecked bottle to the rack, peel off my shoes, and curl up on the couch. It’s Survivor night. I wonder if Jacob is doing the same across town and if he’s thinking of me. I resign myself to watching Survivor solo for the first time, determined to find immunity from my own troubled self.
With plenty of trepidation and very little appetite I’m on my way to meet Jacob for Thai. Though left unsaid in his texted invite and my even briefer acceptance this morning, we both know “The Talk” is on the menu.
No wonder I feel nauseous.
He finally texted just after Survivor ended last night:
MEET ME TOMORROW AT TUK TUK AT 6:30?
Short and to the point.
Now here I am walking into a restaurant that thinks it’s one velvet rope away from being a trendy nightclub. As if pad thai required its own DJ. But the establishment is roughly equal distance between our homes, and at 6:30 P.M. we’re meeting early enough to ensure it’s near-empty and the house music is at a more ambient than tabletop-dancing level. Still, is this to be the climax of our romance and culinary quest—a generic Thai joint? The thought is too depressing.
Jacob’s already inside, nursing a Singha beer as he reclines against the tufted white leather banquette. He’s still in work clothes, but the tie has been put away and his shirt’s top few buttons left undone, revealing bare throat and a glimpse of chest hair. “Mr. Steady” looks good—maybe not “model pretty” like Billy, but in the short seconds I get to take him in before he notes my arrival, my pulse quickens.
Once I’m seated in my chic yet not all that comfortable plastic chair, his eyes on mine reflect a familiar carousel of conflicting emotions. We may look like any couple on Date Night, but there’s palpable tension radiating from Table Twelve. And it’s more than a Singha and the smiling Buddha figurine in a neighboring alcove can assuage.
“I don’t even know where to begin…,” Jacob says, his fingers absentmindedly tugging at a corner of the beer bottle’s label.
If only I could reach over and kiss him, reassure him there’s nothing to discuss. We’re all good. Let sleeping dogs lie and all that. But I know it can’t be so easy.
“We’re meeting and talking. That’s a start.” I place my hand over his restless fingers. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t exactly take my hand.
“I know things haven’t been perfect between us lately,” Jacob continues, “but… okay, I’ll bite. What the hell was that all about yesterday?”
With impeccable timing, the clueless waitress arrives to fill water glasses, list the specials, and take our order. A part of me wants her to never leave us, as if her orderly presence could forever keep any messy conversation or consequence to my relationship with Jacob at bay. But collected menus in hand, she leaves me to my fate.
Now it’s my turn to fidget, tracing the soft marigold petals in the center bud vase. I can’t lie to Jacob. But I don’t want to hurt him either. Or lose him… if there’s any hope of fixing us. What’s the truth without being too truthful?
“Yesterday—in my office—was a huge misunderstanding,” I blurt out. “You’ve got nothing to worry about with Billy Fox.”
“That was a whole lot of tears over nothing.”
How do you refute that? Jacob’s no fool.
Deflect.
“For weeks now, something’s been off between us,” I say. “You must have felt it too. We were in a rut.” And then I madly just blurt it out. “And then sometimes I think about the future.”
“I knew things were off. And I tried to get you to talk to me that night at your place. But what are you saying?”
“We’ve been together for nearly two years and I still don’t know where we’re going. You never discuss the future. I love you, Jacob. But I’m terrified that you’re comfortable with the status quo. And I’m… not.”
“Are you talking about marriage? Haven’t we both seen enough relationships fall apart over a piece of paper? We had something great here. Together. I don’t want to mess it up for some technicality.” I’m dumbstruck by his words. My gut was right—Jacob doesn’t want to marry me, as I feared all along. Obviously the word “marriage” is just not in his vocabulary, and I’m so hung up on hearing the void of it, I almost miss the next part. “I want to be with you and only you, Sophie. But let’s let the future be what the future will be.”
Happiness left to c’est la vie. It isn’t enough.
“I didn’t look for it,” I say, the words tumbling out, no matter how much I wish to protect him. And us. I know the truth will harm him, but keeping it inside is perhaps more unfair to him. “I didn’t even believe it at
first when Billy flirted with me. But the fact that I let myself be charmed… means something.”
“Yeah, that you’ll fall for a cliché.” Ouch. “Was George Clooney or Bradley Cooper unavailable? Why, Soph? And of all people…him?! Billy Fox? Is that even a real name or something they manufactured in Hollywood?”
Exit Easygoing Jacob. I know all about hurt pride.
“Look, I get that you’re upset… but nothing really happened. We made out. It’s not like we slept together. And I felt you and I had broken up.”
“Oh, well I guess everything’s great, then.”
“It was a mistake. I realize that now. Jacob, I want things to work out. I want you.”
“Well you have a funny way of showing it. Instead of being mature and, I don’t know, talking about it, you’re out test-driving, kissing other men—”
“One man. Once.” No time to be a stickler.
“Whatever.” He bitterly laughs, signaling the waitress for another beer. “If you’d had a ring on your finger, would that have made a difference with Billy Fucking Fox? And you’re asking why I haven’t proposed. Doesn’t that answer your own question?”
“That’s not fair…”
“No, what isn’t fair is that you decide our relationship is over without consulting me.”
“You spoke of our relationship in the past tense. The message was clear. Am I supposed to wait for the official press release?”
The fragrant food and Jacob’s second beer arrive, signaling the end of Round One. The clued-in waitress can’t leave our table fast enough. In fact all eyes around us are conspicuously averted, the clearest indication that our heated row is tonight’s main entertainment. We pick at our meals in steely silence, becoming that dispassionate couple we used to privately point out and smugly whisper, “What’s their problem?”
Finally Jacob pushes aside his plate of Panang Curry. “I called you at work today to reconfirm, but Tru said you were ‘on leave.’ She seemed kind of surprised that I didn’t know.”
The Star Attraction Page 14