by L.H. Cosway
I stared at the empty doorway where they’d just departed, my mind working without purchase, trying to absorb all that had just occurred. Slowly but surely, my foggy irritation gave way to the earlier outrage and hurt I’d been feeling since reading Ronan Fitzpatrick’s nasty email.
No way.
There was no way I would pair up with this guy—the epitome of a privileged and entitled beefcake. He was everything I loathed rolled up into a tight, luscious, muscular, heady, and quixotically alluring package. My social phobias aside, I needed alone time with Ronan like a car needed a swim in the ocean.
I was standing, gripping the back of the chair I’d been sitting in, my tea now tepid, my éclair half-eaten, when Joan waltzed back into the break room. I glanced behind her, searching for him, a renewed spike of panic hitting me in the chest. I noted gratefully that she was alone. I also noted that she was grinning.
Joan never grinned.
She charged toward me like she was going to mow me and my chair down, but then stopped three feet from my table. “I didn’t know you were coming in today, dear.” She said these words cheerfully, her little eyes narrowing as her grin widened.
I returned her squint but not her grin, as I was too busy trying to determine the best course of action. Maybe I could feign a brain tumor and request a six-month leave of absence. She would see through any such attempt, of course. Joan was shrewd in the way other people were tall; it was in her DNA.
“Joan,” I began, quickly clearing my throat and deciding that honesty was the best policy because I’d never be able to out-maneuver or manipulate her, “I really, really do not want to work with that man. I understand if you need to assign me to his campaign, but pairing us up would not be beneficial to anyone.” My heart hadn’t quite recovered yet from Mr. Fitzpatrick’s hand up my shirt; therefore, I tried to surreptitiously even my breathing.
“Dear, pairing you up has already been beneficial to everyone.” Her grin became a small, knowing smile, and her black eyes glittered. Abruptly, she turned and called to me over her shoulder, “Follow me.”
I heaved a resigned sigh, swiftly gathered my tea and pastry, and followed her through the maze of hallways to her gigantic office.
She was waiting for me at her door and shut it after bellowing to her secretary, “Hold my calls, and tell everyone to go away until we’re done.” Then she turned to me and tugged on my elbow until I was sitting in one of the chairs that faced her desk. “You sit and eat. I’ll talk.”
Once I was deposited where she wanted me, she moved behind her giant desk and claimed the high-backed red leather chair. Behind her was an enormous window displaying downtown Manhattan. As ever, she was in the power position.
“Let’s get to the point, dear. Mr. Fitzpatrick gets what Mr. Fitzpatrick wants. And, having eyeballs, it took me less than three seconds to comprehend that Mr. Fitzpatrick wants you.”
If I’d been drinking my tea, I would have choked on it. As it was, I wasn’t drinking my tea; therefore, I choked on my tongue, but the effect was the same. I was coughing and sputtering; I felt my eyes widen to saucer size.
“Are you—are you suggesting—are you saying—”
Joan waved her hand in the air like she was flicking my half-formed thoughts away with her fingertips, “No, no, dear. Nothing so lascivious. Let me see how to put this….” She tented her fingers and peered at me over them. “Let’s start with the basics. Do you know who he is?”
I hesitated. I could recite all the details I’d just learned while cyberstalking him via Google news, or I could play dumb. But if I pretended to be oblivious, Joan would certainly see through my pretext of ignorance.
I decided to reveal only the most basic thread of my knowledge, so I answered, “He’s a rugby player.”
Joan nodded, “That’s right. But do you know who he is?”
I blinked slowly and gritted my teeth. “How could I? I just met him.”
“He is the brightest shining star of rugby. He has the potential to be the face of the sport all over the world—think David Beckham for soccer, just infinitely more masculine, dirtier, grittier, and with a fouler mouth. And he is on the precipice of greatness.”
She paused, maybe waiting for me to express my understanding of her inferred explanation, but I was lost. I typically had minimal contact with clients. My reports and presentations were usually handled by Rachel, the VP of Projects, or by Joan directly. I didn’t see why this guy was any more of a VIP or deserving of my undivided attention than the rest of our A-list.
Realizing my lack of comprehension, she took a deep breath. “Annie, the rugby people, specifically the RLIF, are ready to throw money at us for taking him on. They’re convinced he’s the one who will pull the sport into the limelight—specifically, bring interest and appetite to the USA—and they want us to cultivate him. Now do you get it?”
Feeling stubborn, I frowned. “Of course I understand why you want the client, and I’m happy to help lead the social media group cleaning up his image, but—with all due respect, Joan—I don’t understand why you would suggest that Mr. Fitzpatrick and I pair up, as you put it.”
Joan leaned forward, resting her slight weight on her elbows. She was typically four inches shorter than my five-foot-five, but from her scarlet perch, she appeared to hover from a substantial and menacing height. I wondered briefly if her feet touched the ground or if she’d used a stool to ascend to that impressive altitude.
“We need his cooperation.” She said these words slowly, her eyes moving over my gray sweater and brown skirt and then back to my eyes. “Before seeing you, Ronan Fitzpatrick wasn’t going to give us two minutes, let alone the months we need to set his image on the right path. But the moment I mention pairing the two of you, he’s smiling. He’s suggesting another visit to the office—he’s asking when we can get started.”
I swallowed, a growing dread unfurling in my stomach. I worried briefly that Ronan had somehow figured out who I was, that he knew I was The Socialmedialite, that he remembered me from the restaurant, that he saw me taking pictures of him, and that he was looking forward to our pairing in order to exact his revenge.
But I quickly dismissed the thought as preposterous. When he came upon me in the break room, he demonstrated no sign of recognition, just interest.
Just heated, intense, determined, pointed, carnal masculine interest.
Joan must’ve perceived the extent of my anxiety because she assumed a less oppressive posture, leaning back in her seat, and shrugged. “Again, I’m not suggesting that you return his attentions. I’m simply asking you to come into the office when he is here, discuss our plans with him in person, take him out for client lunches and dinners, personally assist him with the intricacies of navigating his launch onto the world stage—you know, precisely what I would ask any other member of the team to do. No more, no less….”
I closed my eyes, gathered steadying breath through my nose; I was clenching my jaw so tightly my temples ached.
I completely comprehended Joan’s not-so-subtle point, which was that I was frequently on the receiving end of special treatment. I was the only one who was absolved from meetings, excused from conferences, lunches and dinners, think tanks, presentations, et. al.
Basically, I did my thing. I did it alone. I had almost complete autonomy. I didn’t have to be a team player. Aside from intermittent infographic emails, I’d never had to schmooze a client.
But now she was calling in my hermit card. This was Joan reminding me how good I had it here. I had to admit, she was right. I had it easy. I had it great.
Unclenching my jaw, I opened my eyes and found her staring at me. Again, she was grinning, her eyes glittering.
She nodded slowly. “I see we understand each other.”
I pressed my lips together, rolled them between my teeth to keep from screaming in frustration, and returned her nod. Never mind the fact that every fiber of my being wanted to run away, maybe find a cabin in Maine, maybe become a true
recluse who ate only canned beans.
I wouldn’t last three hours without Internet access, let alone the deprivation of New York’s cuisine. No éclairs from Jean Marie’s, no arepas from Flor’s Diner, no shrimp and grits from Tom’s Southern Kitchen, no kung pao chicken from Mr. Hung Dong. I would die of food tedium.
“Good,” she said lightly, obviously pleased. “We start tomorrow.”
I nodded stiffly, and gathered my cup and accoutrements from the little table next to my seat. Holding my pastry and cold peppermint tea to my chest, I turned to go, my thoughts in turmoil. But Joan’s voice stopped me just as I reached the door.
“One more thing, Annie. Use your business account to buy some new clothes. I think you wear that same outfit every time I see you. You’re a representation of the company. If you’re going to be taking Mr. Fitzpatrick out, you’ll need to look the part.”
I stiffened and turned to face her; knowing there was no point in arguing, I decided to stall. “That’s fine, but it’ll have to be next week. And, if I’m taking on Mr. Fitzpatrick’s account, I’ll have to pass over The Starlet to Becky.”
Joan looked thoughtful for a moment. The Starlet was one of our biggest individual clients and was our code name for Dara Evans, four-time Oscar nominee with a perpetual image problem. She had an image problem because she was a raging bitch.
We kept her looking like flowers and sunshine; she kept us on our toes with DUIs and assault charges. Her most recent debacle was from this last weekend. An amateur video shot with a cell phone showed her at a Yankees game, wherein she snatched a foul ball out of the hands of a crippled five-year-old boy (who had rightfully caught it). Then she made fun of his handicap and held the ball just out of his reach.
Yeah, so…raging bitch.
“Fine.” Joan nodded.
I immediately turned and left, assuming the “fine” was in reference to both handing over Dara Evans to Becky as well as delaying any new additions to my wardrobe.
I hurried down the hall, nodding politely to my co-workers but not stopping long enough to chat. I’d been working at Davidson & Croft Media since graduating with my master’s degree twelve months earlier; in that time, people had come to expect my behavior and very rarely tried to draw me into conversation.
Finally, I was back in the haven of my office. I shut the door and crossed to my chair, dropping into it and depositing my éclair and teacup on the desk. I tried to wrap my mind around how I’d gotten into this mess. Then I again briefly thought about how I might escape from having to spend any time with Ronan. Then I again pushed those thoughts away.
If I wanted to continue at Davidson & Croft Media—and I did want to continue at Davidson & Croft Media because no one else would pay as well and put up with my eccentricities—I would just have to suck it up and live through the next few months.
I unlocked my computer, planning my message for Becky, trying to find the words to break it to her that she would be taking over social media containment for The Starlet. I felt a measure of guilt. Becky seemed like a nice person. I wouldn’t wish Dara Evans on a dog I didn’t like.
When my screen awoke, I flinched. I’d left open The Socialmedialite’s email account, and Ronan’s odious message was mocking me. I stared at it for a moment, my fingers tapping impatiently on my desk.
Under usual circumstances, I would never respond to a message such as his. I would delete it, ignore it, and put him on my celebrity blacklist (those who are never discussed, referenced, or mentioned again). I knew the worst thing that could happen to a celebrity was to be made irrelevant. Society’s ambivalence is the death of notoriety.
But now—now that I was going to have to suffer through actual in-person interactions with Ronan—I couldn’t contain my desire to lash out at him in some way and return his insufferable message with a response worthy of my angst and aggression.
Annie might have to be nice to Ronan, but that didn’t mean The Socialmedialite had to take any of his crap. Without really thinking it through, I opened my alter ego’s email account and quickly typed out a message.
March 10
Dear Mr. Fitzpatrick,
Please accept my humblest apologies.
If I’d known my benign little blog post was going to get you all hot and bothered, I would have sent it to you directly and arranged a rendezvous to our mutual satisfaction. Despite your propensity to dress like the love child of a hobbit and a leprechaun, I can’t deny—toe-shoes notwithstanding—I wouldn’t be opposed to your dipping into my pot of gold, especially if that bulge were au naturel. Though, with your superiority complex, I suspect it was a tube sock. Let me guess, you drive a fast car…right? Maybe something with a lot of cylinders to compensate for other deficiencies?
Also, thank you for proving every Irish stereotype 100% correct. Now I know for certain your people’s predisposition for hysteria and dramatics has not been exaggerated. Well done, you. Keep up the good work.
Sincerely, The Socialmedialite
Chapter Four
Calories: 4,500.
Workout: 5 hours in total.
Steamed chicken: Starting to fantasize about frying, roasting, sautéing, grilling, braising, barbecuing...
*Ronan*
Six-thirty in the morning, and I’m staring at the screen of my laptop, pissed. The only reason I had the thing was so that I could email Lucy and Skype with her and Ma from time to time. Other than that, I wasn’t much of an Internet sort of bloke. When people asked me if I was on Facebook and I told them no, they looked at me like I was an alien from another planet.
I liked face-to-face interaction, wanted to be able to see, smell, and gauge people in the flesh. Screens to me were just flat black mirrors. They wiped out all of the most vital and exciting things about a person, giving you a bland, one-dimensional representation instead.
I made the concession of emailing Lucy because of the time difference when I was traveling. If I was somewhere like Australia, we were on opposite ends of the globe, and it was nearly impossible to find a decent hour that suited us both to talk over the phone.
Which brings us to the present and why I was looking at a highly offensive message from The Socialmedialite that had made its way to my inbox. I’d been under the assumption that the virtual pimp-slap I’d given her would be my triumphant last word. (Virtual pimp-slaps were allowed in my book; real-life ones, not so much.)
Within the space of two short paragraphs, she’d managed to squeeze in a cacophony of insults. I was yet again a hobbit/leprechaun, I stuffed my jocks with a tube sock, I drove a fast car to compensate for a small dick, and I was a fitting tribute to the short-fused, temperamental Irish stereotype.
Almost of their own accord, my hands were moving over the keyboard, clicking on “reply,” and furiously venting the anger I felt inside. Somehow I was channeling all of my hatred toward the media at this one faceless person. I didn’t think I’d ever typed so fast in my life. I’d written a long, meandering tirade of a paragraph when I looked back at it, immediately highlighted the entire thing, and then hit “delete.”
I wasn’t going to let this blogger know she was getting to me. I was going to be just as cutting as she was without conveying the fact that I gave a shit. Of course, strangely, I did give a shit, a whole lot of a shit. It wasn’t just my legendary quick temper, either, but I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of knowing that.
So I took a deep breath, composed myself, and started from scratch.
March 11
Dear Socialmedialite,
It’s obvious that you live in a fantasy world for the following reasons:
1.) You believe in hobbits and leprechauns.
2.) You call your vagina a pot of gold.
3.) You think I’d ever be interested in your pot of gold.
4.) You believe a tube sock looks like a cock.
Ronan Fitzpatrick
P.S. Your xenophobia truly knows no bounds. Stereotypes are bullshit, but I guess it makes sense that y
ou’d spout them, being the peddler of excrement that you are.
I sat back, flexed my hands, and hit “send,” feeling a rush of satisfaction as I wondered how she would react to my response. Trying not to delve too much into the notion that I might actually like fighting with this person, I quickly shot a message off to Lucy. I included a few things I thought she would potentially be interested in, mostly how I hated having to work with this PR company, but that there was a pretty girl named Annie who they were going to pair me up with, so it wasn’t a complete loss. Ever since Brona, Lucy had been trying to encourage me to get back into the dating scene, so I mentioned Annie purely to keep her happy. Thus far I’d had a couple of sordid one-night stands, and, as I said, that’s all I was after.
A brief memory of the soft, silky feel of Annie’s skin against my knuckles struck me, and it was a welcome distraction. The recollection was so visceral in its simplicity that I felt myself harden.
It had officially been too long since my last shag.
As I made my way into the gym and pulled my iPod from my pocket, I wondered how long it would take to lure Annie into shedding her clothes. They disguised her well, but I’d noticed the subtle curve of her waist and breasts. She would be exquisite when I got her bare, such a contrast to the plain, dowdy way in which I’m sure she thought most people perceived her. And despite the fact that it frustrated me, there was something about her timidity that appealed to me on a very base level. I could just imagine how easily she’d…submit.
My thoughts were making me way too excited for 8:00 a.m. I briefly considered a long shower instead of a workout, but I struggled onward. Perhaps hitting the treadmill extra hard would work off some of the sexual frustration. Firing up my iPod, I selected my favorite workout playlist and started at a slow jog. “The Final Countdown” came on, putting me instantly in the zone.
Mullets and questionably tight pants aside, the best music in the world was ’80s rock, and I had no qualms about admitting it. I didn’t want music that was maudlin and depressing—I wanted music that put me in a good mood and made the world look a little bit brighter.
