B009R9RGU2 EBOK (8 page)

I come up for air
around 8:30
P.M
. when the cleaning lady knocks politely on my office door to empty the wastebasket. The office is almost spookily quiet, deserted by all but the few working with me on my projects.

“Tru?!” I yell out my door from behind my desk. She leans back in her chair from her cubicle across the hall and raises her bohemian-thick eyebrows in question. I see the telltale white earbuds peeking out from behind her wavy brown hair and raise my voice. “Go home. We’ll get caught up with all this stuff tomorrow. Okay?”

Then I see Jeff walking around the corner with a stack of press clippings. “Jeff, you too. Go home. Thanks again for your help with this.” Seriously, he didn’t have to help with the Nintendo campaign, but he knows a good opportunity when he sees one. I would’ve done the exact same thing in his shoes. Besides, I’m grateful. Finally, I see everyone out and am beginning
to wrap up the remaining open files on my desktop when a new email pops into my inbox.

I try to contain my immediate panic. Did I overlook something so important? I search my outbox to review the email I sent Billy at 1
P.M
. this afternoon with his itinerary for tomorrow’s charity event. It shows that the email was sent. Talent are notorious for ignoring petty things such as memos no matter what format you send them in.

With a copy of the itinerary and the original email printing out in hard copy (rule number one: Always cover your ass), I hit reply.

There. That sounded professional but still friendly. But it is a little disappointing that Billy Fox is like so many other stars that need to have little things like travel details spoon-fed to them.

If I had a dollar for every celebrity who’s “misplaced” or “didn’t get” a memo I sent, well, I’d own Bennett/Peters. Seriously, I know they’re “creative” people, but how hard is it to keep track of a simple piece of paper with important information on it? Especially now that they all have an iPhone or a Droid or whatever. And often even a personal assistant (or three) to keep them updated. Read my emails! While I’m still in the middle of my internal rant, my computer posts a new email.

Hmm… My mistake. Billy, as it turns out,
is
the kind of guy who actually thinks about his publicist and appreciates the logistics of an evening. And now I imagine him on a date… with everything all perfectly planned out in advance. What girl doesn’t love a take-charge kind of guy? I feel myself blushing and push all personal, ridiculous thoughts from my head.

I stare at the blinking cursor for a second before hitting send. I am proud of how I’ve managed to keep this exchange completely businesslike. The last thing I need is for Billy to pick up on the crazy fantasies that have been running around in my head.

But seriously, who could blame me? What’s wrong with a few harmless fantasies? I mean, Billy Fox is fodder for women’s dreams the world over. What’s wrong with adding me to the list? It’s not like I’ll behave any differently toward him, as I have proven by maintaining a professional distance in person while still doing a spectacular job on his publicity. I can do this. You’ll see.

And then, as if karmic reward, a text from Jacob appears.

The perfect reality check from the man I love. Hell, I might even surprise him with some sexting. I open it with renewed anticipation:

“Good morning, Sophie.”

My assistant is at first glance wearing a potato sack. With geometric-patterned brown-and-orange tights and knee-high boots. Her hair is held back in a brightly colored tie—literally, a man’s necktie.

Well, she is certainly an original spirit.

“Hi, Tru. Elle in yet?” Now that I’m almost at Tru’s desk, I see that it is not in fact a potato sack, but some unidentifiable fabric that could easily be used to store russets if there was ever a sack shortage. As usual, I can’t think of anything to say about what Tru is wearing that would sound like a sincere compliment, so I stick to business.

“Yeah, she came in early today. Lucas said she would be free for you until her ten
A.M.
appointment.”

“Great. Thanks.” I set my extra large Coffee Bean cup down on my desk, log in to the server, and pull up my email inbox. A cursory glance reveals nothing that can’t wait until after I speak with Elle. I resignedly asked for an appointment so that we could discuss my current workload. Before going home last night I took another hard look at my to-do list and upcoming calendar. Since taking on Nintendo, as much as I hate to ever
admit it, I have without question stretched myself too thin. Not one to give up, I still slept on it. But in the cold reality of a fresh day I know I’m fooling myself if I don’t ask for
some
help. Given that I honestly care about my clients, not to mention my reputation, I feel it’s in everyone’s best interest if I work it out with Elle before something important falls through the cracks.

And if the solution makes Priscilla’s life miserable, I consider that in everyone else’s best interest too.

I thought there was nothing that would tarnish Priscilla’s halo as far as Elle was concerned. That is until a few months ago, when Melissa, in a fit of new pregnancy hormones, lost it on Priscilla in between cubicles in front of Elle’s office. Regrettably I was downstairs, in my office, but I heard later that Melissa was on fire. She tore Priscilla to shreds for completely flaking on one of Melissa’s clients at a major red carpet event. Priscilla didn’t even call another publicist to secure a replacement. So Melissa’s irate client called Melissa to vent, and Melissa took her complaint straight to Elle. And she came armed—with printouts of the emails back and forth, wherein Priscilla had practically begged Melissa to allow her to cover the client. According to Lucas, whose cubicle was a front row seat to the wild scene, Melissa actually stuffed the pages down the front of Priscilla’s perfectly tailored Armani jacket.
After
shoving them in her face close enough that Priscilla’s lip gloss transferred to a page.

And all this occurred in the seconds it took Elle to get out of her office to break it up. Obviously no one else was interested in stopping Melissa’s rampage—just about all the people there wished they had pregnancy hormones to blame so they too could lose it on Priscilla Hasley.

Anyway, Melissa saw a flicker of doubt cross Elle’s usual composure as Priscilla tried to outtalk Melissa rather than accept any responsibility for her actions, despite the undeniable evidence. After that episode, Melissa and I hung on to the hope that Elle would one day
have
to face Priscilla’s inadequacies. Believe me, I would never normally wish for someone to get in serious trouble, but Priscilla is the kind of serpent who literally drives you to extreme measures.

So, to that end, I am hoping I can use my new accounts to help Elle see how little Priscilla actually does for the company. Backup files in hand, I head toward the elevator bank. I know Elle’s office is only one flight up, but very rarely am I motivated to take the stairs unless I’m hiding from someone.

“Elle?” I knock on her open door as I step in.

“Morning, Sophie. Come in.” Behind an enormous Parsons-style white lacquered desk with its exotic potted orchid and mercury glass table lamp, Elle’s facing her computer yet shoves away from the keyboard as she finishes her sentence. “What did you want to see me about?”

“I wanted to bring you up to speed on everything. With Billy Fox and the Nintendo launch.”

“Excellent. I know it’s a lot to have on your plate right now. But you can use as many assistants as you need, and I was thinking of officially assigning Jeff to you as well.”

“That’s exactly why I wanted to see you. I have some backup with the Nintendo account, and Billy Fox is keeping me busy, but I think it’s going really well.” Uh-huh. Like Dad says, always lead with the positive. “What I wanted to run by you was maybe reassigning one of my other clients until after the Nintendo
launch. The United American Wrestling account in particular needs more maintenance than I can truly deliver right now. And, I was thinking… this might be the perfect opportunity for someone like Priscilla to get her feet wet handling a major client.”

Or a rope long enough for her to hang herself.

“If she’s up to the responsibility,” I continue, “my contact with American Wrestling is great, and since it isn’t a new account, Priscilla should be able to ease right into the day-to-day stuff.”

There was a moment of silence.

Look, feelings aside, Priscilla was the obvious choice. She doesn’t handle any big clients, but she’s loosely considered my in-office peer. It’s noticeable that she isn’t as busy as the rest of us. In a fair world, she
should
do this.

But will Elle see it that way or continue to protect her?

“You’re right, Sophie. I think Priscilla is ready to take on more clients.” She leans across her desk to press the phone’s intercom. “Lucas, is Priscilla in yet?” I covertly glance at my watch. It’s now 9:50. If she
isn’t
here yet, it would be so perfect. Another mark against her that Elle couldn’t deny, since I was here to witness it. An evil fantasy spins through my mind, visions of Priscilla hours late, and Elle finally ripping into her the way everyone in the office has always yearned for.

“She’s in her office,” Lucas’s voice interrupts to tell us. “Should I send her in?” Of course, my hopes are crushed. Back in reality, I realize that I should have been tipped off that today wasn’t going to be that easy.

“Yes, please.” Elle swivels in her executive chair to face me
with her full attention. “Sophie, I’m so glad you thought of this. It’ll give you the perfect chance to focus in on your new clients, and Priscilla can begin taking on more responsibilities.”

“Happy to be a team player,” I add, forcibly suppressing a smirk.

“Good. I’ll tell her that your door is always open for any questions. Be sure she knows she can turn to you for help if she needs it.”

Ah, the other shoe drops. Great. Now I’m going to be babysitting Miss Priss? And every screwup will be laid at my door because I’ll be ultimately responsible. Not quite what I had in mind. Talk about karma for my plotting.

“Good morning, Elle.” Priscilla’s dulcet tones distract me from my defensive strategy. “Love that blouse. Isabel Marant, no? Exquisite taste.” Somehow she manages to make the compliment seem so offhand that Elle doesn’t see the brown-nosing. After a few words of idle small talk, during which I manage to remain polite, Elle finally brings up the matter at hand.

“Priscilla, Sophie has a lot on her plate right now, and I think it would be the ideal opportunity for you to take on a little more responsibility. We’re handing you the Wrestling account.”

Elle either ignores or doesn’t see the brief look of unfiltered malice Priscilla shoots my way when the word “Wrestling” comes up. Frankly, this is the first time I’ve ever been on the receiving end of one of Priscilla’s death stares, but they’re infamous in the office.

I mean, I know it’s not the hottest account at Bennett/Peters, but seriously? Who does Priscilla think she is? I was
psyched
to take on the major account—tights, costumes, and all—because
it was a chance to prove myself. I’m shocked that even Priscilla could be so shortsighted. She should be nauseously kissing Elle’s ass for the opportunity.

“Really? Elle, I too am very busy right now. Don’t you think this is something Jeff could handle?”
A junior publicist? Is she kidding?