B009R9RGU2 EBOK (28 page)

I can’t believe it.

“Oh my God…” Dumping the entire contents on to the table, I realize what this means.

I could kiss those sticky fingers.

“No? Oops.” Megan winks conspiratorially.

Never have I been
more excited to be at the office bright and early on a Monday.

“Good morning, Elle,” Priscilla says brightly, all long legs and short skirt, as she ignores Lucas and breezes into Elle’s office. “I adore that jade necklace on you.”

The guest of dishonor has arrived.

Blinded by her usual kiss-ass behavior, it takes Priscilla a few seconds to even notice me in the room’s sitting area. “And…
Sophie
. What a surprise.”

“Yes, today is
full
of surprises,” I reply.

“Take a seat,” Elle says coolly from behind her desk, gesturing to a guest chair.

The tiniest flash of uncertainty crosses Priscilla’s composed face as she complies. “Is Sophie feeling better and returning to us?” Priscilla asks. She turns in her seat to give me the once-over. “You
do
look less haggard, Sophie. The long break suits you.”

I’d deliver a retort if I weren’t so distracted by the open manila envelope in Elle’s hand.

“Actually,” says Elle, commanding Priscilla’s attention, “there’s something else I’d like to address. Look familiar?” She gives the raised envelope a little wave.

“
How did you
… I mean, what is that?” Priscilla says, a crack in her smooth veneer.

“Why don’t you tell me?” Elle says. From inside the envelope, she removes a stack of photos—the aforementioned incriminating shots of Billy and me making out behind Saddle Ranch. As Priscilla’s eyes widen, Elle next retrieves a digital camera’s memory card, and, most damningly, an actual invoice made out to Priscilla. “Although it does seem rather self-explanatory.”

The damaging photos only exist because Priscilla commissioned them. I still can’t believe how low she stooped.

“I can explain!” Priscilla cries out, her unguarded voice exposing a humbler origin. “Outside the movie premiere I first glimpsed Sophie and Billy getting awfully cozy. But you didn’t care or believe me. And so… I hired some wannabe private investigator to trail Billy and bring me proof.”

“For—let’s not forget—a double payday when Elle and Wanda killed the story,” I interject.

Elle shoots me a look and I shut up. It’s her court here.

“Sophie is not without fault,” Elle says, returning her laser focus to Priscilla. “And she’s been aptly reprimanded for her carelessness. As for you—I’ve always considered tattling childish. But to intentionally aim to
ruin
your own teammate is inexcusable. And may I add, very déclassé.”

“She was sleeping with a client!” Priscilla declares, loud enough, I imagine, for the entire floor to overhear.

“Not that it’s any of your business but—” I interrupt.

“You’re going to lecture me on what’s
inappropriate
?” Elle
says sharply to Priscilla. “You let me commend you for ‘saving’ Sophie’s reputation. But in fact you were maliciously out to destroy it—even if Bennett/Peters was collateral damage. Ours is an industry that demands circumspect behavior and prides itself on keeping confidences. In my eyes, your crime is way worse.”

“Elle, surely you—”

“We’re done here, Priscilla. You’ve got ten minutes to pack up before security escorts you out.”

For once, Priscilla is speechless. She rises unsteadily to her feet, eyes blazing, and then straightens her back and strides to the door. Halfway out, she stops to address me. “Well, I hope you’re happy.”

“Got to admit, I’m feeling particularly good,” I say. “You might want to take the stairs. It’s faster.” I dramatically glance down at my watch. “Nine minutes and all.”

Revenge
is
sweet.

“So… where does this leave us?” I cautiously ask Elle once the towering tempest has decamped.

“Well, without Priscilla, there’s a whole bunch of clients now without a publicist.” A hint of a smile crosses her face. “I think you might be the one who knows them best. That is, if you’re interested?”

Like a rocket, I leap from the couch and nearly tackle Elle with the force of my hug. “Whoa!” she says, laughing, taken aback by the unexpected display of affection, but she doesn’t immediately pull away. “I’ll take that as a
yes
.”

Definitely.

That afternoon my ears are still ringing from coworkers’
cheers and Izzy’s joyful squeal when I called on the drive home to share the good news. Tomorrow I’m officially back in business.

It’s a victory.

A second chance I will not screw up.

Only one thing dampens my triumph. There are no messages on the voicemail. No missed calls. The one person I most want to share the moment with is gone.

It’s finally here. After months of planning, The Tribe
of Hope Benefit Gala is under way. And, taking in the packed and vivacious scene around me, I see it’s on its way to being a complete success. I gotta hand it to everyone; this is no small-scale soiree. In fact, the black-tie event is being held inside the Beverly Hilton’s International Ballroom, the familiar site of the annual Golden Globes Awards and Oscar Nominee Luncheon. Just imagining all the legends who have graced the same sixteen thousand square feet beneath these tiered crystal chandeliers is truly awe-inspiring.

As if we are inside of a giant pinball machine, round tables set beautifully for eight fill the room from the edge of the stage to nearly the back of the house. Draped rectangular tables lining the room’s borders display the silent auction prizes and bidding sheets. An impressive crowd is clustered around each, competitively pledging bids. Tempting as it is to get in on the action, the last thing
I
need is another vacation break. I’m just so grateful to be back to work, happily busy again, and refocused on what’s important. Besides, fine dining or spa treatments
for two
is, well, a bit overkill.

Jacob and I haven’t spoken since the wine cellar incident.
Against my will, I often catch myself reliving its intensity, trying to decipher it all. But even if it proves that he too still has feelings, his refusal to admit and, most importantly, act on them is really all I need to know. We’d be back at the same frustrating place where we started. A place I’m not willing to go. Rationally I know I’m right, which makes it even more bittersweet when I inevitably spot him across the room in a dashing tuxedo. He always looks handsome in his work suits, but seeing him for the very first time in a peaked lapel tux and black bow tie conjures weak knees. I turn my eyes down to the deep maroon carpet with its pattern of vibrant blue starbursts. It’s like standing on a sea of compasses, but I’ve got no idea which direction to follow.

“Sophie?”

I look up to find Megan looking glamorous and sophisticated in a bold red just-above-the-knee dress with a bateau neckline and cap sleeves. I bought gala tickets for her, Jeff, and Tru to attend. It seemed the very least I could do.

“Do you like?” Megan says, performing a little half turn so I can see the side drape detail and take in her updo. “It’s Valentino.” Very nice. And expensive. As if mind reading, she adds, “Paid in full, I promise. Got a receipt and all.”

I smile back at her. We’re thick as thieves. “You look amazing.”

“Not too shabby yourself, Boss,” says Tru, joining the conversation with Jeff right behind her, each carrying a set of champagne flutes. Tru, as only she can, took the black-tie direction literally, wearing a Steampunk-style corset dress constructed of antique lace and sewn together men’s black neckties.
It’s like something straight out of a
Project Runway
challenge. Or a Victorian’s vacation on Mars. Jeff looks quite handsome in a simple black suit and dark tie.

“Thank you,” I say, accepting the proffered champagne. After an indulgent return to Clutch, I’m sporting a flowy V-neck lavender gown that’s delicately ruched at the waist. Beneath its long folds, the height and glamour boost of my favorite Jimmy Choo strappy sandals is worth every painful step. Other than highlighting my eyes, I’ve kept the makeup natural, and my only accessories are a charm bracelet and a small clutch. After the past weeks of not caring to leave the house, much less dress up, I feel like a debutante.

Megan raises her fresh glass in a toast. “Here’s to one day curing breast cancer. To reuniting our little family. To us.”

“To us,” we chime and clink glasses. And she’s right. We
are
a family. Maybe a little dysfunctional but what family isn’t?

Tru and Jeff wander off to check out the silent auction while Megan excuses herself to catch up with a former
Black Valley Mountain
costar, whose character was last seen going into the Witness Relocation Program after helping to convict a murderous Russian mobster. Alone again, I decide to do my publicist due diligence, exiting the ballroom to check in on the adjoining International Gallery being used as the press room. Various VIP guests are busy being interviewed on-camera or photographed for gossip and fashion blogs. Brian, fellow publicist and planning committee member, salutes me from across the chaos.

In an artificially well-lit corner of the room, a female entertainment television correspondent sits almost knee-to-knee
with Billy, peppering him with questions. He looks particularly hot tonight in a dapper Tom Ford tuxedo juxtaposed with a tousled rockabilly hairstyle. Watching the pretty correspondent flirt with schoolgirl-crush abandon and him give it freely back—his hand occasionally tapping her bare knee for emphasis—I’m deeply relieved to feel amused instead of jealous. Who
wouldn’t
flirt with him, given the opportunity? Taking in others’ reactions to him—both the discreet glances and unabashed appreciation—I see why we wisely “share” our idols. You don’t date or, God forbid, hope to marry ’em. That’s a sure path to paranoia and heartbreak. But best of luck, sisters.

Before Billy catches me spying, I slip out of the Gallery undetected.

Outside the Ballroom’s entrance, I intercept another flute of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray. But instead of rejoining the sociable crowd mixing inside or simply taking my reserved seat at one of the front tables, I wander over to the neighboring International Terrace. An all-glass wall provides access to balconies overlooking the hotel’s iconic Aqua Star Pool surrounded by clusters of palm trees, white chaise lounges, and two bright cabanas. The large heated pool is lit to glow sapphire blue in the evening dark and—as proved by the handful of canoodling couples seated around it—the dramatic effect is very romantic.

Apparently love is in the air. Twenty feet away I’m tickled to see Tru coyly comparing tats with a black fingernail polish–wearing cater waiter sporting kindred spirit Doc Martens with his tuxedo pants. Go Tru.

The champagne goes down easily, lending a faintly warm
and fuzzy edge to the evening. For a second I think I’m in far worse shape than I am when the hall lights start flickering. From my clutch, I check the time on my cellphone. The program, ending with the live auction, is about to begin.

With a now-empty plate of hastily gathered hors d’oeuvres before me, I’m off the high of the initial success of the event as I sit attentively through the benefit’s moving program. The foundation’s chairman, two breast cancer survivors, and a young woman whose older sister passed away from the disease each give a heartfelt and compelling speech. I think of Jacob’s mom’s courage and his unflagging commitment that I wasn’t always empathetic enough to appreciate. Despite everything that’s happened in the last couple of months, I count my blessings. I’ve got my health, my family, and my friends who love me. Lasting romance will come one day. It’s just not my turn.

The last speaker finishes to thunderous applause.

The evening’s emcee returns to the stage and announces the formal close of the silent auction bidding. I turn my head and search again for Megan and my Bennett/Peters crew amid the seated crowd. Once the program begins, the lighting beyond the stage is dimmed. Single spotlights illuminate each table from above, but their limited scope highlights little more than the floral centerpieces and disembodied arms raising forks and glasses to shadowed faces. Irene, ever the negotiating agent from my planning committee, had insisted our little group be seated together at a prime front table, and at the time I didn’t have the energy to resist her will.

“Thank you all for coming and making this evening a success,” the emcee continues at the podium. “To conclude our
fabulous evening, it’s time for the greatly anticipated live auction. At your place setting is a numbered bidder paddle. We’ve got some special treats to auction off here tonight.”

In thick navy font on white card stock attached to a jumbo popsicle stick, I’m bidder #214. There’s a flurry of excitement as hundreds of people retrieve their paddles, whether they have any true intention of bidding or not. Even I, all too aware of my checkbook balance, am caught up in the moment, fanning myself with the paddle.

“First up is a VIP private tour of the
Tonight Show
studio conducted by Jay Leno himself, followed by two reserved front row seats to the night’s taping…”