This Life: A Novel (5 page)

“
Now
you can
begin.”

Chapter Four

March 2

New York
,
New York

“I’m sorry, Ms.
Bertrand, but I’m not accepting new clients right now.”

“Well, thank you for
your time.” Blake thumbed the End Call button and put a strike through
Brooklyn-based publicist Marsha Grayson’s name.

Prior to the Wishman
Spears closing, Edith had compiled a list of the Northeast’s top-rated
publicists and sent it to Blake via priority mail. Edith was out of town for a
family emergency for the day, and it was up to Blake to get it done. Frankly, she
didn’t mind, because she believed in first impressions, even over the phone. She
could tell from the first few seconds of meeting most people if she’d like
them, and this was no different. Blake had waited until after the weekend to
start contacting them, letting business circles grow excited about her newest
property and eager to learn her plans for it. She expected that, within a
couple of hours of making phone calls on Monday morning, she’d have
appointments with several candidates thrilled by the prospect of becoming her
new publicist.

Instead, she’d now
called every name and number on Edith’s list, and had made not a single
appointment. Only one name was left—the one recommended by the fellow on the
flight from
Miami
to
New York
. She understood that
the woman was widely regarded as the best of the best, but what sort of person
agrees to represent a drunken old lecher? Blake shook her head.
No, Ms.
Vickie Sharp, I won’t be contacting you unless I can’t find any alternative.

“But what the hell
alternatives are out there?” She padded into the kitchen, thirsty after making
nearly twenty phone calls in two hours.

“Sorry, what did you
say?” Antonio looked up from the daily crossword of
The New York Times
.
He was a riddle to Blake: The man had an Ivy League MBA in Economics, so why in
the world was he working as a bodyguard?

“I thought after buying
the Wishman Spears I’d have no trouble finding a new publicist.” Blake poured
herself a tall glass of pomegranate juice and took a sip.
I’ll be damned.
The man even does the crossword in ink. His brain is wasted in his line of
work.
“But all I’m getting is a bunch of excuses.”

“Weird.” He laid the
crossword aside and leveled a speculative gaze at Blake. “How many publicists
have you called?”

“Seventeen.”

Before saying anything
else, Antonio picked up his mug of coffee and drank it dry. His eyes never left
Blake’s. She thought she could almost
hear
him analyzing the problem.

“You’ve been sabotaged.
I’d bet a month’s pay on that, if I were a gambling man.”

“Sabotaged? How?” Blake
took a seat across the table from Antonio.

“Now that, I couldn’t
say, not without doing some investigation. I’m cross-trained for that, but it’s
not really my thing. Want me to call the office, ask them to put someone on
finding out why you’re out in the cold with the publicist crowd?”

Blake shook her head. “No.
When you put it like that, I’m fairly certain about what’s happened. I want to
make sure, though, so I’m going to get dressed, and then we’re taking a cab to
chat with the last publicist who refused to meet with me.”

The car that Blake
hired parked in the cramped lot behind a renovated brownstone mere minutes
before
11
A
.
M
.
,
when early lunchers would slip out of their offices to go in
search of food. Antonio inspected the street-front side of the building while
Blake negotiated with the taxi driver to wait for them.

“She didn’t turn you
down because she can’t use the work,” Antonio remarked to Blake, scrutinizing
the windows over the top of his Ray-Bans. He pointed to a residue of grime
accumulated on the glass. “Looks like she hasn’t spent money on a window washer
for a while. Windows of the office next door are sparkling, though.” He
motioned at the other building.

“Well, let’s go ask Ms.
Marsha what’s going on.” Blake pushed open the swinging glass door, and a
little bell tinkled to herald their arrival.

A mousy receptionist
darted out of the first door on the right in the hallway. “Good morning! Do you
have an appointment?”

“I do now,” Blake said.
“Which one is Ms. Grayson’s office?”

“I can’t let you—”

“Relax, you’re not. I’m
bigger than you, and my bodyguard is bigger than both of us together. When I
push past you and he follows me, you never stood a chance of stopping us.”

The receptionist’s
mouth dropped open and worked like a guppy’s. Blake strolled by her without
even needing to give her a “back off” look, and Antonio trailed after her.
Judging by the plaques hanging on the doors, this building accommodated
multiple businesses. Ironically, first on the left was a private investigator.
Blake grimaced, fighting a temptation to hire him to investigate his neighbor’s
finances. She kept her eyes on the prize, however, and opened the second door
on the left, on which a large sign proclaimed Grayson Relations.

Although the exterior
of the building suffered from some neglect, Grayson’s office reflected well on
her. It was decorated in shabby chic, and Blake recognized one of the French
designer names as one of her own favorites. Behind a refurbished rolltop desk
sat the willowy brunette who must be Marsha Grayson.

“Good morning,” said
Grayson, throwing a puzzled glance at the door. Antonio seemed to fill every
inch of the aperture. He grinned and waved at Grayson, who turned her attention
to Blake. “I’m afraid I don’t know you. If you need to hire a publicist, I’d be
glad to speak with you, but I’m expecting an
eleven o’clock
appointment with a
client. Would you be able to come back—”

“No, because you
already refused to talk to me, and you’re probably about to do that again. I
need to know why.” Blake settled into one of the three plush chairs fronting
the desk. “I’m Blake Bertrand.”

“Oh.” Grayson didn’t
seem to know what to do with her hands.

“You are one of seventeen
publicists who said no to a meeting with me, when I called to arrange one. I
just want to know who is responsible, my ex-husband or my ex-publicist.”

“Oh,” Grayson said
again, and studied the floor as if she’d never seen it before.

They sat unspeaking,
Blake watching Grayson, who no doubt tried to think of a way to get rid of her
without telling her anything. A minute ticked by, then another.

Blake pulled her wallet
out of her purse, slid out a hundred-dollar bill, and held it out to Grayson. “How
about I hire you for sixty seconds. Not even that. However long it takes you to
say either Lang Bertrand or Sherry Greene.”

Grayson lifted her gaze
to the crisp slip of currency. “She tells everyone you’re a monster to work
with,” she said at last, taking the hundred. “That you expect celebrities to
greet you everywhere you go, that you fight every penny of expenses, that you
have temper tantrums if you’re not front-page news at least once a month, that
you try not to give raises…” Her voice trailed off and she glanced at the wall
clock. “Please go now. I’ve got a client coming in any minute.”

Blake stood and nodded
in response to Antonio’s quizzical gaze. “That’s all I needed to know. You have
a good life, Ms. Grayson.”

Outside the brownstone,
Antonio slid his Ray-Bans back on and asked, “Any of that actually true?”

“Twist a claim enough
and anything is true, I suppose. I wouldn’t let Sherry Greene charge her
clothes and hairstyles and such to her expense account for reimbursement,
because I don’t get to charge my wardrobe to buyers when I resell a property. I
got angry when she offered to invite celebrities to an event I was hosting and
later I learned none of them showed up because they never actually got an
invitation. Everything she said has some tiny basis in truth. She just blew it
all out of proportion when she gossiped to other publicists.”

He opened the taxi door
for her, and she climbed in. When he was seated next to her and the cab merged
with traffic, Antonio asked, “So what will you do now?”

Blake shook her head. “I
haven’t worked that out yet.”

#

March 3

New York
,
New York

Blake still hadn’t
worked out her publicist problems when her BlackBerry played a verse of “Sophisticated
Lady” at
nine
o’clock
the next morning, alerting her that her best friend was calling. “Margot! I
thought I’d hear from you before now. Thomas told me at the Wishman Spears
closing that you’re in
New York
with him.”

“Oh, honey, I thought
you’d be busy setting up press conferences and that sort of thing. I didn’t
want to take up too much of your time.” Margot’s voice always made Blake think
of how sunshine would sound, if human ears could hear it.

“As it turns out, I’m
not. I can’t seem to find a new publicist to represent me.”

“What? That makes no
sense. You’re all over the business news these past few days, and some of the
mainstream news too. It’s easy money for a publicist to go to work for you
right now.”

Blake nodded to
Antonio, sitting at the kitchen table with her. He was drinking coffee and
doing the crossword as usual, while Blake ate an orange and a bagel with cream
cheese. She opened the sliding glass door onto the terrace, with its grand view
of the
Empire
State
Building
.

“I know, but I’m told
nobody wants to work for a miserly shrew, which is what my former publicist
says I am.” It was a chilly morning, and her breath came out in cottony puffs.
She enjoyed the nip in the air, however. Although not as fond of cold as her
mother, Blake did relish temperatures in the forty-five to sixty-five range.
Which
are rare in Miami
, she reflected with a wry smile.
Maybe I should move
north one day.

“That Sherry Greene. I
never understood why you tolerated her as long as you did. She got full-time
pay for part-time work, and never appreciated how lucky she was. And her taste
in clothes!” Margot clucked her tongue before finishing, “Ghetto fabulous.”

Blake laughed
full-throated for the first time in months. “Margot, you do my soul good. How
much longer will you be in the city?”

“Well, that’s why I’m
calling. Today is our last day. Our flight back to
Miami
leaves early in the
morning. I was hoping we could get together for lunch today, if you don’t have
any other plans.”

“Even if I did, I’d
reschedule them for you. Do you have a restaurant in mind?”

“No, Thomas doesn’t
bring me to
New
York
nearly often enough to know what’s here. You choose. I’ll pay.”

“The Four Seasons at
noon
? Does that sound good?”

“Girl, that sounds
better than good. I still have fond memories of that place from however many
centuries ago Thomas last brought me to
New York
.” In the background, Thomas groaned.

Blake laughed again,
seeing clearly understanding the theatrics her best friend’s husband was
putting on. “I’ll see you in the Grill Room.”

“See you there and
then!” Margot ended the connection, and Blake went inside to dress for the
occasion.

In the mood to walk,
Blake opted for a layered strategy. She wore slim Armani slacks and blouse with
Gucci ballet flats, plus a hip-length Gucci leather jacket to keep out the
cold. Antonio dressed like the Ivy League business grad he was, in a blue suit
and striped red power necktie. They waved good-bye to the doorman at eleven and
kept a leisurely pace, detouring somewhat as they neared their destination so
that Blake could show Antonio the
Rockefeller
Plaza
,
Radio
City
Music Hall
, and Saks.

Even though they
arrived early, as usual for Blake, Margot Mills was already at the Four
Seasons. She was enjoying a cocktail, and she’d taken the liberty of ordering a
Grand Marnier Sidecar for Blake. They hugged each other tight, and Blake
introduced Antonio.

“Would you ladies like
me to sit out of hearing range?” he asked them, after shaking Margot’s hand.

“Certainly not!” gushed
Margot. “I haven’t laid eyes on such a handsome young man since Thomas and I
first met.”

“Good thing he’s not
here to see you ogling my bodyguard,” Blake teased.

“Oh, Thomas and I
agreed a long time ago that being on a diet doesn’t mean we can’t look at the
menu.”

They all requested warm
spinach salad for an appetizer, and for their main courses Margot ordered the
Veal Four Seasons, Blake the Dover Sole, and—after a wince—Antonio the Sirloin
Burger. “I can’t believe any burger is worth nearly forty dollars,” Antonio
muttered as their waiter walked away.