by Jess Bentley
“The coach has already been chiding me indirectly for not living up to my ‘bad boy’ reputation as he terms it. That itself pisses me off and now this. Jesus!” I sit back on the couch, exasperated.
“What the hell has he even done anyways?” I continue, on a roll now. “Six months ago I was playing in the World Cup Final. I've won more titles than I can count on two hands. What the hell has he even won? This year is his best chance to win any silverware and It's all because of me. And yet that man continues to treat me like a second class citizen.”
“He’s an old-fashioned guy all right… and I hate to say this David, but he is the head coach. He gets to have the last say. Even the team owners won’t dare cross him,” Scott says.
“Someone needs to tell that old wanker that he is not a military man anymore. This is football. A game. Not a bloody war!”
“Forget about the coach for a moment. What is more important is cleaning up your image,” Shauna interjects. “David—let’s be real. The British press painted a picture of you as a playboy and that image followed you here. The American press has been hunting for a scandal to pin on you and now they have one. There is nothing we can do about it. What we can do however, is make an attempt to clean your image.”
I just shake my head. All I want to do is to get away from all the gossip and all the troubles that hounded me back home in England. Ever since I lost the Soccer World Cup Final to arch rivals Argentina, the press has had a field day with me. They blame it all on me. The fans even protested outside my house, burning effigies of me and calling me a disgrace to the country.
I thought that a move to United States would allow me to lead a peaceful life, where I could just focus on playing the game that I love so much but clearly that’s just not possible. Hank Miller, the coach of Anaheim Knights hates my guts and my unpredictable ways on the field. Hank wants the team to play in a safe, cautious manner while all I’m interested in is winning games.
We are scoring goals and the Knights keep winning games but that’s not enough for Coach Miller. He has it in for me.
“First of all, you've got to lay low. This means no more flashy parties, no more public drinking and no more spending nights with models,” Shauna says in a commanding voice.
Jesus. Might as well just kill me. There’s a party at the Playboy Mansion next week that I’m stoked about, but to avoid an argument with Shauna, I don’t mention it.
“Secondly, we need to get you on the talk show circuit. Shows that soccer moms watch. All their kids know you and this would be perfect to clean your image. I'm thinking especially of The Whitney Show. African American host, British superstar. Perfect combo.”
“That’s actually a good idea,” Scott nods.
“Bollocks! I hate these bloody talk show interviews. All they want to talk about is my World Cup Final loss and how that made me ‘feel’. And I was hoping I’d left all that far behind,” I grimace.
“Look at it this way, David. You're an international superstar and they all want a piece of you. And this is a great chance for you to make the American people love you. If there is one thing America loves, It's a comeback. Look at Britney for instance,”
“You're right!” I say finally. “I need to get this mess cleaned up. If nothing else, then at least it will get me in the good books of the head coach... maybe.”
“Speaking of the head coach,” Scott says, with a look on his face that says he has some bad news. “You're not gonna like this, David…”
“What? Just blurt it out, mate,” I say impatiently.
“I just got an email. The coach fined you two weeks salary. He also says that your selection in the first team depends upon your behavior from here on,” Scott’s grim, as if someone died.
It takes a few moments for the news to sink in. But when it does, I leap up from the couch and in one quick motion flip over the glass table that was right in front of me. The glass shatters in a hundred pieces, along with the flower vase and the coffee cups on it.
Without looking at anyone, I storm out of the room.
“You think he’ll do what we told him to?” I hear Scott ask pensively.
“I'm not sure he can,” Shauna replies.
Chapter 82
I’ve been talking to my mother for almost fifteen minutes but I can’t muster up the courage to reveal the news. Beating around the bush and distracting her with work talk will only work for so long. Might as well do it now and get it over with.
“So mom,” I begin, clearing my throat. “I got some news about the bank loan application.”
“Yes? What about it?” Mom asks eagerly.
“This one also got rejected. Apparently, my credit score isn’t good enough,”
There’s silence at the other end of the phone but mom’s disappointment is evident in the slow sigh that she lets out.
“It’s okay honey. At least you tried…” she says despite it all.
“I was hoping at least one of them would work out. But…” I’m at a loss for words.
“I don’t know why you're clinging to this last straw, sweetie. As I've said before, let’s just sell the bar and be done with it. We simply cannot afford it.”
“No, mom, no. That bar is the last memory of daddy that remains with us. We can never sell it. We can’t sell it. Never ever!” I shake my head, as the inevitable becomes apparent.
“But sweetie…” My mom on the other hand is too old to fight for things.
“Mom, I promise — I’ll figure something out. I promise. Just give me a little more time. Please, Mom,” Carrie pleaded. I’m not going to abandon my father’s labor of love.
“Okay, sweetheart. I wish you luck. And you wish me some courage, because I'm going to have to let a couple of guys go,” My mother sighs.
“It’s okay, Mom,” I fake courage. “When things are good again, we can hire them back. They’ll understand, don’t worry about it,” I force a smile onto my face.
My thoughts are slightly distracted by a commotion in Max’s office. Looking through the glass wall, I see a woman, jabbing fingers in his face while the muffled sound of her aggressive voice leaks through.
“I guess so,” Mom replies. “When are you gonna come visit me?”
“Huh? Oh soon, Mom. Very soon.” My attention is still fixated on what’s going on in Max’s office. Lillian, Max’s secretary, rushes out and walks toward me. What was this about? Why is she coming over here?
Lillian looks straight at me as she approaches the workstation. This involves me.
“Okay, Mom, I gotta go. Love you,” I blow a quick kiss to my mother and hang up just as Lillian, out of breath, bends over to talk to me.
“You're wanted in there. Now!” she says excitedly and turns to head back immediately.
“Lillian!” I rush after her. “What is this about?” But Lillian just shrugs her shoulders.
“...After all that I've done for you, Max. All the stories and the leaks I've sent your way. The first opportunity you get, you go ahead and screw my client. You goddamn well know that if such a story is to come out, you call the publicist first. How badly is this ship of yours sinking that you need a pitiful exclusive like this to sell copies?”
The crude woman is going on and on, her finger still in Max’s face. The situation in the room is overwhelming. I’ve never seen Max so intimidated by anyone before. He always seemed like a fearless person, who always has things in order and is in control of every situation. But now, he has no power.
“Shauna…” He’s trying to pacify the woman.
“Don’t Shauna me, you jerk. This is not going to go well for you. I run the biggest PR shop in L.A. Do you really want to mess with us? This could mean no access to any of our clients. Can you afford such a big screw up, Max? Doesn’t matter because you already messed up big.”
The woman is scary. If she’s pointing fingers at Max’s face then she really must be someone important. She seems like someone who’s waded through the bullshit of L.A. and made h
er way to the top nonetheless.
“Shauna, please. Give me a moment to speak,” Max holds his hands out in defense. Shauna just sits on a chair and crosses her arms, as if to say, ‘entertain me.’
“That model, Ana, she was the one who called us to give the story. Carrie, here, is the writer who wrote the story,” Max points to me. “And she’s new so she didn’t know, she just went ahead and wrote the piece.”
“I don’t give a shit, Max. You went ahead and approved the story. You're the big dog in this shit shop,” Shauna explodes.
“It was one of my assistant editors, Shauna. Not me. You know I would never do that to you. Carrie is new and didn’t know better. That’s all. We all make mistakes.” He smiles a thin smile.
“Honey, you have no idea how badly you’ve fucked up,” Shauna snorts at me.
Throughout this exchange I’ve been standing still as a stone, watching Max lying outright to save his ass. He’s the one who was excited about the story. He’s the one who assigned it to me, and he’s the one who made one of the feature writers spice up the copy I wrote after the interview. And now he’s blaming it all on me. Why would he do this? This is a side of Max that I’ve never seen before. A mean side that I never thought existed.
I’m speechless. I look at Max for support but get none.
“Look Shauna, we’ll make it up to you.”
“You're goddamn right you will!”
“How about this—how about we run an extended piece on David for our monthly edition and put him on the cover. We can run an interview, an extended profile, et cetera.” Max smiles.
“... And refute the current article you published with the model,” Shauna adds.
“Shauna…” Max starts to protest.
“You really want to lose access to my clients over some dime-a-dozen Russian model?”
“She’s Czech, not Russian.” I’m not sure why I said that as I had decided that the best course of action would be to keep my mouth tightly shut. Both Max and Shauna stare daggers at me.
“All right. Fine,” Max concedes, but Shauna’s not finished.
“I want her to do the piece.” She nods at me. “She’s the one who wrote that shit piece and now I want her, and her only, to fix it! She needs to write a brilliant piece that makes David look like a saint.”
“But she is a new—” Max protests.
“Max. Just keep your trap shut and get this done. You're already on borrowed time.”
“Fine, fine.” He looks resigned. “Carrie, you'll do this piece on David Adams, and this time, please consult with me and Shauna here for guidance. I will personally be involved and make sure that this works out to everyone’s advantage.”
After the horrible experience interviewing the model, the last thing I want to do is spend a few days interviewing another obnoxious, arrogant celebrity. This isn’t for me and I’ve been meaning to talk to Max about it. If nothing else, I want him to put me back in my old position. But Max has been avoiding me like the plague. This seems as good a time as any.
“Max, I wanted to talk to you about this,” I muster the courage to say. “This kind of stuff isn’t for me. I mean I can’t…”
“Enough, Carrie. Just see that it gets done!” Max thumps his desk, his eyes full of anger.
“Jesus!” Shauna chuckles. “Quite a shit show you've running here. I wonder how long before the Griswolds get tired of your antics and decide that you've wasted enough of their money.”
Shauna shakes her head in mockery and heads out of Max’s office. I wonder what Shauna meant by her last statement, but I’m not given any time to ponder over it, as Max’s fury rains down on me.
“What the hell were you thinking? Contradicting your boss in front of an outsider? Do you have zero team spirit left in you?” Max is right in my face now. He’s using me as a virtual punching bag.
“When I tell you to do a job, you do it! When you're given an assignment, you take it! When I say jump, you say, ‘how high?’ Or have you forgotten how this industry works?”
“But Max—”
“Do you know how long people slog before they make their way to the print edition? Do you really want to write for the online edition for another four years?” Max demands. “I moved you to print, did you a favor and you pay me back by being disobedient? Insolent? I’m very disappointed in you Carrie. You’ve got talent, but you must pay your dues before you can have it all. We all did!”
He’s right. Every single intern in this office wants to make their way to being a real journalist, a real writer. They slog their asses off writing for the online edition, getting paid peanuts. Max gave me this opportunity. This is my chance to make something of myself, even if it means that I start out by writing celebrity garbage. I can’t give up at the first obstacle. I might not get a chance like this anytime soon.
“I'm sorry Max. I was just being... impatient,” I look down at the floor.
“Look, Carrie. We all have to grind our way to the top, and many times, we have to do things that we don’t want to.” Max seems like he’s speaking from experience. “But we all want to succeed and that’s why we gotta do the dirty work. I’m glad you understand.” He pats me on the back.
“Now. Let’s get this thing started. Paint that hack David Adams as a saintly picture and give that bitch Shauna what she wants. I know you can do this, Carrie. And trust me, this is the only way to get to the top.”
My head is spinning as I leave Max’s office. Max may have been angry at me, chided me… but he’s also encouraged me. My head is full of a whole lot of emotions. And the lingering feelings from when I saw Max and Katherine together at the bachelor auction swirl around inside me. I still haven’t had the courage to bring that up with him, not that he’s shown any inclination to clarify his position either. For the first time since I met him, I don’t know what to think of Max.
Chapter 83
Who the hell goes to a meeting on a Sunday!
Trying to navigate my way around the narrow, confusing streets of Bel Air, I’m getting more and more frustrated. All I wanted to do was to go on a long jog by the beach. Then grocery shopping to do as I’ve been surviving on Ramen for the last few days. And if I still have any time left, I wanted to get a trim, considering how unruly my hair has become of late, split ends popping up everywhere.
Instead, I got a call from David Adams’ PR agent who asked me to come in today. Even on a Sunday, there’s enough traffic that it takes almost an hour to drive all the way out to Bel Air, the place for the rich and the famous. I mouth a curse as I take yet another steep curve that my decade-old, beat-up Honda Civic struggles to ascend.
It’s not a neighborhood I frequent, and neither is it a locale that makes me feel exactly comfortable. I’m more at ease in my low-income neighborhood where I’ve got a small one bedroom apartment. For the hundredth time that morning I look at the navigation to figure out whether I’m headed in the right direction and finally it seems I am.
“Yes?” A stern voice calls out on the intercom as I press the button. I’m parked outside a huge gate beyond which, apparently stands a large mansion.
“Hi! I'm Carrie from Coyote magazine. Here to meet Shauna... and David Adams,” I add. I’ve never met the guy but I already dislike him for making me drive all the way out here. Couldn’t he just come to the office like any other normal celebrity and give an interview?
Then there are the nasty stories about him that Ana, the Czech model, told me. Guy seems like an absolute ass. What kind of a single man needs such a huge mansion to stay in unless he is doing it to satiate his ego? I wonder as I wait.
After a couple of minutes, the intercom buzzes to life again.
“You may come in.” With that, the gates hinge open and my eyes grew huge to take it all in. Massive grounds on both sides envelop a driveway that leads straight toward what seems like a very luxury garage. The door opens, revealing tens of luxury sports cars, in equally rich colors inside.
The main house stands
high upon a driveway that leads uphill. Great! More steep driving. There’s no one in sight, till I manage the curvy uphill drive and land in front of a massive mansion. Numerous cars are parked in the space and a twinge of embarrassment strikes me, parking my raggedy car among Ferraris and Maseratis. A couple of people stand to the side of main entrance, smoking and chatting in an animated way, wine glasses in their hands.
Loud music was playing inside as I approach the entrance, and I’m not sure if I should just walk in, so I dial Shauna’s number. In a moment the PR woman is striding toward me.
“Carrie, right?” she says.
“Yes. From Coyote magazine,” I reply nervously.
“Yeah, yeah! Come on in. You get here okay?” she asks.
“Yeah. Sorry I was late. Took me a while to find the place.”
“Don’t worry about it. Would you like a drink?” Without waiting for an answer, Shauna picks off a wine glass from a passing tray and hands it to me. There are a lot of people inside and it seems like there a party’s going on.
“Have I come at the wrong time?”
“No, not at all. Why?”
“I thought I was coming in for a meeting,” I answer, “but this seems like a party.”
“Okay. First of all, relax. It’s just a birthday party for Willie,” Shauna reassures me. “You look like you’re entering a lion’s cage. You’re new to all this, right?”
“Somewhat,” I nod, not sure how much I should let on. Who’s Willie?
“God! I don’t know how you can work for that Max. The guy’s a vulture! I bet he’s made moves on you already?” Shauna asks, but when I don’t reply, she just nods a knowing smile.
“I’ve known the guy for ten years and I tell you, be wary of him. He’ll do anything, sleep with anyone, go to any length, to further his own interests. Plus he’s such a damn womanizer. But then every goddamn man in this town is.” She snorts in disgust.
“Max?” I ask in amazement. Shauna pauses in contemplation and then her eyes soften.