Here I Go Again: A Novel

by Jen Lancaster

  Me: couldn’t be better! happy marriage, real friends, fab job. small ass, huge house—all good in my hood!

  Deva: you’ve achieved chlorine, porpoise, and inner pieces?

  Oh, honey, I think, you have no idea how much chlorine, porpoise, and inner pieces my snappy new black AmEx can buy.

  Me: totes. still trying to get used to how everyone calls me melissa connor, but otherwise, aces!

  Deva: how are ur parrots?

  Me: ?

  Deva: parrots

  Me: ??

  Deva: pantaloons

  Deva: apartheid

  Deva: ptarmigan

  Deva: parentheses

  Deva: NO!! HATE AUTOMOBILE!

  Me: ???

  Deva: argh! parents. how are yon parents, lucy rye bread?

  Me: had dinner with yon parents on tuesday—r fine

  That’s the truth. They’re fine. My mom naturally commandeered most of the conversation, so, business as usual. I didn’t love instantly seeing twenty-one additional years on their faces, although Daddy’s showing his age a lot more than Mamma. He’s still doing crazy hours at the firm, but I guess he’s kind of a workaholic. Nothing new there.

  Deva: oaky, just checkout

  Deva: checker

  Deva: check in mail

  Deva: dam! checking!

  Me: new client coming in 5, gtg—talk when u get back

  Deva: cunt

  Me: i’m sorry?

  Deva: oh, deer, no! NO! c u later, lacy romper! argh! hate autocorrect!!

  Me: take care and say hey to the mayans for me

  I turn off my phone and pull up the meeting brief one of my assistants prepared. (Assistants! Plural!) We’re trying to woo a new pop sensation away from our competitors and today’s our first sit-down.

  According to my notes—did I mention that Future Lissy—I mean, Melissa—has been working on a memoir?—“I normally approach a new client interaction by really staying quiet. I let them do all the talking. I find in so doing, they’ll tell me exactly what’s most important to them and I can build my strategy around their wants and needs.” Wow, how smart was my future parallel-universe self?

  According to the brief, this kid we’re pitching, known to her legion of fans as ChaCha, became an overnight sensation due to some YouTube videos. Unfortunately, I’ve not watched any of them yet. My stupid computer’s making me batty—every time I try to access streaming media, I buffer and never load. Seriously, I can slip through a wormhole in the cosmos with no issue, but can I access a video of a bear bouncing off a trampoline? Negatory. Fortunately, there’s an IT guy coming to take a look at my laptop later today.

  I glance at ChaCha’s CD cover. Hmm. The photo caught her in motion, so her features aren’t real clear, but she looks thirty with all the hair and makeup. She seems familiar, but that’s likely because this little girl is what would happen if Britney and Ke$ha had a baby, sprayed her with glitter, and sent her to work the main stage.

  But her songs are incredibly popular, even though they’re so bubblegum/electropop that they make me want to stab myself in the ear with a letter opener. Is she talented? No clue. Couldn’t tell you what her actual voice sounds like, because her tracks have been Auto-Tuned to death. The bulk of her audience is between eight and fifteen years old, and every time ChaCha goes to a shopping mall, riots ensue. And yet David Coverdale can hit Whole Foods in Lake Tahoe and be completely unnoticed, at least according to his recent Christmas card. That seems so wrong.

  Regardless, ChaCha’s first single, “Fruck You,” has been one of iTune’s most downloaded songs in history, and her follow-up, “No Frucking Way,” from the new Motherfrucker album, is on a similar trajectory. I wonder what Brian’s take would be on her music? Would he be all, “Give her some pants, slap a guitar in her hand, and she’s a baby Janis Joplin,” or more like, “So that’s what three cats in a blender sounds like.”

  My first assistant, Mandy, intercoms me. “Melissa? They’re here. Everyone’s in the south conference room when you’re ready. I put out coffee, soda, juice, tea, Red Bull, fruit, and assorted pastries, so they should be in fine shape if you need a second.”

  “Great, thanks!” I reply. I find now that I actually have responsibility, I’ve risen to the occasion. Honestly, it’s not like I didn’t know a lot of this stuff in my previous-future. PR’s not exactly brain surgery. (No offense.) If you’ve amassed decent media contacts, if you can compose a sentence, if you’re not afraid of using exclamation points, and if you possess the ability to bullshit/talk your way out of trouble/occasionally deny everything despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, you’re three-quarters of the way to success. Throw in motivation, determination, and a continental breakfast? Boom! Done.

  I grab a notebook and a pen and stride down the hallway. I catch a glimpse of myself on the glass wall in front of the conference room. I come across as confident and happy, and the clothes and hair lend a certain gravitas that I’ve never had before. Clearly these aren’t the sartorial choices I’d have made in my previous-future, but they sure seem to be working in this case.

  I spy ChaCha and her team before they see me. Their backs are to the glass wall and they’re all hovering around the buffet. I’m guessing the one in the fishnet top, shorty-shorts, and army boots who’s scooping cream cheese out of the Danish center and sucking it off her fingers is ChaCha. Charming.

  I peg the guys in the shiny suits as her manager, agent, and attorney, and smart money says the mountain of a man in the untucked oxford with the shaved head is her security detail. The two trashy women (not judgey if it’s true) are likely her hair and makeup people, and the guy in khakis who’s standing really stiffly is her dad. I wonder if I’m used to teenagers with entourages in my new future.

  I open the door and announce, “Hello! Welcome! I’m Melissa Connor of Melissa Connor Public Relations! Thanks so much for being here. I’m really looking forward to finding out what we can do for you.”

  Everyone turns around, including ChaCha.

  Who, under all the makeup and truck stop waitress uniform, is actually Charlotte.

  What the fruck?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Ripples

  My thoughts immediately begin racing. Why is Charlotte here? When did she become a pop star? Why didn’t anyone tell me? And does Nicole know her stepkid owns such obscene shorts?

  The first person to speak is Bobby. He steps forward and extends a hand. “Ms. Connor, hello. I’m Bobby Paulson, Charlotte’s father, and we’d—”

  “My name is ChaCha, all right? ChaCha,” Charlotte spits. “Get it right, Bobby.” Then she digs out a crystal-studded iPhone I’ve never seen and begins to furiously text with her smudgy digits while Bobby shrugs sheepishly.

  Um . . . why are they acting like I’m a stranger? Duke and I have spent every Thanksgiving with them for the past six years. We went to Puerto Rico together and New Orleans, and I’ve been to his little cabin in Wisconsin a dozen times. Maybe I don’t see him all the time, but I talk to his wife every day. I was maid of honor at his wedding. I was there when his babies were born.

  Okay, I wasn’t there, per se, but I sent lovely gift baskets.

  Or I meant to, anyway. Thoughts count.

  Regardless, my hair’s not so different, and I’m not that much thinner than I was before my postbreakup breakdown over the summer, so why is there zero flash of recognition? “Bobby, it’s Lissy.”

  “Have we met before?” he asks politely.

  “What’s a Lissy?” Charlotte demands. “What, is that like a combination of ‘lick’ and ‘pussy’? Ha! Seraphina, did you hear what I said? That means this bitch eats at the Y! Ha! Haa!” The one with the Bettie Page neck tattoo, presumably Seraphina, nods in appreciation at ChaCha’s scathing wit. Charlotte responds with a profoundly vivid fingers-and-mouth gesture.

  Oh, hell, no.

  According to Nicole, Bobby’s never been a disciplinarian, so I’m not surprised at this heinous brat’s behavio
r in his presence. Actually, Nicole’s parenting style is a tad indulgent for my taste, too, because when did it become okay for children to be seen and heard? Still, Nicole has some standards and clearly this teenage terrorist is violating all of them. The earth would open up and swallow Nicole whole before she allowed this kind of chatter from a kid . . . even if said kid can sell out Madison Square Garden.

  My mission is clear.

  “I’m so sorry—I just realized there’s someone missing. Please excuse me while I grab her. Have some more coffee. Perhaps you’d like to disembowel another Danish, ChaCha?” I flash an icy grin before I spin on my heel and dash down the hallway to Nicole’s office. I drag her back to the conference room and hustle her through the door. I’m not even going to tell her what’s going on. I’m just going to let her witness it so she can fix it. Maybe getting a good old ass-whoopin’ in front of her attorney is just what this junior Girl Gone Wild needs.

  Undaunted, Nicole steps forward and offers her hand. “Hi, there. I’m Nicole Golden. Pleasure to meet you. Melissa asked me to sit in on the meeting, if you don’t mind.”

  I’m desperately confused. What’s with the introductions? Why are they not hugging? Or laughing? How come the she-devil’s face didn’t light up like it always does when Nic walks in the room?

  And, wait a hot minute, since when is she Nicole Golden? She’s been Nicole Paulson for more than six years, and this is her husband and booty-short-wearing, beating-needing, wicked stepdaughter. I glance at Nicole’s ring finger and notice she’s not wearing the big rock Bobby gave her three months after they met.

  Slowly the pieces begin to come together. If Nicole’s been working here with me for eight years, then . . . that means she didn’t meet Bobby seven and a half years ago at a PTA event, so . . .

  Holy guacamole!

  If they never met, then they certainly didn’t get married. If they weren’t married, then they didn’t churn out enough sticky progeny to require the purchase of a minivan. I guess that’d explain why she hadn’t plastered her office with their photos. Shit! I thought she was just being professional by not yammering on about potty training and playdates and being all in my face with class pictures!

  Unable to handle the gravity of the situation, I land in one of the conference room chairs with a thump. Everyone else follows suit.

  As I’m too stunned to speak coherently, Nicole adroitly takes over and starts a round of introductions. Although I’ve not actually seen her in action this time around, I have a feeling that Nicole’s a better second than I am a first sometimes.

  As we go around the room saying who we are and what we do, I learn I was right about everyone except the two women. Seraphina is Charlotte’s swagger coach.

  (Note to self: Google “swagger coach.”)

  (Suspect it has something to do with Bieber.)

  (Fucking Bieber ruins everything.)

  The other bimbo with all the purple hair extensions and a skirt the size of a hankie is named Tawny. She’s Charlotte’s stepmother.

  I suddenly hate everyone and everything.

  More so than usual, I mean.

  I guess it stands to reason that if Nicole and Bobby never met each other, he’s allowed to be with someone else, but, really, her? What attracted him to this cut-rate Pamela Anderson? An uncanny ability to tweeze her brows into twin pencil-thin mustaches? A deep and abiding love of small swaths of unnatural fibers? Her exemplary parenting skills? Them together makes as much sense as when Tiger Woods banged that Waffle House waitress instead of his Swedish bikini-model wife. Opting for her over Nicole would be like considering ordering a filet and instead eating a Band-Aid off a public toilet.

  As Team ChaCha discusses expectations and goals, I steal glances at the new Mrs. Bobby Paulson. Were I forced to describe this woman in one word, that word would be . . . herpes.

  While Nicole expertly explains the way our company handles online campaign management, Tawny interrupts with a question. “How much you gonna pay ChaCha for this?”

  ChaCha’s manager pokes the agent under the table and her attorney rolls his eyes, while the bodyguard makes a small moue of disgust. Gamely, Bobby volunteers, “This is a publicity firm, Tawny, baby. If we choose to work with them, we’d be paying them for their time and effort.”

  Tawny snorts. “That don’t sound right. You should be giving us money if you want to be associated with my little ChaCha.”

  Pfft. More like her little cha-ching. There’s no way Charlotte isn’t her meal ticket.

  ChaCha glances up from her phone, nods, and then gets back to her game of Angry Birds, currently being played at full volume.

  Tawny continues. “ChaCha’s an international megastar. Everybody wants her to promote their stuff. Just yesterday, we heard from a manufacturer out of Japan who wants to pay her boo-koo bucks to be the face of their product.”

  Nicole replies, “We would absolutely find your daughter opportunities to cross-promote, because that can be a powerful brand-builder. Look at what Rihanna’s done with Cover Girl and Michael Jordan with Hanes, just as two small examples. With proper execution, the celebrity becomes even more iconic, she’s exposed to new audiences on a variety of platforms, and product sales soar.” She grins and all at the table follow suit. Nicole has a way of making everything sound so nice. “Everyone wins. May I ask, what does the Japanese company want ChaCha to promote?”

  “Condoms with Hello Kitty on them.”

  While I choke on my water, Nicole smoothly suggests, “Perhaps we should weigh all her opportunities before partnering with any brands.”

  Charlotte’s attorney and manager both mouth, Thank you, in unison, while Tawny pouts and bangs the table, spilling Bobby’s orange juice. Without missing a beat, Nicole hands him a stack of napkins. It’s like it’s impossible for her not to act like someone’s mom.

  “Well, fuck me sideways. That’s why this one won’t let ChaCha do any club promotions in Vegas.” Tawny points an inch-long French-tipped nail toward the agent, who currently appears to be biting his own lip hard enough to draw blood. Then she gestures toward the manager. “And you! Thought you Jews were all about gettin’ paid, but, noooo. It’s all, ‘She can’t sell condoms; she’s a kid,’ and, ‘Maybe we should wait till she’s outta ninth grade to pose topless.’ Buncha Baptists, all of you. ’Cept for the Jew, of course.”

  The attorney keeps glancing at his watch. Oh, buddy, I really, really hope your hourly rate is worth it.

  Eventually, Nicole’s able to wrest control of the meeting away from Tawny and moves on to discuss crisis management. Somehow I suspect ChaCha’s going to need a contingency plan sooner rather than later with Discount Dina Lohan at the helm.

  Every time Tawny opens her maw, the differences between her and Nicole become more pronounced. What on earth does Bobby see in Tawny, outside of her overt (to the point of grotesque) sexuality? Nicole’s all petite and athletic and adorable, with glossy brown hair and lashes that look fake but totally aren’t, a lot like Natalie Wood in Splendor in the Grass before her character went batshit over young hotty Warren Beatty and was admitted to a mental institution.

  You know, that’s probably not the best example.

  What I’m saying is that Nicole is lovely and light and lithe, all big eyes and high cheekbones and taut muscles. She’s elegant and thoughtful and moves like a dancer, always swirling around in full skirts and ballerina flats. In the five minutes since Mrs. Tawny Paulson stopped trying to extort money from MCPR, she’s thrust her hand in her blouse twice to reposition an enormous melon, and she’s presently panning for gold in her ear canal. With my pen.

  When she tries to hand it back, I wave her off. “That’s okay. I have plenty more back at my desk.”

  Nicole leads the discussion while I attempt to make sense of the situation. Deva did explain that any changes in the past would impact the future, but it never occurred to me that this might be one of the changes. I’m all conflicted by the questions this meeting has raised.


  Is awful Charlotte saddled with this terrible fame whore of a stepmom because of me?

  Further, does Nicole not have kids because I changed the past? I wasn’t a fan of her brood, per se, but I never meant for them not to exist.

  Then again, if she never had her children or that life, she wouldn’t specifically miss them, right?

  I really need to speak with Deva.

  I hope she’s back soon.

  * * *

  Our meeting with Team ChaCha lasts an hour, and when we’re done, I’m less concerned with rips in the fabric of time resulting in one unholy pairing, and more concerned that Nicole talked this hateful child’s team into working with us.

  “Shall we grab some lunch and discuss?” I suggest.

  “Yay! I’d love to. I need to answer a few e-mails and I want to check in on Facebook real quick, but I’ll meet you by the elevator at noon.” We part and head back to our respective offices on opposite sides of the conference room.

  Ah, Facebook! Yes! That’s where I need to go. I’ll look at her page and find out what’s going on with her, because clearly things aren’t like they were before. Whether or not that’s for the better is still to be determined. At no point in the past week did I consider that changing my past might drastically alter anyone else’s in any way but positive, so this is a bit daunting.

  I settle into my desk in the corner office, with the entire Chicago cityscape behind me. But I’m not distracted by the view for once, because I’m on a mission. I boot up my laptop and make a mental note again to check on the tech appointment because this damn thing still isn’t running correctly. If Nicole posted any streaming videos, I can’t access them, but otherwise I should be good to go.