Authors: Alison Sweeney
But now I am stressing over the realization that I am not really dressed for a business lunch, never mind lunch with Billy Fox. Though I haven’t been able to get him out of my head, or my imagination, since I met him, at 6
A.M.
making a good impression didn’t even cross my mind when I pulled on comfy jeans and UGGs. At least I’m wearing a flattering, semi-dressy black top—a slightly revealing V-neck, clingy (in the right places) knit sweater.
After I wrap things up with Megan and make sure she leaves with only what she brought with her, I check my voicemail on the way into the office. Already twelve messages. The rest of my morning will be dedicated to the Nintendo launch party. But as I cruise through our office doors and pass the interns’ cubicles, all I notice are the fabulous shoes
everyone else
is wearing, not to mention that they are towering over me.
Argh. I need shoes!
I fantasize about my perfect pairs of Jimmy Choos lined up on a shelf back in my closet. Why couldn’t I be one of those people who think ahead when their brain is still alert? If only I’d just brought shoes to change into for lunch.
“You have four messages. And Melissa called again,” Tru says as I walk past her desk into my office. I’m so desperate at this point that I even eye Tru’s shoes. I could so demand that she trade with me for my lunch, if we are the same size, and if she happens to have cool heels on. Sometimes she wears those ballet slippers that are in right now. While I would love to get on that bandwagon, my thighs need every extra inch we can pretend is there.
No luck. Tru is wearing Doc Martens. And purple leather knee-high boots with neon green laces, no less. Well, she has a look and she sticks to it. You’ve got to admire that. But now that the idea has struck, who else might have shoes I could borrow? For the rest of the morning I not so discreetly eye every assistant and junior publicist—even Jeff and the mailroom guy out of sheer habit—who comes by my office, in hopes of spotting a workable pair of heels. So far no luck. And there’s likely a fresh rumor of my presumed foot fetish. I mentally start scrolling
through the personnel on the floor above. I am deep into a shoe count when a knock at the door makes me lose my place.
“Sophie? I have a question.” It’s Jennifer, our newest assistant.
“Hi, what’s up?” I keep a friendly tone but, Queen of Multitasking, turn back to my Outlook and continue prioritizing my emails. I like to make sure I get to East Coast people first, so they get what they need before the end of their day.
Jennifer needs to discuss the contract for Five-Alarm Blaze, a popular rap-rock band Bennett/Peters represents, which is going to perform at the Nintendo launch party. A little synergy for you. I help her decipher the band’s rider. It’s not until she turns to go that the flair of her skirt makes me notice her fabulous, perfect, similar size–looking shoes.
“Jennifer, wait.” Okay, how do I ask this nicely? But she seems properly intimidated by me anyway, so maybe… “Hey listen, I have an important lunch meeting today, and I forgot to bring heels to change into. May I… borrow yours?” I try to deliver the question as nonchalantly as possible. As though it happens all the time. Wait and learn.
“Umm…” She seems hesitant. They
are
nice shoes. Laundry, I’m guessing.
“Let’s just see if we share the same size, huh?” I smile confidently. She resignedly kicks off one three-inch heel as I pull my chunky boot off. We’re not talking Cinderella magic or anything, but they fit okay. “You’re an eight?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’m a seven, so they’re a little big.” Great. Why not just call her Bigfoot. “But I can manage. If you don’t mind.”
From a sanitary perspective, I would so not do this if it weren’t absolutely necessary. “I promise to take good care of them. And I’ll owe you,” I say assertively, the deal done.
“Okay.” Jennifer smiles weakly, and I know I’m safe. “I’ll come get them this afternoon?”
“Absolutely. I’ll be back by two. Until then, we have some flip-flops from that Beach Bonanza event last summer in the loot locker. Tell Tru I said to get you a pair.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“No. Thank
you
!”
Thank God that’s over. And the shoes look fabulous. Crisis averted. Nothing more could go wrong.
As I drive through
downtown Beverly Hills, on my way to lunch, I can’t help wondering where Jacob fits into all this desperate-for-sexy-shoes-to-see-Billy-Fox madness. Honestly, nowhere. And I don’t intend that in a mean way. The way I see it, I’m just enjoying the fun of a little you-can’t-even-call-it-a-crush crush on my gorgeous new client. He knows I have a boyfriend. And away from the dangerous dim-lit interior of limousines, we can realistically state that Billy would never be interested in someone like me anyway. So I’m having a little fun playing make-believe. It won’t hurt anyone. Especially Jacob, who hasn’t even called me back about watching
Survivor
tonight, so there.
Also, I’m bound to see a not-so-sexy side to Billy with all the time we’re spending together, at which point my “crush” will be put out of its misery and I can go back to my regular life. It’s
not like I’m purposely ignoring Jacob or our relationship. I’ve got everything under control.
Unlike some clients who prefer meeting in notorious, paparazzi-lined scenes-to-be-seen-in like The Ivy’s front patio, Billy asked for a more out-of-the-way, relaxed locale with the promise of great comfort food. As such, the interview lunch is being held at Off Vine, a cozy establishment in an adorable yellow-and-white-painted bungalow wrapped in hedges. Once I read about their famous dessert soufflés, I knew it was the perfect spot.
After leaving my car with the valet, I am relieved to see that I am actually the first to arrive. I like to be early to appointments like this because I don’t trust reporters alone with my clients. And knowing Lisha, in ten minutes she could sweet talk Billy into going to a different restaurant or something and “forget” to leave word. She’s like that.
Settled in our private room upstairs above the eaves, and waiting for Billy and Elvira, I mean
Lisha
, to join me, I pull out my BlackBerry to scan yet again through my emails. In the middle of trying to follow a long email chain Elle just cc’d me on, I hear:
“Hi beautiful.” I look up, only to interrupt what was definitely meant to be a kiss on the cheek, but becomes lip-to-lip contact instead. I can’t even enjoy the moment because I am panicking inside that he’ll think I moved to kiss him on purpose. It lasts only a second before he takes a seat on the opposite side.
“Hi, Billy.” I strive for a casual, I-kiss-movie-stars-on-the-lips-all-the-time type voice. “You found it okay?” I had
MapQuested the directions for him and attached it to his last email. Because I’m a type A publicist.
“Yeah, no problem. It was easy.” He flashes his killer grin and announces, “I’m starving,” and accordingly begins examining the menu. I take the opportunity to glance at my watch. Lisha should be here any second now. Billy, breaking celebrity rule number thirty-seven, was on time.
“You’re always starving, aren’t you?” I tease because I can’t think of anything else to say.
“Pretty much. Especially here.”
“I thought you hadn’t been to Off Vine before.”
“No,
here
,” he says, waving his arms to indicate larger surroundings. “I’m never full in LA. Now, in Texas, they know how to feed a growing boy.” He’s obviously kidding because no one gets a body like his by eating Tex-Mex and barbeque all the time. But I smile and signal the waitress.
I’d like a gin and tonic please
. I wish. I order an iced tea with lemon. Judging by Hi-my-name-is-Mandy-and-I’ll-be-your-server-today’s quick appearance, she already knows who is sitting with me, but she takes my drink order like I’m important too and proceeds to go through the tried-and-true “don’t I know you from somewhere?” method of getting Billy to identify himself. Of course Billy is exceedingly charming and gracious to our waitress, and she is blushing by the time she remembers to go get our drinks.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, Billy Fox!” Lisha appears next to Billy in a tight skirt, sheer blouse, and knee-high stiletto boots. She leans toward Billy, who rises to his feet like the Southern gentleman that he is, and she air-kisses both his
cheeks. “Daaarling.” Yes, she leans down to me, perhaps to give Billy a clear view of her perfect ass, and both sides of my face get “kissed” too. While I contemplate her intentions, she comes back to Billy’s side of the table to chummily take the seat next to him.
Lisha and Billy proceed through standard actor/reporter chitchat (“Did you find the place okay?”) as a conversation icebreaker, and mostly my job is just to listen and only interject if things get uncomfortable. Frankly, it’s nice to be able to sit at the same table as the interview. Some magazines insist that the publicist not be present. As if I would let that happen. In those cases, we compromise, and I end up sitting at the next table over so that I can still hear the whole thing. Either way, I’m not supposed to be actively involved in the conversation (and my presence is duly omitted from the final profile).
I periodically check my BlackBerry, which is resting conspicuously next to my bread plate, so that I can appear distracted and therefore allow Lisha and Billy an opportunity to have a conversation without it being awkward that I’m sitting there being ignored. As Lisha settles into her warm-up questions, and Billy flows right into his comfortable, honest answers, my eyes lower to the device and I run my thumb over the wheel to scroll through the newest emails.
“Sophie? Do you know the London premiere date?” Billy is looking straight at me when I glance up, which sets my stomach aflutter. Lisha is also staring at me expectantly. Expecting me to butt out, I’m sure.
“I’ll email Lisha the details.”
“Perfect, darling,” she purrs as she turns back to Billy and
peppers him with another few questions about the six-month shooting schedule in Prague.
“I love traveling, seeing the world. It’s tough on a shoot because you really don’t have time while filming to see the sights, but I usually plan to stay at least a few weeks before or after to enjoy the locales.”
“And? How was Prague? What did you see?”
Billy describes the romantic Czech Republic’s capital city, and my emails remain unread as I am totally caught up in his obvious appreciation of its historic bridges and castles.
“Have you ever been?” Billy asks Lisha.
“I have traveled extensively through Eastern Europe, darling Billy. I love that we have traveled and seen so much of the same beauty in the world. Why I—”
“What about
you
, Sophie? Have you been?” I am so caught off-guard by his question that I don’t even realize that he totally interrupted Lisha in mid-sentence. But her shocked look and the death laser she shoots me make her unhappiness transparent.
“I once saw a little of Europe backpacking with my best friend from high school, but we weren’t brave enough to tackle Eastern Europe.” A simple but specific answer, calculated so that he’ll go back to his interview and stop talking to me. I stare directly at Billy in what I hope is a meaningful way. He knows his media training—he’s doing this on purpose. He can’t quite hide his smirk as he takes a sip of water. And the interview continues.
But by the time the hour-plus of our meal is up I have lost track of the number of times that Billy has caught my eye to
share a private smile or include me in the discussion. He never crossed the line of making me speak again, but his mannerisms made it clear that he was speaking to me as well. Not just for the reporter or the tape recorder. He is sharing his stories and his life with me. And I just don’t know what to make of that.
Lisha pays the bill on her corporate AmEx and appears satisfied with the interview. We maintain small talk as we exit the restaurant and approach the valet. Lisha sticks close to Billy’s side, leaning against him with each laugh. She’s just a schmoozer. I know she wouldn’t really make a pass at my client. Certainly not in front of me. But it’s still awkward to watch her nestle up to him for a friendly yet non–air kiss good-bye before she disappears into her huge Lexus sedan.
With Lisha’s departure and life back off-record, I can feel my shoulders relax. “That went great. Sorry Lisha can be such a… so… affectionate.” I laugh to show that I’m not jealous or anything absurd like that but am trying to sympathize with him.
“It’s no problem. She’s fine, really. It was an easy interview—it went well, right?”
The valet next pulls my car up. I drag myself from Billy’s company to deposit my heavy shoulder bag in the backseat. I feel Billy following me and am suddenly all a-tingly inside as my “good-bye” kiss takes over my imagination. And then,
wham
. My heel misses the curb and I can already feel my knees scraping the pavement when Billy’s arms wrap around my waist and pull me up against his body.
“Oh God. Sorry! I’m such a klutz.” I am seriously mortified by my stumble, and the fact that I can still feel the warmth of
Billy’s body pressed up against mine. He lowers me back to my feet slowly and I desperately find my footing. Granted, I’m no ballerina, but why am I so clumsy around this man? Well, it also doesn’t help, I suppose, that I am wearing shoes a size too big.
“What are you, a buck ten? It was no problem,” he says, smiling. And seemingly sincere. I haven’t seen 110 pounds since high school, so his offhand compliment thrills me to my toes. He ushers me into the front seat of my car and chivalrously shuts the door for me. He remains looking into my eyes through the driver’s side window until the valet distracts him. Billy glances back one more time, waves, and then heads toward his sleek navy Porsche. I still have this ridiculous grin on my face as I drive away.
All afternoon
I can’t focus. I am seriously giddy thinking about Billy. Which is now, officially, not okay. At one point I was tempted to call or instant message Izzy about the butterflies in my stomach. But what would I say? How could I admit that I am insanely attracted to my new client? First of all, who isn’t? Every woman in America is in love with Billy Fox. But I’m the one spending all day working with him, and when I’m not actually with him, I’m thinking about him, planning his days. And, I’ll be honest, having the occasional fantasy.