“Colleagues…our esteemed Mr. Cabral…I thank each of you for canceling your weekend plans and banding together to proactively fight this challenge to our client’s wholesome brand and aura of trust…” Was this guy for real? “As you know, one of our own has chosen, in an unfortunate manner, to break from The Buitre Group. Not only has her departure left us in quite the lurch with a string of blockbuster movies on the horizon, but she has egregiously threatened to defame our most critically acclaimed author. This cannot happen.” Heads bobbed in agreement. “As business partners, it is our responsibility to protect our client and find a solution that favors Mr. Cabral’s interests. Ms. Rogers, if you will?”
Lexi strode across the room to a laptop and projector. She squeezed Samuel’s forearm as she passed and he shot me a silent “I told you so” look.
Bold, blue letters scrawled across the screen:
BrownStoners: A Houseful of Famous Pens and Crack Pipes
I nearly spit coffee down my front. If nothing, Togsy got props for creativity.
“Ace and I have taken the liberty of reading this ‘tell-all’ written by Lyle Togsender, entitled BrownStoners, and have accrued a list of details that may be of concern to our client.”
Her words triggered a warning signal in my gut and I spoke up. “Wait. Will Samuel—Mr. Cabral—and I have an opportunity to read this book?”
Lexi tilted her head, puzzled. “But we’ve already done it for you.”
I caught Samuel’s eye and he lifted his chin, giving me the go-ahead. “I’d like a copy of BrownStoners.”
“Ms. Trilby,” Jerome said with a patronizing stare, “our concern at the moment is determining the veracity of Lyle Togsender’s claims. Mr. Cabral’s lawyer would prefer to file an injunction as swiftly as possible—surely you can understand our time constraints.”
Samuel backed me up. “But you’ll provide a copy. Ace?”
“My client will need a copy of that book, as soon as possible, preferably hard copy—electronic distribution’s dicey.”
“Without a doubt.” Jerome offered Samuel a photo-worthy smile, but his eyes were hard. It reminded me of…well. Caroline. Something was fishy, and I had a feeling we wouldn’t be getting our mitts on this book any time soon. Jerome extended a hand. “Ms. Rogers, please continue.”
“As I was saying…” As the editor pulled up a PowerPoint listing potential defamation suit material, Samuel began to squirm.
Drug addict.
Cheating husband.
Demanding artist.
One by one, Lexi rattled off cool, clinical descriptions of Samuel’s supposed misdeeds contained in the passages of Togsy’s book. Stoic intensity crumbled to despair as each one hit him like a guilty sentence. And, one by one, he was forced to admit to their truth. After the third slide, I’d had enough. I knew what was coming next, and I was sickened that Samuel’s private mental health battles would be announced with the click of a space bar in a business presentation.
“Ms. Rogers, surely there’s a better way to do this.”
“Kaye, let it go,” Samuel whispered, a hand clutching my knee under the table. I shook him off.
“No. I mean, does Samuel’s accountant really need to be here? Or Justin? They could just be given a summary after the meeting.” I felt my face flush to the roots.
The accountant chuckled uncomfortably. “Actually, I’m not sure why I need to be at half these planning meetings. Someone could give me a five-minute re-cap and I’d be good.”
“When we have crises arise at TrilbyJones that’s embarrassing for a client,” I nervously pushed, “we try to make the situation as painless as possible for them. There’s no sense in trotting out their embarrassment to a room full of people. Molly, get my back on this?”
“Kaye, I don’t…” she stuttered over the phone.
Samuel gave my knee a gentle warning squeeze, and Jerome used my distraction to smoothly take back the reins.
“Ms. Trilby, you are new. You don’t comprehend the beast that is our industry, so we will afford you some leeway. Let me explain. If Mr. Cabral wishes to keep his private life private, it takes a team such as this to achieve said privacy. The very definition of ‘celebrity’ is one who is well-known. Privacy, my dear, is the price of fame. To assist our clients in navigating the complex media landscape, The Buitre Group has a full-service platform of offerings tailored to—”
“Platform of offerings?” I gave a disbelieving laugh. “What, are we sacrificing to Huitzilopochtli now? Sorry, I forgot my headdress.”
That comment gained the hard glares of the entire room. It wasn’t clear whether they were stunned by my mocking of their buzzwords, or my ability to say Huitzilopochtli.
Samuel rose. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, Ms. Rogers. I’d like to confer with Ms. Trilby outside.”
I followed him like a spanked puppy. The hallway was quiet, save for the faint sounds of copy machines and clacking keyboards. I braced myself for hard words. Instead, as the door swung shut, Samuel cupped my face between his hands, his eyes soft.
“Show-off,” he teased, and brushed his lips against mine. “Crazy, brilliant, show-off.” A woman with a handful of files scooted down the hall and around us, shooting curious glances our way. Samuel waited until she rounded the corner. Then he became serious.
“I love you, Kaye. I appreciate that you want to save me from embarrassment, and I know this mess is uncomfortable for you, too. But, Firecracker, this is the consequence of my screw-ups. And if having my indiscretions flashed on PowerPoint slides is part of my sentence, so be it.” He smoothed his thumbs over my cheekbones then dropped his hands. “Besides, if this book isn’t reined in now, it will only get worse. Those slides will become headlines.”
Stop the book. That was the reason we were all here, wasn’t it? I reached up and pecked Samuel’s cheek.
“I’ll behave.”
He pulled me into a hug for a long minute before releasing me. “We’d best go back.”
“They’ll be discussing your bipolar disorder next,” I warned. His jaw tightened, and I knew he was bracing himself for the inevitable.
“I know.”
We slid into our seats, hands clenched under the table as we waited for the bold revelation to be broadcast to the entire room: “BIPOLAR DISORDER.”
But it wasn’t brought to light via a presentation slide. Rather, Lexi glossed over his disorder. Maybe she had tact after all, I don’t know. I found it odd that she could so boldly speak about his arrest for drug possession, being busted with another woman by his wife, or “seducing away another man’s fiancée in a misguided attempt to prove a point,” as Togsy had written. But when it came to something that was not his fault, it was taboo.
She closed the presentation and flipped on the light. “As for Mr. Cabral’s secret—it’s all guesswork on Togsender’s part, and I think we can pass it off as such. In my literary opinion, and you can quote me on this, Jerome, BrownStoners is sensationalistic tripe, more fantasy than fiction, and not worth the paper it’s printed on. Minimalize it.”
“But that’s not accurate,” Samuel murmured.
“You can’t know that until you read the book, Samuel,” I said gently.
“We were destructive and it ruined lives. I know the truth. So do Lyle and Caroline.” He turned to the room. “As for my ‘secret,’ it would be impossible to minimalize. I just…” Samuel lowered shamed eyes to the table. “I don’t want my readers to know about it. Any of it.”
Jerome nodded thoughtfully. “Certainly not. Ace, I assume you will accordingly adjust your media sources’ incentives, should the details of this rubbish be leaked to them?”
“I think my firm can arrange it.” Ah, so that was it—Caulfield Law Firm was paying off the gossip tabs. This man was the secret weapon Caroline deployed whenever they encroached too closely. Who better to keep Samuel’s personal indiscretions personal than an old-money family with industry clout and one-hundred years-on-the-job training? T
he longer I sat in this meeting, the more I realized how many complicated layers of secrecy had accumulated to protect Samuel’s image.
“Excellent,” said Jerome. “Continue to comb through the passages and pick low-hanging fruit which would warrant an injunction and potential defamation lawsuit. If that proves difficult, then we’ll extend a monetary offer to Mr. Togsender via Caulfield Law Firm. Quick and easy.” AKA, hush money. “Now, Mr. Cabral. You said you want to keep your, ah, secret…a secret?”
Samuel shrugged, resigned.
Jerome’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, we’ll operate under the assumption that you do. We deal with these sorts of things all the time.”
The poor accountant was the only man who looked decidedly confused, and I realized that Samuel’s “secret” must have been discussed at length before we arrived. Figures.
Molly was also confused. “I’m not sure I’m following this discussion. Which secret are we talking about here?”
Samuel opened his mouth to speak, but Lexi cut her off. “There’s a reason it’s a secret, Ms. Jones.”
Now. If there was one thing that made Samuel fume, it was being discounted. He had patience, but it seemed to have reached its limits. His eyes flashed. “No, Molly has a point. Why call it a secret, since it’s so obvious you all are privy to it. Call it what it is—my illness.”
Mouths dropped open around the table.
“That’s harsh,” Lexi whispered.
“I haven’t heard it called that since the eighties,” Ace said thoughtfully.
“It’s the truth. I live with this disorder every day of my life, Ms. Rogers, Mr. Buitre. I call it a disease, because that’s what it is. What buzzword would you prefer I use?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know,” she stammered.
“‘Lifestyle choice,’ perhaps? That seems to be the phrase these days,” Ace offered.
“A choice?” Samuel threw up his hands in frustration. To my left, Justin stifled a chuckle.
“Have you considered that Samuel could just come out with his disorder and stick it to Lyle Togsender?” I offered Samuel an encouraging smile. “Then he wouldn’t have to hide it anymore.”
Justin’s laughter was now audible.
Jerome frowned. “Well, it certainly has been done before. But I should warn you, Mr. Cabral’s female fan base would be sorely disappointed.”
“Really, Mr. Buitre, I don’t think women are that shallow. That’s an awfully archaic idea.”
“So is calling it a disorder, Ms. Trilby.”
“If anything, they’d be supportive!”
“Trust me, my dear, hearts will break.”
Justin slapped the table with his palm, repressed tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. “Not all hearts.” He snorted. “Some might be pretty damned thrilled.”
Jerome cleared his throat, effectively calling for silence. “Perhaps we should leave this particular decision in Mr. Cabral’s capable hands. If you do decide to come out, though, please give us plenty of advance warning.”
Molly loosed a bark of incredulity through the speakerphone, right about the time comprehension coated me in a bucket of red paint. Oh holy schnikes. They thought he was gay? That’s what this was about?
“There’s a certain unspoken protocol to follow,” Jerome continued. “Statement to People Magazine—we can mix it in with the marriages, divorces, and Malawian adoptions, then hope for a feel-good feature. Spot on The View, award show acceptance speech when the nominations for Water Sirens begin to roll in, et cetera.”
Wow. Caroline was good. Really good. Next to me, Samuel’s drumming fingers stilled.
“I’m not gay,” he said plainly.
Jerome flashed him a thumbs up. “Which is exactly how you should say it to the media hounds when they ask, in my opinion.”
Samuel’s eyes widened. “No. I’m really not gay. This is pure speculation.”
Expressions around the table ranged from sympathetic to dubious, but not a one—except maybe Justin—believed him.
“I have a girlfriend,” he stammered.
Your ex-wife, their eyes answered.
“I’m in love with her.”
Which is why you hired her as your publicist. Uh-huh. Samuel looked to me helplessly. Hey, he didn’t need to convince me of his sexual preference. But we very well couldn’t tell a room full of PR execs that Samuel and I once dented a wall, could we?
“I’ve had relationships in the past,” he grumbled.
That didn’t last the blink of an eye and remained relatively sexless, according to…ah crap. Caroline’s signed affidavits. No wonder these people didn’t believe Samuel. And the public wouldn’t, either, when the book was released. Jerome was right. Samuel’s female fans could spout the typical platitudes—“good for him…so glad he can be himself…I always wondered”—but secretly, part of his appeal, other than his addictive books, was the idea they could screw him silly if given the opportunity. Jaime would be impressed. Heck, we probably gave Caroline the idea with our faux-lesbo diner antics. In another life, the floozy could have been my friend.
But, in the midst of this Shakespearean misunderstanding, truth struck: the book never once mentioned Samuel’s bipolar disorder.
I didn’t know what to make of Caroline Ortega. For some reason, she hadn’t told Togsy. Or, if she had, he’d refrained from writing about it.
No bipolar disorder. Dodged a bullet. As for the rest, aside from the potshot at Samuel’s sexual prowess with the female species, everything Lexi’d shared in her PowerPoint was the truth—nothing a little digging wouldn’t turn up. The question was, how accurate was Togsy’s truth? For that, I needed the book.
“Samuel’s telling the truth: he’s not gay. Now can we please move on so I can get a copy of this book?”
Jerome’s smile twisted. “Bottom line. In Buitre’s professional opinion, the publication of this book would be detrimental to Mr. Cabral’s career. Ms. Ortega and Mr. Togsender must be stopped.”
The rest of the meeting was a blur of contingency plans. But the one thing no one seemed willing to discuss was the possibility of simply opening up about Samuel’s past and letting the public make of it what they will. Buitre was hell-bent on playing Merry Maids. I tried to catch Samuel’s eye, but he clandestinely scribbled away in his Moleskine. I wasn’t sure if he was taking notes or composing poetry.
Finally, we broke for lunch.
“Jerome,” I said, “while I’m thinking about it, I’d like a hard copy of that book this afternoon.”
A look passed between him and Lexi. “I’m afraid I have it under lock and key at the Bertelsmann Building,” she answered. Jerome patted her back and left the room.
“Well, can someone bring it over?”
“It’s Sunday.”
I pursed my lips. What happened to the “expediency is everything” mantra? I searched the room for Samuel and Ace Caulfield, hoping for some backup. They were tucked away in the corner, immersed in a somber conversation. Samuel’s hands vaguely trembled as Ace handed him some sort of brown-wrapped package no bigger than a shoe box. Curious, I watched them for a moment, then turned back to Lexi.
“The book?”
Lexi sighed. “It’ll be two days before I can have a copy made. Even then, I can’t allow it to leave my office.”
“Then I’ll just hole up in your office to read it.” Son-of-a-monkey. Time to seek other paths.
To my frustration, Justin fell in line with Lexi. “Just forget about the book for an hour and come to lunch with us, Kaye.” He grinned. “We’ll hit a sushi place down the street, maybe find Cabral a boyfriend.”
Samuel appeared at my side and wrapped an arm around my waist. He kissed my neck…then my shoulder…then my temple. Man was still hung up on the fact that the entire room believed he was gay. “Lunch?” he asked.
“I’m going to stay behind and take care of some stuff.”
“Try to rest a bit in one of the conference rooms.” He kissed me again
for good measure. “I’ll bring you a turkey and Swiss.”
When the room was empty, I whipped out my phone and got to work. Forget the nap. I had roughly one hour to get my hands on a copy of that book. Instinct told me there was something in it they didn’t want Samuel to read, and they planned to put us off indefinitely. I had a feeling they were desperate to show a confident face to their client while, behind the scenes, they juggled hoops. Caroline had the right idea in dealing with Buitre—strike before struck.
Caroline…
Eh. Might as well go straight to the source. I sucked it up and punched in her number.
“The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the number and dial again, or dial 6-1-1 for customer assistance…”
A minute later, the email I’d fired off to her account bounced back, too. I tapped my fingernails on the table, baffled. Then, snap—she no longer worked for The Buitre Group, did she? So kind of her to leave a new contact number.
Time for Plan B.
I called Berkshire House and worked my way through their phone system until I got Lexi’s voice mail:
“My office hours are Monday through Friday, seven thirty a.m. to six p.m. If this is an emergency, please contact me at 2-1-2—”
I quickly hung up. Dang it, I’d hoped for an out-of-office contact name—someone else I could finagle into getting me a copy of that manuscript. Did I even have a Plan C?
Yes I did.
As I dialed my former fling’s number—the critic for the New York mag—guilt crept up my throat. I was glad Samuel was out to lunch, so I wouldn’t have to explain. Mr. Avant Garde answered, his tone playful.
“Kaye, two calls in one weekend. Are you sure you aren’t looking for a hookup? Maybe a little phone fun?” he teased.
I pursed my lips, stifling a chuckle. “I told you, I’m happily taken. But I do need another itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny favor from you.”
Skygods (Hydraulic #2) Page 23