by Beth Orsoff
I’d left all of my high heels at home. Even I realized they wouldn’t be appropriate footwear on Wilde Island.
"C’mon," Jill said, heading back to the trail. "I want to show you the sea lions."
"Sea lions? I thought this was a walrus refuge."
She shook her head. "Boy, do you have a lot to learn."
Chapter 6
As Jill showed me around the island, she explained the refuge’s rules—basically, stay on the trails and don’t disturb the animals.
"So I guess petting them would be out of the question?"
Jill’s jaw actually dropped.
"Kidding, Jill!" As if anyone would want to pet those walruses. First, the smell alone would keep most people away. It wasn’t too bad when the wind was gusting, but when it stopped or when you were downwind, oh my God. The inside of a sewer would smell better. Jill told me I’d get used to it, though I doubted it. I noticed that even she breathed through her mouth when we neared a particularly odorous bunch.
"And remember," Jill said, as we followed the meandering trail to the edge of the bluff, "you need to keep your voice down whenever they’re near. This is their habitat and we don’t want to disturb them."
"How can they even hear us?" This was the closest I’d gotten to the walruses since I’d landed at the boat cove, and they were still thirty feet down a straight vertical drop.
"They have extremely sensitive hearing," she said, motioning for me to follow her inland. "They can pick up another walrus’s call from a mile away."
Good information to have if I ever wanted to summon a walrus. Although why anyone would want to do that, I couldn’t imagine.
It was almost seven o’clock by the time we returned to the empty cabin. Too late to call the office—it was an hour later in California—but I could still answer e-mail. I pulled my laptop and rented satellite phone from my briefcase and located Jill in the kitchen.
"Would you mind if I use the empty desk?"
"Go ahead," she said, leaning into the stove with a match, which quickly set off a ring of flame. "Although I wasn’t planning on putting you to work until tomorrow."
I’d been avoiding this conversation all day. "Yeah, we should probably talk about that. I know technically I’m a ‘volunteer,’" I said with the air quotes, "but we both know I’m really just here for the documentary."
Hillary Troy, the communications director at the Save the Walrus Foundation, the non-profit group on whose behalf Blake and I were producing this film, assured me before I’d left L.A. that she’d worked it all out with Jill’s boss at the Alaska Department of Wildlife. According to Hillary, Jill was a desk jockey in ADW’s Anchorage office for most of the year. She only managed the refuge during the summer months when it was open to visitors.
"I thought that would just be for a few days at the end," Jill said, hoisting a giant pot of water onto the stove.
"We’ll only be shooting for a few days, but I still have a lot of prep work to do between now and then, plus I’ve still got my day job. But don’t worry," I said, holding up the box for my rented satellite phone, "I read the guidelines and brought my own, so it won’t cost the refuge a penny."
"Sydney, I know the foundation hired you and Blake McKinley to—"
"They didn’t hire us. We’re working for free." The Save the Walrus Foundation barely had enough money to cover our expenses. "Blake’s very concerned about the walrus’s plight and feels strongly about using his status in a positive way."
"Very admirable," she said, wiping her hands on a towel. "However, as I explained to Hillary, the only way the refuge would even consider allowing this was if the foundation agreed to send us a volunteer for the summer. I think we’ve been more than reasonable in agreeing to cut that down to a month."
I hadn’t anticipated Jill being such a stickler. "Don’t get me wrong, Jill, I’d love to help the refuge too. I’m just afraid my abilities aren’t really compatible with your needs."
Jill leaned back against the counter and folded her arms across her chest. "And what exactly are your abilities, Sydney?"
Chapter 7
I used to be able to answer that question with confidence. Lately, not so much.
It had been a tough adjustment when my mom and I first moved from dreary Grover’s Point, Michigan, to celebrity-laden L.A. But when my dad walked out on us the week before my twelfth birthday, we both learned to adapt. It didn’t take me long to discover in L.A. you can be anyone you want to be, so long as you can play the part. Gone were the Sundays spent volunteering at church or the local women’s shelter. In L.A. I spent my weekends scouring high-end thrift stores for designer bargains I otherwise couldn’t have afforded, or hanging out with my friends at the beach.
We moved to California because my mom insisted we needed a change of scenery to make a fresh start. Although she supported us the same way she had in Michigan, by teaching math at an inner city high school. But when she was offered a job at a fancy Westside prep school the following year, she took it because it came with free tuition for me.
My mom hated working at the Warner Academy but she stuck it out there until the day I graduated when she announced that it was time for us to move to a city "where people don’t judge you by what kind of car you drive or how much money you make."
After eight sweltering weeks in Gainesville, Florida, with my mom and Molly, our three-year-old golden retriever, I gratefully returned to the land of low humidity. I spent the next four years living in a 1970s-vintage apartment, complete with popcorn ceilings and orange Formica countertops, which I shared with five other girls as I paid my own way through UCLA. Although "paid" is really a misnomer. I borrowed my way through.
I admit when I started college I still had one or two lingering notions about a public interest career, no doubt instilled by my mother, who viewed our five-day drive across the country in a rented U-haul as her last opportunity to mold my character. But I’d abandoned them by my junior year when I realized there was no way I could ever repay eighty thousand dollars in student loans on a nonprofit salary.
From there it wasn’t much of a leap to setting my sights on the entertainment industry. It was the industry in Los Angeles, where all the city’s money, power, and beauty converged. Since I had none of those things, I had no idea how to break in. I couldn’t afford to take an unpaid internship like most of my friends, but I did manage to talk my way into a summer job in the corporate communications department at Golden State Bank. And when they offered me a permanent position the week before I graduated, I took it. Although I never intended to stay.
After the obligatory two years, I started applying for jobs at P.R. agencies and was thrilled the day Rick Lopez hired me at BB&L Publicity. My position was account executive, which was really just a fancy title for assistant, but I was happy because at twenty-four I felt like I was finally pursuing my dream. Not only was BB&L going to pay me to talk on the phone all day, I’d get to hang out with celebrities too! Or so I thought.
I quickly learned that I wouldn’t actually be hanging out with celebrities. When you work for them, they tend to view you more as a servant than a friend. To be honest, most of them are so annoying I wouldn’t want to spend my off hours with them even if they asked me to. Blake McKinley was the exception to the rule. Probably because we were friends long before he ever had a career.
Rick denies it to this day, but I actually had to plead with him to let me take Blake on as a client. He had just landed his first TV gig and he was a nobody, but I knew he was going to be huge someday. And I was right. Platinum Titans, Blake’s third film, wasn’t even opening until September, yet his performance as a paraplegic ex-football star who learns to walk again was already generating Oscar buzz. Actually, I was generating it for him, but it’s the same thing.
So when Blake called me two months ago and told me he wanted a cause, of course I made it my top priority.
"What kind of a cause, exactly?" I didn’t doubt his sincerity, but Blake had neve
r expressed an interest in social justice issues before.
"You know, a cause. Something I can be a spokesperson for. I’ve decided I should use my celebrity status to do good."
"You mean like George Clooney and the genocide in Darfur?"
"Yeah. Only it has to be something unique. Something no one else is doing. No global warming or feeding the hungry. Everyone’s all over those two."
"I think that’s a great idea, Blake. Let me give it some thought and get back to you."
I hadn’t even cracked the cover of the Atlantic Monthly I’d picked up on my lunch hour to start researching obscure social causes when Blake called me again.
"Hey, babe. So I’m in the car listening to NPR and—"
"Since when do you listen to NPR?" I mumbled through a mouthful of Chinese chicken salad.
"Nice, Sydney. Nice to know you think I’m just another pretty face. If you’re not going to take me seriously—"
"Blake, you know I’m teasing. I’m just jealous because you’re out cruising around in your convertible while I’m stuck in the office under fluorescent lights. Please, do tell me what the esteemed commentators on NPR had to say."
"I only caught the tail end of the story, but the upshot was walruses are now an endangered species."
"So?" I said, trying not to crunch in his ear.
"So this is my unique cause. I’m going to save the walruses."
Chapter 8
Since I’d never actually seen a walrus, I immediately Googled them and quickly found the link to Wilde Island. They didn’t look all that cute in the photos, not even in the same league as the penguins and the polar bear cubs, but Blake wanted walruses, so I went with it. The documentary was my idea. Blake loved it, however I still had to convince my boss.
"Sydney, if Blake wants to play Mother Teresa I’ve got no problem with that," Rick said at our staff meeting the next day. "It’s worked wonders for Angelina. I’m just not getting where you’re going with this."
The twelve other people in the conference room shifted their gazes from Rick to me. "It’s actually very simple," I said, wheeling my black leather chair closer to the table. "We’ll produce a short documentary with Blake on camera explaining why and how the walruses are endangered and what Joe Public can do to help. If we shoot it next month, we can have it edited and uploaded to YouTube by the end of the summer, and Blake can promote it while he’s on the Platinum Titans press tour."
"And have either of you ever produced a film before?" Lindsay Holt, my back-stabbing, client-stealing, unfairly gorgeous colleague asked. "Because I have, and I can tell you it’s not as easy as it sounds. Someone on your team needs to know what they’re doing."
And I was sure she’d be oh so happy to volunteer. Well, Blake was one client I wasn’t going to let her steal. "This isn’t Gone With The Wind, Lindsay, it’s a ten-minute documentary. I think we can figure it out." Then I turned my attention back to Rick, while trying to keep Lindsay out of my peripheral vision, which wasn’t easy since she was sitting right next to him.
"The beauty of this film is its simplicity," I continued. "Every summer thousands of walruses congregate on this one island in Alaska, so the shoot will be easy. No multiple locations or trying to film at sea. We just fly up there, shoot Blake with the walruses for a couple of days, add an interview with a talking head, a couple of stock shots of stunning scenery, and that’s it. No muss, no fuss."
"And how exactly does an association with walruses improve Blake’s image?" Lindsay chimed in again.
"It lets the world see him for the caring, giving, socially responsible person he is." That elicited a few twitters around the conference table, but I ignored them.
"Does it matter?" Rick said. "It’s what he wants. They all do these days."
"Exactly." It doesn’t count as brown-nosing when you genuinely agree with what your boss is saying. Plus Rick had given me the perfect segue to the idea that was sure to get me back into his good graces, which was a long way from where I was now. "And since we all know green is the new black in Hollywood, I say we position BB&L as the public relations firm to help them update their wardrobe."
"You lost me," Rick said, his eyes straying again from my face to Lindsay’s cleavage.
"You said it yourself, Rick. They all want to be involved in causes these days, so that’s our hook. We position ourselves as the caring, eco-friendly, socially responsible PR firm. BB&L doesn’t just promote its clients, it produces their films, organizes their fundraisers, arranges their visits to war-torn countries, whatever it takes. In fact, I think there’s so much untapped potential here we should think about setting up a new practice group just to handle celebrity causes." Naturally he’d need someone to spearhead this new practice group, and that someone would be me. But I intended to save that conversation for later, when Lindsay wasn’t in the room.
Rick was nodding, but said, "Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Sydney. I think we should wait and see how this film turns out first before we commit any resources."
"Of course," I said. "Fall’s the perfect time to revisit the idea."
After the meeting I rushed back to my office to call Blake. I wanted to tell him we got the green light from Rick, but before I could even finish dialing, Lindsay sauntered in.
"I meant what I said at the meeting. Someone on this production needs to know what they’re doing. I’m happy to call Blake if you’re not comfortable having that conversation with your client."
"And like I said, Lindsay, it’s a ten-minute documentary. I’m sure we can figure it out. Thanks anyway."
I picked up the phone again so she’d know we were done, but she only shrugged. "It’s your funeral. I just hate to see Blake go down with you."
"No one’s going down, Lindsay. We’re both only going up from here."
She offered me her fake smile before continuing down the hall. She was probably headed straight to Rick’s office. No doubt she would try to convince him to hand my project over to her since I was sure to screw it up if left on my own. Not long ago he would’ve trusted me, but my track record hadn’t been so good lately.
My first few years at BB&L I’d been a rising star. I’d only worked as an assistant for ten months when Rick promoted me to publicity manager, and within two years I was handling all of my own accounts. It had only been since Lindsay’s arrival that I started stumbling.
First it was little things. I’d order Diet Coke for my client’s hotel room and somehow the staff would end up delivering Diet Pepsi. Or I’d arrange for a limo to pick up a client at five, and somehow the limo company would get the message not to arrive until six. I could never prove Lindsay was responsible, which only heightened my suspicions.
The last straw was when a high-powered celebrity journalist got mad at me for not returning his call, one I’d never received. I demanded Rick do something because clearly Lindsay and I sharing an assistant wasn’t working out. Rick acceded to my request, just not in the way I’d wanted. He assigned my assistant to Lindsay and made me share with a senior publicist, which meant my work only got done if she had time left at the end of the day. Lindsay loved that.
For my last blunder, I had no one to blame but myself. It was the morning of the SAG Awards when my mom called to tell me she’d had to put Molly to sleep. I was devastated.
I still worked that day but I was a bit distracted, and in my haze I accidentally sent Jennifer A.’s hairdresser to Jennifer G.’s house and Jennifer G.’s manicurist to Jennifer A.’s mansion. Since one lived in Malibu and the other lived in Los Feliz, by the time I realized my mistake, it wasn’t feasible to switch them. Which meant Jennifer A. had to do her own hair (with the help of her many minions) and Jennifer G. had to paint her own fingernails (with the help of her maid). They each looked fabulous anyway, and it was just the SAG Awards, not the Oscars or the Emmys or even the Golden Globes, but they both still fired me.
Rick was understandably livid. He managed to woo Jennifer G. back—she’s Lindsay’s clie
nt now—but Jennifer A. defected to the Feldstein Agency, one of our competitors. I had to beg Rick not to fire me too. He had two golden retrievers of his own so he sort of understood and grudgingly agreed to keep me on, although I’d been on his shit list ever since. I knew one more screw-up and I was history. That’s why when Hillary Troy called and told me the only way to save the walrus documentary was for me to volunteer on Wilde Island for a month, I didn’t hesitate. Although this catastrophe really wasn’t my fault.
I’d filed my application with the Alaska Film Commission in a timely manner, filled out all the forms, and paid the fees. I was just waiting for final approval when disaster struck. Goddamn Paramount! If their stupid electrician hadn’t accidentally knocked a klieg light in the water while shooting their latest big budget disaster movie, killing two dolphins instantly and sending a third to the marine mammal infirmary, there wouldn’t have been a public outcry by every animal lover in the state demanding the Governor of Alaska issue a moratorium on film permits until new safety procedures could be put in place. Both Hillary and I called the Film Commission and begged anyone who would listen to grandfather us in before the ban took effect—we weren’t a hundred-person crew, just a cameraman, me, and Blake—but they refused.
Since canceling the project at that point, after Blake was wedded to it and my boss had agreed, was unthinkable, we started searching for a workaround. Hillary suggested we film in the Arctic where thousands of walruses migrate every summer, but renting a boat and hiring a crew was prohibitively expensive. She also mentioned that Russia had its own walrus population along the coast of Siberia, but I quickly discovered that getting a last minute permit to shoot on Russian soil was impossible. I was still trying to come up with a solution when fate intervened.
One of the refuge’s summer volunteers had broken her leg and had to cancel. It was Hillary’s idea to offer the refuge a trade—a last-minute replacement volunteer in exchange for permission to shoot.