by Abby Stern
“Maggie, any pitches for this week?” I ask.
“My source confirmed that Singer with a Dramatic Love Life Who Plays Guitar is going to make an unpublicized visit to Children’s Hospital this week. He’s going to visit with the kids and play for them. I think that has the potential to be our feature of the week.”
“I agree! That would be amazing!” I tell her.
“The source is going to send me a list of the songs he sung after he leaves,” she informs me. “I also have a lead on Veteran Sitcom Star with Personal Problems renting out the El Capitan theatre for a week for private screenings for inner-city kids in after-school care programs. I’m still waiting on details about that one, though.”
Jessica has a look on her face that means she has something to say that is either very good or very bad.
“In other news, we’re now averaging five hundred thousand users a day!” Whoa, that’s amazing. At this rate we’ll be beating The Life.
“I don’t know what to say. I couldn’t have done this without you girls. Thank you.”
“Apparently in our case, two wrongs do make a right,” Maggie realizes.
“Well, maybe a little more than two,” I tell her. But I agree.
Thirty-two
After our Chateau lunch date went smoothly, Holiday invited me over for a girls’ night.
“We’re getting the band back together!” is what she said, and I didn’t want to lose momentum by insulting her and pointing out that we’re more of a duo. Walking into her house was bizarre. I felt like I was having another out-of-body experience inside my own body. I closed my eyes and let go of all of the negative thoughts before she leads me to the conservatory, where she’s set out cheese and charcuterie. Before we can pop a champagne cork and start bonding she gets a text message and passes me the bottle, deflated. Something’s up; Holiday almost enjoys popping the cork more than drinking the champagne.
“What is it?” I ask her.
She clenches and releases her fist five times to mollify herself. “I have a text from Nick. He told me there’s an interview coming out with an ex-boyfriend of mine in London claiming that he was in a relationship when we got together and I seduced him away from his girlfriend.” She’s frustrated and wounded. “It’s not true, but you know that doesn’t matter. People are going to believe it anyway because they want to and it’s salacious. He’s trying to capitalize on the Seth affair and get his fifteen minutes of fame.” She places her phone on the table facedown. This isn’t what I want to be known for,” she vents.
“You can fix this,” I tell her.
“I can?” Some color flushes back into her cheeks. “How?”
“Here’s what you do. Text Nick back and tell him to warn all of the publications that anyone who runs it won’t get an interview with you when it’s time to do press for Benedict Canyon. If you come out playing hardball now, they’ll know you’re serious and will fuck with you less because they’ll want your cooperation for bigger stories.”
“Thanks, El. How do you know all of this stuff?”
“File it under things I picked up from working at The Life for too long.”
“Well, I’ll use it to my benefit. I wish you could run interference for me all the time.”
It dawns on me. “Holiday, I can.”
“What are you talking about, darling?”
“I could be your publicist.”
She’s looking at me, like I pronounced Chanel “channel.”
“Well, what if that was my job?”
She stares at me, waiting for me to explain in more detail.
“PR. You yourself said I’m great at it…,” I remind her.
“You want to be my publicist?”
“You’re going to need to have someone watching out for you and your image. You’re only going to get bigger once the show premieres. Just think. If I could rehab your image and get the producers at Benedict Canyon to reconsider firing you, I can take care of any media crisis.”
“Ella, I don’t know. We just returned to nonviolent speaking terms. What if it affects our friendship?”
“I think it will help our friendship. You’ll know that I’m always working to protect you. First of all no one knows where all of your bodies are buried better than I do. As long as I don’t blab, which I swear I won’t ever, they will stay hidden.” She’s actually contemplating my suggestion, so now it’s time to go in for the kill. “You have to admit that no one knows the celebrity journalism game like I do. I know how they get their info, who their sources are, what places to avoid; we can create your image to be whatever you want it to be. Nick is going to be too busy to take care of anything other than your deal memos to help you with that.”
Holiday knows that I’m right.
“We can even do it on a trial basis. Give me a test as your publicist, and if I do a good job, we’ll make it permanent.”
“What if it doesn’t work out?”
“If we could make it through what happened with The Life, we can make it through anything. Besides, now I’m using all of that insider info to your advantage.”
She ponders the offer. “And you’re okay with a test?”
“Absolutely. One hundred percent. Anything.”
“Okay, get Gwendolyn Ross to promise me the cover of the September issue of Style & Trend Magazine. You have one week.”
The cover of Style & Trend Magazine? The September issue, no less. Holiday isn’t fucking around. She wants to see if I can make the impossible possible. Every good publicist needs to be able to pull a white rabbit out of a top hat even if all they have available is a guinea pig and a Von Dutch trucker hat circa 2003. But Gwendolyn Ross? Her inner circle is notoriously impervious. Holiday isn’t even in it. Getting through to her is as high on the difficulty scale as converting the pope to Judaism. I’d believe she didn’t exist if I hadn’t seen her with my own two eyes. It may be a long shot but instead of focusing on how difficult this is going to be I need to devise a plan … a good one. That’s just what I do with my next day off.
Step Number One: Align Style & Trend Magazine with Holiday.
I am able to use my basic Photoshop skills to cobble together a collage of images of Holiday that looks more like a recap of Versace, Marchesa, Dior, and Dolce & Gabbana’s greatest hits from New York Fashion Week.
Step Number Two: Assess Holiday’s marketability.
Cover models have to be women who can move magazines off the newsstands. I compile her social-media data into a chart on my computer that makes it look like I put a lot more effort into it than I actually did and makes it look official. Next I check the visitor hits from Compassionate Celebrities. Every Holiday post has a minimum of twice as many visitors as other posts.
Step Number Three: Attempt to contact Gwendolyn with this information.
I scour the deep, dark corners of the Internet and feel like it’s easier to find redacted government documents on Area 51 than a pipeline to Gwendolyn. After countless hours in a black hole online I recognize that her assistant’s contact info is the closest I’m going to get. Even Gwendolyn’s assistant’s e-mail address is so difficult to find I’m beginning to think it’s a myth, like the fountain of youth. I fire off my pitch to her assistant and use the law of attraction to manifest her assistant passing on the information and Gwendolyn saying yes. At this point it can’t hurt. Two days later, no response. I will never understand how people can just not answer an e-mail. It takes two seconds to type a sentence. I send a follow-up e-mail. On the third day, when I still have nothing, I know that it’s time for a backup plan. The window Holiday gave me to achieve this goal is beginning to close and I can’t waste another day of waiting around. If I can’t get past Gwendolyn’s assistant I will have to go straight to Gwendolyn somehow.
The stress of having gotten nowhere with this task is giving me a headache. I need to get a coffee—one that I didn’t make—to help take the edge off. I decide to up my vitamin D levels and take a calming walk to Robin’
s neighborhood Starbucks. It feels nice to be a customer again.
“I’ll have a grande iced latte,” I tell the barista, who is almost a mirror image of me, except for the fact that she’s smiling.
“That’ll be three dollars and seventy-five cents,” she says without any contempt in her voice.
I reach into my wallet and grab my last remaining tip dollars and I notice it. I’d completely forgotten I have it. It’s my membership card to Doheny Circle. With everything going on, Doheny Circle hasn’t been on my radar recently, and even if it had been I’d be too scared to go there—I might run into Nick. But it’s the last place I saw Gwendolyn, so it’s my best shot at talking to her about Holiday. I wonder if he removed me from his membership when he broke up with me, but there’s only one way to find out. I grab my iced latte and sprint home. It’s time for me to get dressed up and be Bella one last time.
As I enter the lobby of Doheny Circle I feel my stomach tingle. Breathe. Namaste. I present my card to the hostess, who looks me up and down. She squints one eye at me. Fuck. Am I busted? Chateau part deux. I’m about to place my hands in front of me to save security the trouble while escorting me out when she speaks.
“Will Mr. Williams be joining you?” she asks.
“Not today,” I reply back as icily as she’d asked. I normally wouldn’t be so rude, but to the people at Doheny Circle, kindness would be considered weakness.
“Enjoy,” she says without so much as a smile. I let out a huge breath when I reach the elevator bank and head to the penthouse. I arrive at the bar area and park myself at a stool. It’s only 3 P.M. but that doesn’t mean it’s empty by any means.
“Can I get you something to drink?” the nonmodel but career bartender asks.
“Just water for me.”
He rolls his eyes with the confirmation he won’t be receiving a large tip and begrudgingly slides me a glass of water. The people trickle in and out as the hours pass. We’ve moved on from ladies who lunch to men who make conversation with their mistresses, but no Gwendolyn. I check my phone. Shoot! I have to leave in ten minutes. Marianna’s school play is tonight and I promised her I’d be there. I think about how two months ago I’d have canceled on my family because I would’ve wanted to wait until the end of the night to see if Gwendolyn showed. Ten minutes ticks by and it’s time to wave the white flag. I leave twenty dollars on the bar as a fuck-you to the surly bartender and order an Uber. As the elevator doors open, who do I literally run into while I’m trying to enter and she’s exiting but the elusive one herself, Gwendolyn?
“Watch where you’re going,” she snarls without looking up. I feel a lump develop in my throat. Without even saying a word, I blew it. I swallow and muster up some inner strength somehow. No! I’m not going down this easy. I abruptly turn around and chase after her and I reach her before she can be seated for cocktails.
“Excuse me, Gwendolyn, we met at Holiday Hall’s house. I’m Ella.” I extend my hand and she merely stares at it.
“Yes?” she asks, although she obviously wants me to scram.
“I’m Holiday Hall’s publicist. I want to pitch her for the September issue of Style & Trend.”
She stares at me blankly. “Holiday Hall?”
I nod yes.
“As the model for the September issue?”
“That’s correct.”
She looks me up and down, I’m sure finding fault with every piece of clothing and accessory that catches her gaze. She reaches into her pocketbook (Gwendolyn Ross doesn’t carry a purse. It’s most assuredly a pocketbook) and hands me a card.
“I like it. Here’s my direct contact information. Call me to discuss details.” Did I just pull this off? Could it have been that easy? I mean, it wasn’t easy. I was resourceful, but did I somehow hit defrost on the ice queen?
“Thank you, she will be great for the cover!”
“The cover?” She cackles. “What did you say your name was?”
“Ella,” I answer.
“Ella. There’s no way I’m putting Holiday on the cover—of the September issue, no less. I enjoy her socially but I need star power for the cover. Call my office and we’ll talk about a four-page editorial spread.” My neck sinks. “Trust me. Even that is a gift.” She turns toward the dining room and doesn’t bother looking back.
I call Holiday from my Uber. With each ring that passes I’m hoping she won’t pick up. I’m not sure how she’s going to react.
“Hi, Hol.”
“Hi, darling.”
“I … I…”
“Are you alright, El?”
“I called to tell you that I can’t get you on the cover of the September issue of Style & Trend Magazine. I did my best, I promise. But a four-page editorial layout is all you might get. So you don’t have to hire me as your publicist. I—”
“Will you stop talking for a minute, Ella? You’re hired.”
“But I failed,” I tell her.
“It was never about the cover of Style & Trend Magazine. I just wanted to see if you would tell me the truth and accept responsibility. I needed to know if I could give you my full trust again, and I can,” she declares.
“I don’t know what to say.” I’m perplexed.
“Say that you’ll start next week,” she offers. “I have to go back to Canada to film the rest of the season and I’d feel a lot better knowing I have someone watching out for me here,” she says. “Darling, listen, I have to go. I’m late to meet Tristan. We’ll talk about all of the details tomorrow, okay? Ciao!”
I hang up the phone and text Spike my two-week notice. He tries to call me but I can’t answer. My Uber has stopped.
I arrive at Marianna’s school just in time.
Thirty-three
Since I’ve become a publicist I’ve completely immersed myself in work. Even more so than when I was at The Life, but my boundaries are set much better. Unless I have to be at an event with a client I’m off limits after 6 P.M. weeknights and on weekends. For a brand-new publicist I’ve assembled quite the client list in such a short period of time. Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star hired me after consistent coinciding chemo treatments with my mom and her secret is still as safe today as before I met her.
Because of Dr. Jacobs, both she and my mother are in remission, and I’ve helped Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star launch the comeback of the century. The only thing Hollywood loves more than a scandal is a grandiose comeback. Then, of course, there’s Sexy Indie Film Actor. With the help of his superagent, Nick Williams, and Compassionate Celebrities his schedule is fully committed for the next two years … including the lead role in that reboot of the huge comic-book franchise. Yes, that one.
And of course there’s Holiday. Though she’s shooting in Canada most of the time she’s the client I have the most to do for day to day. Her still-colorful life leads to me fielding calls from reporters to confirm or deny rumors, arranging photo shoots and interviews, and making sure that every word that I can control that’s written about her is flattering. I’ve fully restored her image and I intend to make sure that no job of hers will ever be in jeopardy again.
The time has finally come for the premiere of Benedict Canyon and Holiday’s official debut. There is, of course, a huge party, and Holiday and the rest of the cast and crew are flying back to Los Angeles to attend. This will be the first time we walk a red carpet together as publicist and client. My body is jittery with excitement—so much so that I can barely reply to the hundreds of e-mails I’m receiving.
I arrive at her house that afternoon to organize her wardrobe options and review potential interview answers while her glam squad gets her ready.
“You’re going to look perfect,” I tell her when she emerges in her head-to-toe look. “Tonight is all about you, my dear.” I pat her shoulder.
“You are a brilliant publicist.”
My iPhone buzzes and I check my texts. “Hol, we have to hurry up. The SUV is here.” The doorbell rings. “And that must be Tristan.
Give your hair one more spritz of volume spray before we leave,” I command.
“Bossy, bossy!” She gives me her soon-to-be-famous wink.
“That’s what you pay me for, superstar,” I quip as I make my way out of her room. I take the very familiar route to the front door, and when I answer, Tristan is on the other side holding a bouquet of roses.
“Wow. You look great,” he says as he enters the foyer.
“Thank you. But wait until you see Holiday.”
She emerges that very second as if we’d choreographed her grand entrance. Tristan almost loses his grip on the flowers when he sets his eyes on her and is in such a trance he can’t speak. Holiday retrieves the flowers from his hand and inhales their scent.
“These are beautiful!” She fawns over the bouquet as if it was the Hope Diamond.
“Babe, you’re stunning,” he finally manages to get out, and she inches toward him and gives Tristan a long passionate kiss that’s giving no indication of ending anytime soon. I clap my hands to break up their make-out sesh.
“Alright, lovebirds, we have a schedule. We need to get moving to stay on track.”
“Are your mom and Robin meeting us there?” she asks.
“They are. But enough with the dawdling. We only want to be fashionably late, we don’t want to miss the red carpet entirely.”
* * *
We pull up to the red carpet and Tristan exits first, then helps us get out of the SUV without flashing or falling in front of the cameras. He escorts himself to the entrance of the carpet, but I pull Holiday’s hand and hold her back to have a brief bonding moment before we hit the mob scene.
“You ready for this? Your whole life is going to change when you get out of this car,” I warn.
Holiday sarcastically applauds me.
“Those theatrics, Ella … are you the actress or am I?” she jests.
“I’m serious. I want you to remember this moment … and I also want you to remember, publicist or not, I’ll always be there for you and look out for your best interest.” I open my purse and take out a perfectly wrapped Cartier box and present it to Holiday.
