B009R9RGU2 EBOK (19 page)

“Sophie.” All he says is my name. And all of a sudden I completely lose it. All the pressure, the guilt I’ve been feeling for weeks, and the embarrassment chokes me. I haven’t cried so hard in public since I was twelve. I feel the tears overflowing, pouring down my cheeks, again as though this is all happening to someone else. And believe me, if I were in a movie theater watching this scene I’d be scoffing to my companion because of how ridiculous it was that the girl would just flee the moment. “
Please
,” I’d say. “Why didn’t she just say that nothing happened? No one would just leave like that!”

Well, as humiliating as it is to admit, that’s exactly what I do. I can’t meet Jacob’s eyes. My arm slips from Billy’s grasp—probably because me running is the last thing he expects. I leave them both standing in my office and I run. Straight to the ladies’ bathroom, always a reliable safe haven. After throwing up, I wash my face and try to avoid my reflection, resigned to staying in there for the rest of my life.

Not knowing what else to do, I slowly head back to my
desk. I’ve no real sense of how long I spent hiding, but it was significant enough for any remaining witnesses to steer clear and depart. The empty cubicles and desks around me are a relief because I wouldn’t know what to say to Tru or any other concerned coworkers anyway. But when I arrive at my office, it too is empty. Both Jacob and Billy are gone. I don’t know what to make of their disappearance. I sit down at my desk and stare at the computer screen. Microsoft Outlook’s help icon blinks back at me. Does Bill Gates have a help menu for this? For completely fucking up your life? Could I search that under topics?

Before I can talk myself out of it, the phone is in my hand and I’m dialing Jacob’s number.

“Hey. You’ve reached Jacob’s cell. Leave a message.” The easygoing tone is like a time capsule of better, uncomplicated days. I listen to his familiar deep voice, trying to formulate what to say. Should I just apologize and beg forgiveness? Minimize what happened? Try to explain?
Beeep
.

“It’s me. Sophie.” Oh yeah, that’s good. Like he doesn’t recognize your voice. “Right, you know it’s me. Listen, we have to talk. I can explain. Please call me.” There is so much I want to
say. My brain is literally stuffed with things to express, things I wish I had faced earlier, but none find their way out. “Please.” And I hang up.

There’s nothing else to do but wait—and frankly, I could use the extra time to collect my thoughts. I’m emotionally exhausted. Even workaholic me can see there’s no way I’m focusing on any other task this evening. Time to close up shop. Sophie Atwater’s Day of Destruction is officially closed for business. And not a moment too soon. A strong pour and then soaking in the world’s longest bath is all I can think about.

The tough thoughts can wait for the morning.

Habit takes over, and I gather my things, log off my computer, grab my purse, and am about to switch off the overhead lights when the office phone rings.

Jacob
. The pit of my stomach tightens. I’m not ready.

But the caller ID shows not Jacob, but Elle. And it’s her direct line. Apparently someone else is working later than usual.

I reach for the receiver before voicemail intercepts. “This is Sophie.”

“Would you kindly come up and see me before leaving tonight.” Elle’s formal tone is—as always—the Mona Lisa smile of aural interpretation. But it’s definitely a summons, not a casual request. After seven years, I know her well enough to realize this isn’t a social call. Great. Now what? Did word somehow get to her about the scene in my office? Doubtful. Tru’s not one to gossip. Or did Priscilla already mess up the Wrestling account? Of all days, I’m not in the mood to deal with her incompetence and any managerial blame.

Better to get it over with. “I’m on my way.”

Lucas is also gone for the day, so I announce myself at Elle’s open doorway. She’s standing with her back turned, gazing at a tableau of framed photos. The wall of grinning Bennett/Peters clients, their trainer-toned arms draped chummily over Elle’s shoulders, is a virtual who’s who of Hollywood. It’s an impressive testimony to her outreach and reputation.

“You wanted to see me?” I say.

Despite the assumed damage control to address, a visit to Elle’s office suite tonight is almost comforting. She’s of the tribe of hard-edged former New Yorkers who readily took to the abundant sunshine and casual chicness of Southern California. In sharp contrast to my cluttered and comparably chaotic workstation, hers always reminds me of a cozy boutique hotel, complete with its inviting sitting area of facing ultra-suede couches, with an assortment of trendy throw pillows, that sandwich a vintage coffee table. I swear the air even smells faintly of jasmine.

If this little dose of Zen is my future, I’m on the right path.

“Yes. Please close the door.”

Okay,
something’s up
because at this early evening hour only the cleaning crew might overhear.
Oh Priscilla, what have you done…?

I shut the door, my curiosity piqued.

Elle turns around and motions for me to take a seat. I try to read her face, determined to judge the category of shitstorm ahead, but she’s far too Sphinx-like—or possibly Botoxed—to decipher. “What’s up?” I ask neutrally, running a finger across the nubby texture of an adjacent pillow.

“We’ve been working together now for what, seven years or
so?” I nod, still trying to piece together where this is going. “You’ve proven yourself repeatedly to be a valuable asset of Bennett/Peters. I’m not always the most effusive with praise, but I want you to know that I’ve come to highly respect and trust you.”

Wow. This is so
not
what I was expecting—however nice to hear—and I can feel my shoulders relax and sink back more comfortably into the cushion. Despite my recent tardiness and slipups, I
am
a great publicist. And to be recognized as such by Elle, especially at the end of what felt like the worst day ever, is a sign of hope. Somehow everything—the current mess I’ve made of my life—will work itself out.

And most remarkably, am I about to get promoted or something?! Why else would she ask me to shut the door to start singing my praises? After all the earlier tears, it feels amazing to crack a smile. After the day I’ve had, this is really incredible timing.

“Thank you, Elle. You don’t know how good that is to—”

“And now you’ve put us—
me
—in a very uncomfortable position.”

Wait. What?

Only now do I notice that Elle isn’t smiling at all.

“I’m worried about your judgment, Sophie,” Elle continues, now restlessly pacing in front of her desk. “I’m concerned about your recent lack of focus.” Each sentence hits me like a rock thrown in the dark. “And I’m very disappointed by some client interaction.”

In an instant, I’m on my feet, cheeks flushed, ready to defend myself. “Elle, once again I’m
so sorry
about the Nintendo
meeting and any other seeming lack of focus lately. That won’t ever happen again, I promise. You know I’m one hundred percent committed to my job and would never—”

“Do we need to discuss Billy Fox?”

Billy
. All the incited fight in me evaporates.
She knows
. I take a step back and sit on the edge of the couch. I feel light-headed. How could I be so stupid?

And it only gets worse.

Elle stops pacing to join me on the couch, at the opposite end, a small cluster of pillows between us. There’s nowhere to hide as she peers at me wistfully. “Understand, the inappropriateness is not the issue. These things happen.”

I meet her gaze. She’s a woman. She understands.

“Initially there were rumors. But gossip is like smog in this town—everywhere, and you simply learn to ignore it. But then photographs—
extra steamy
photographs shot in what looks to be a back alley—of Billy Fox and his new ‘mystery paramour’ surfaced, ready to circulate in the gossip columns and on the websites.”

Oh my God
.

“Luckily a media contact of Priscilla’s got advance word of the photos’ existence and she was able to forewarn us of the imminent scandal.”

The potential repercussions were clear. If the truth got out, it might damage Billy’s
and
the firm’s reputation. Given that, Elle explains, she and Billy’s manager, Wanda, paid off the source.

I am horrified on so many levels.
How
did anyone know about Billy’s and my budding romance? We were careful. I’m
not a fool. And even I couldn’t predict Billy was going to show up at Saddle Ranch. I don’t recall any paparazzi out front that night—much less hiding behind the back Dumpsters.

Once again, I’m apologizing profusely, insisting she let me repay the cost of the cover-up, anything to redeem myself. But it feels like I’m trying to form a sand castle in the middle of high tide. As hard as I try, everything is slipping through my fingers. Then I remember my earlier decision, the renewed certainty I feel about Jacob. With the photos out of harm’s way, I can fix this. I switch tactics. “And it’s over between us. With Billy. I mean,
he
doesn’t entirely know, but I do.”

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Elle says, silencing me with a well-manicured raised finger. “You are taking an extended vacation, keeping a low profile, and getting your head together.”

I stare at her like she just spoke Mandarin. Remember, I haven’t taken significant time off in years. Long weekends are a rare indulgence. My family is local. My clients need me. I could never leave my responsibilities in others’ hands for long. The very idea of an “extended vacation” is foreign and absurd. Elle might as well have said I’m heading off to space camp or clown college. “With Melissa on early leave and everything going on, I just need to focus on work.”

“I think you misunderstood me. When I said ‘vacation,’ I was being polite. You’re suspended—effective immediately—with a serious probation period to follow the break
if
I can get over my personal disappointment.”

“But I have the NYC press junket coming up.”

“Yes, for
Billy’s
movie. Obviously Wanda and I agree that’s
not a good idea.” And then comes the knockout blow. “I’m temporarily transferring your clients to Priscilla.”

“Wait.
Priscilla?!
” The very notion conjures the thought of toddlers left to entertain themselves with a loaded knife block. Because in some ways my clients
are
my “children,” my responsibility, trusting me to get them through the system unscathed.

“Yes. Don’t forget
she
was the one who saved you from a lot of grief and embarrassment. The tabloids would have had a field day with those photos. Second to adultery, we both know how they salivate over a ‘star falls for “the help” ’ angle. Your job is to secure media for our clients, not
become news yourself
.”

Unquestionably, she’s right. Even if the voyeuristic appeal to the public blew over in a couple of days, Jacob’s pride would never be able to erase the captured image. And my hard-earned reputation would be instantly reduced to “you know, the one who hooked up with her client, Billy Fox.”

The sheer magnitude of the entire situation hits me—my terrible choices, the near miss, the inescapable consequences, and, worst of all, the uncertainty of my future. I’m almost too terrified to ask the next question.

“Will you really have my job waiting after I… regroup?”

Full of surprises, Elle reaches over and briefly places her hand over mine. Her poker face doesn’t show whether she notes my faint nervous shake. “We’ll see,” she says, tapping once. “It would truly make me sad to see you go.”

I honestly can’t decide if that was a gesture of hope or a form of farewell. In either case, the conversation is over.

Back in my office I numbly gather a few personal items (repeating to myself,
This is only “temporary,”
to keep any more
erratic emotion at bay) and update my outgoing messages. Elle’s taken it upon herself to notify my clients and their management. As with many troubled starlets and pop stars before me, the absence will be attributed to inscrutable “exhaustion,” as if I simply overworked myself into a corner, which in a way I did. I force thoughts of Tru, Jeff, and the rest of the team’s private reaction to my little breakdown and sudden departure out of my mind. It’s all too humiliating to consider.

On the corner of my desk a small framed photo catches my eye. I pick it up for a closer look. It’s of Jacob and me from our trip to San Francisco. We’re nestled close in a rowboat at Stow Lake in Golden Gate Park, Jacob’s left arm around me, his right extended out of frame to work the camera. I remember laughing with the unbalanced boat’s rocking, and the trial snapshots chopping off our heads or capturing clouds. There’s simple joy on our faces. I barely recognize that girl of half a year ago. What happened to her?

To
us
? To lead me here?

The happy memory has been staring at me—just to the left of my computer monitor—for months. And yet I’m looking at it now as if for the first time. When did it—
Jacob
—fall into my blind spot? I slip the slender frame into my purse and without a look back head to the elevators.