B009R9RGU2 EBOK (7 page)

“Jeanne, leave her alone. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” My dad throws the jibe at my mom to get her off my back. But, of course, now I have to defend her.

“No, Dad, she’s right. I am going to talk to Elle about it next week. I need to figure out which client I can give up, and who should take over for me.”

“Are you sure you want to do that? You don’t want Elle to think you aren’t capable of handling the work.” And he’s right too, hypothetically. Obviously, in normal business offices around the world I’m sure that logic applies. But in my crazy world, it’s just not like that. But how do I explain that to my commonsense dad? I take a gulp of champagne to buy time.

“Dad, it’s just different in Hollywood. I totally understand what you mean. And I’ll be careful how I talk to Elle about it. But she knows that each client requires personal attention, and so I’ll offer her some options of my lower-profile clients that could easily go to newer publicists. That’s the way it works—it gives the junior publicists a chance to prove themselves.”

“So you can be a mentor—you can inspire a young publicist, just as you were by Elle. That’s an exciting prospect, isn’t it?” When Mom gets all wistful and pensive—often timed with her second glass—my dad sends me an eye roll and just disregards her comment entirely.

“Well, you’re going about it the right way, Sophie. Just be sure you’re prepared with an answer for any questions she may have for you. Just like I taught you, right? Never point out a problem unless you have a solution ready to offer.” That is true. I gotta give him credit. There are universal business guidelines that my dad has instilled in me since I can remember that have played a major role in my success at Bennett/Peters.

“You’re totally right, Dad. I’m just going to be, like, ready with all the options of which of my clients could go—and which other publicists would fit best with them.”

“Don’t say ‘like,’ dear,” my mom interjects.

I down the rest of my champagne in one gulp.

After having officially taken on Billy Fox as a client
, I am determined to kick ass for him, proving he and Wanda made the right choice. What’s a million more phone calls to make? Over the next workweek I focus on lining up some long-lead magazine features, including a couple of guaranteed covers. Of course Billy is not my
only
client. As much as I’d like to sit at my desk and pitch him all day, I’m still running around to premieres, interviews, and talk shows for my other clients. By Friday night I am exhausted and relish my plan—or rather,
no plans
—for a lazy weekend spent catching up on TiVo and sleep.

But first I have an obligation to fulfill—a Saturday afternoon meeting for the Tribe of Hope organization. It’s the second gala planning meeting, and I am still feeling a tad guilty for missing the first one. Even though the last thing I need is one more thing on my plate. But it’s a cause important to Jacob, and a good one on its own, so the least I can do is donate my time—and my skills.

I love that Jacob selflessly contributes to their fund-raising efforts. It’s really noble and sweet of him to help in any way he can. It’s also clear that he does it because he can’t feel helpless in a situation, no matter what it is—there is always something
he can do to make it better. When my dad once stayed overnight in the hospital for an angioplasty, all I could think to do was bring him his newspaper, and three business books on tape. I knew my mom wouldn’t think of it, because she is definitely the panic-first-ask-questions-later type.

So here I am at the planning meeting for this celebrity gala event, alone, while Jacob is out of town on business. To be fair, it’s not his fault he couldn’t be here. As he pointed out, my business has plenty of last-minute items that pull me away from events. Once in a while, so does his.

The committee is made up of young executives from around LA, in all different fields—a few agents, some technology types, and banking people like Jacob. We spend the afternoon organizing the events for the gala and assigning tasks. Like who’s in charge of the silent auction and who is going to handle publicity. Ha. I see where this is going. All eyes look to me, and I take my cue to offer up my skills to help the organization. Look, I realize I sound totally obnoxious. I really do appreciate good charities… but I’d rather write them a check.

By the end of the meeting we have all the tasks assigned and I realize that I have my work cut out for me. As the most seasoned publicist, I am heading up the subcommittee to promote the event. There are two WME agents on the committee who offered up a few of their clients to give the event cachet, and I plan to ask a few of our clients to attend as well. We agree to approach some A-list talent we know to “host” the event. Meaning they only have to attend and graciously let us use their names on the invite. In the end I leave with a list of things to
do, fifteen email addresses to cc on each update, and the belief (I would never voice) that Jacob owes me big-time.

On Monday
Elle calls an unanticipated staff meeting to discuss everyone’s upcoming events. As a department, the general rule is we help one another out when appropriate or possible. But always, your own clients come first. So, while everyone else at Bennett/Peters would have loved the chance to help me with Billy Fox, I knew the second I walked into that pitch meeting that he would ultimately be
my
responsibility. It’s like that “promise” one makes with one’s parents at age eight:

“But Mommy, I
want
a puppy! Yes, Daddy, of course I’ll take care of it. And feed it! Yes,
every
morning!”

Ha! And then, of course, a week later, there are Mom and Dad up at the crack of dawn feeding “your” dog and taking it for walks. But Billy is a multimillion-dollar client, not a scruffy shelter dog, so I will need to make sure his coat shines, keep his nails clipped, and, of course, clean the dog run every day—well, the publicist’s equivalent of all that at least.

I give the team an update on all my projects, which are under control as usual. Then Elle’s attention turns to the other publicists. There’s been some shuffling since my pregnant coworker Melissa has been out the last few days. Junior publicists eagerly step up, happy to score more direct contact with bigger clients.

But now that we’ve moved past my projects, my mind is admittedly elsewhere. I miss Jacob when he’s gone. He’ll be back
tomorrow from a retreat hosted by some small company that is trying to get his business. Or something like that. Anyway, he is in Alaska of all places—salmon fishing. I never really considered where salmon comes from or how difficult it is to fish, until he excitedly called me on Saturday night to share the whole story of how he’d caught this huge fish. He’s never done anything resembling fishing in his life; in fact, he went to Sport Chalet to buy a DVD on fishing as homework before the trip. But he was so proud of his “catch.” His enthusiasm was incredibly cute, but picturing Jacob all Eddie Bauer out on the river just made me miss him, and our weekend routine, more. And then just as I was falling asleep that night, a secret place in the self-loathing part of my brain questioned if spouses had been invited.

I lay in bed staring at the ceiling for roughly an hour after that, trying to fathom how I could get Jacob to admit to purposely not inviting me along. Is he ashamed of me? Embarrassed? Finally I convinced myself that I was being absurd, took a for-emergencies-only Ambien, and fell asleep.

But there is a weight in the pit of my stomach that won’t fade away this morning. And I just can’t figure out how to ask Jacob where we stand on this—our future as a couple—without putting him on the spot. I have never pressured him. I’m not the kind of girl who carries around in her wallet a picture of the engagement ring she wants (true story). Or the girlfriend who demands marriage or it’s over. Principles like that are all well and good on paper but feel doomed in real life. Yet lately it’s just been more and more on my mind. It seems like after we exchanged keys, there was no forward movement in our relationship,
and Jacob is okay with that. And the key thing was a
year ago
! I don’t know what to think. Am I overreacting? Or am I afraid of how he might respond if I rock the boat?

“Sophie?”

Elle’s impatient tone slices through the mental cobwebs.

“Yes?” I reply with what I hope is a commanding, totally involved, I-was-just-considering-before-responding definitive response, with a hint of question just in case.

“Good. That’s settled.”
What? What’s settled?
Now would be the right moment for a go-back-in-time superpower. Elle continues in a perkier voice, “And for a fun announcement: our very own Sara Garman is engaged! Congratulations, dear!” Squeals and applause from all the girls, and I watch Sara, a junior publicist, fake modesty as she flashes at least a two-carat rock. She’s all of twenty-three. Here I am at thirty-one, with not even a hint of an engagement in my future, while everyone in the office is fawning over the latest bubbly cheerleader who is getting married next fall. I realize how jealous I sound. And bottom line, I
am
jealous. But I am not going to let anyone know it. That would be unprofessional, but also completely humiliating.

Standing at the back of the group peppering Sara with questions, I smile and nod appropriately and even take a turn examining her ring. It is large but tasteful, and fits her hand perfectly. Just as I’m starting to feel that a quick exit is my only option, Elle catches my eye and motions me over to her as she finishes up her conversation with Jeff, a young, black, nattily dressed associate.

“Sophie, are you all set for tomorrow, or do you want Jeff to
back you up?” Tomorrow is one of my first events with Billy. He’s hosting a charity auction at this black-tie affair in Hollywood. It’s part of our campaign to give Billy’s image a little shine. Not that he’s Charlie Sheen or anything, but still, a worthwhile cause is always a good PR move.

“No, thanks. I’ve got it covered.” I see the enthusiasm fade from Jeff’s face. Jeff’s been a fast-learning junior publicist for almost a year now. He’s what my parents would call a “go-getter” and is next on the list for a promotion. I think he’s been a great addition to our firm. Not just because I found him, either. His evident ambition and hard work remind me of myself years ago. For Elle’s benefit, I add, “The hospital is so thrilled that Billy wanted to participate in the event. The press release went out yesterday and they emailed me a PDF of the program, which looks great. The actual event is the easy part.”

“Excellent. Then I won’t worry about you taking over the Nintendo account and spearheading their new 3D system launch party next month. The executives are coming in for a status meeting on Thursday. At first I thought it might be too much, even for you, but you’ve clearly got things under control. Let me know what you need…” I think Elle keeps talking but…
What?!
When did I agree to take over the Nintendo account? That’s a huge responsibility, and I have Billy’s movie launch next month, not to mention all my regular clients. Nintendo is a major client, and I specialize in individual talent, not the corporate side.

“So I hope Melissa is going to be okay,” Jeff says.

I come back to reality in time to hear the nails going into my proverbial coffin.

“Yeah, apparently her doctor had been concerned for a while and did more tests,” Elle says. “The baby is going to be fine, but Melissa is going to be on bed rest for the remainder of her pregnancy.”

“But that’s three more months!” I exclaim. Melissa was going to take her maternity leave
after
the Nintendo launch.

“I know. Somehow staying in bed for three months seems more stressful than just taking it easy. Melissa even said her husband was only going to let her have her BlackBerry for an hour every day,” Elle adds in a horrified whisper.

“She was joking,” I say with certainty. Melissa is just like me, Elle, and everyone else in our industry. We wouldn’t survive without our smartphones; I know I would have a visceral reaction to rival any drug withdrawal if I lost mine.

After properly dwelling on Melissa’s three-month-plus exile, I speed back to my office, my mind going a million miles a minute. Here’s the thing: I’m a good publicist, and I know what needs to be done for Nintendo, but with Billy’s account (when did he become just “Billy” in my head?) and all the side planning for the Tribe of Hope event, not to mention my regular clients, the Nintendo thing—a launch for a couple hundred major gaming journalists and celebrity guests, complete with food and entertainment, that should be exciting enough for celebrities to actually
stay at
till the end—is a major overload for one person to handle. There are just not enough hours in the day. But as the daughter of Dennis and
Jeanne Atwater, I am not someone who backs down from a challenge.

Yes, I considered talking to Elle earlier, but there was never a good time. Plus I hate to ask for help. I can do this. Somehow it always works out.

Following an emergency strategy meeting with Tru—and a plaintive message left on Jacob’s voicemail with a brief rundown of my new “client” and the fresh drain on my free time—I sit down at my computer. And without another thought to my personal life, I hunker down to get things moving forward for Billy Fox, Nintendo, and everyone but myself on the list.