by Beth Orsoff
He pulled his Rolex out from under the cuff of his pristine white shirt. "You’ve got ten seconds."
He could’ve given me ten days and it wouldn’t have mattered. I couldn’t get the image of Brutus, crying and alone, out of my head. "Rick, you’re not leaving me much of a choice."
"You always have a choice, Sydney. You’ve obviously made yours."
Chapter 59
"I’m so sorry," Jill said, when she returned my call the following week.
"It’s not your fault," I replied, and set aside the press release I’d been working on for the Westside animal shelter. They weren’t paying me, but it was a good cause. Plus I suddenly had a lot of free time to fill.
"I know it probably doesn’t feel like it at the moment, but you did the right thing."
"I know." Though I still sighed when I let my eyes wander to the boxes stacked up in the living room. Without my BB&L salary, I could no longer afford my one-bedroom apartment so I was moving to a studio a few blocks away. I could only manage the reduced rent because I’d traded in my Audi convertible for a used Honda Civic in order to buy myself six months of living expenses.
"What are you going to do now?"
"I’ve started my own PR firm." To be honest, that wasn’t my first choice. I didn’t know anything about running a business. But after I’d sent out resumes to every agency in town and couldn’t even land an interview (absolutely no one was hiring), I came up with this plan.
"That’s great! Do you have many clients?"
"At the moment, only one." I’d called my entire list the day after I left BB&L. A few said to let them know when I landed somewhere else, but most told me Rick or Lindsay had already contacted them and convinced them it was in their best interest to remain with the firm. Only Blake had been unequivocal—"Those assholes! Of course I’m staying with you."
It had been our first non-text conversation since we’d broken up. I was afraid it would be awkward but Blake acted as if nothing had changed. Under normal circumstances I might’ve been offended, but now I was happy to pretend too. I couldn’t afford to lose Blake as a client. I planned on using his monthly fee to pay my rent.
"Maybe I can help," Jill said. "Make a few calls."
"You mean you’ve been holding out on me all this time? You really have a rolodex filled with celebrities’ phone numbers?"
"No, but non-profits have publicists too, don’t they?"
I quickly learned that although non-profits do sometimes hire freelance publicists, they pay much lower rates than big corporations and celebrities. But the work was spiritually rewarding if not financially, and I wasn’t in a position to be choosy. I took whatever odd jobs came my way.
Three months later when I received a voicemail from an Emily Corus at the Arctic Preservation Society I assumed it would be another single issue press packet or e-mail fundraising campaign. But I was wrong.
"We want to present Blake McKinley with the Arctic Citizen of the Year Award," Emily Corus, chairperson of the Society’s fundraising committee, told me when I called her back the next day.
"Excuse me?"
"You are Blake McKinley’s publicist, are you not?"
"Yes, and I know he’ll be thrilled, as am I. If you don’t mind my asking, how exactly did you decide on Blake?" I would’ve thought they’d have chosen someone who had at least been to the Arctic and actually gave a damn about preserving it. I wasn’t being disloyal. Blake agreed.
After Guy decided he was too busy to edit the walrus documentary, I finished it myself then uploaded it to YouTube with a link to Blake’s Facebook page and Twitter account where anyone could ask him a question about walruses, which I dutifully answered on his behalf every day. I also tweeted about the documentary in Blake’s name at least once a week, and posted on several blogs and message boards. In three months, the video had been viewed over four-hundred thousand times, and the Save the Walrus Foundation had received more than thirty thousand dollars in donations.
I knew Blake was the documentary’s biggest draw but he was also an impediment. Despite my endless prepping, Blake often forgot to mention the project during interviews until the host brought it up, then he’d inevitably flub at least one of his talking points even though I’d gone over them with him so many times I was reciting them in my sleep. I only knew that last part from Nicole, whose couch I’d crashed on the week my new apartment was being fumigated.
Under tactful questioning Emily Corus admitted that the Arctic Preservation Society often chose to honor a celebrity, along with several non-celebrities, to increase attendance at their annual fundraising dinner. The celebrity honoree was expected to appear in person to accept the award.
"The dinner’s in San Francisco?" I knew from their website that was where the group was headquartered.
"Yes, and of course we’ll pay Mr. McKinley’s hotel and airfare from L.A."
"What if he wants to bring a guest?"
"He’s welcome to bring a companion if he likes, but we only cover expenses for the honoree."
I called Blake that evening to deliver the news.
"Syd, I don’t know anything about these people."
"They do good work, Blake. You should say yes." I’d decided he should accept the award the moment Emily Corus told me she’d watched the documentary and found it very moving, "especially that part with the poor little walrus calf."
"Maybe. Where did you say it is again?"
"San Francisco. C’mon, you have to say yes. You only have to go for the night and I got them to agree to comp you a suite." I figured I could sleep on the sofa in the living room, then I’d only have to pay for my airfare.
He let out a sigh but said, "All right, so long as you promise to go too."
"Guaranteed." I wasn’t letting him pick up an award for all of my hard work without at least being there to witness it.
It wasn’t until after I’d called Emily Corus back and told her Blake would be honored to accept their award that I found out Ethan would be receiving one too.
Chapter 60
I decided not to share that information with Blake. For the past three months, whenever Ethan’s name came up Blake inevitably groaned and spent the rest of the conversation referring to him as "that asshole" or "the walrus prick." I wasn’t going to give him an excuse to back out of accepting what I considered to be our Arctic Citizen of the Year Award. Especially since I’d already started talking it up all over the internet.
Six weeks later I took the super-saver flight to San Francisco and checked into Blake’s hotel suite. I’d purposely arrived early to guarantee myself plenty of time to shower and dress before Blake showed up at six-thirty that night. Yet I still managed to almost give myself a concussion when he appeared in the bathroom’s doorway. I had U2 blaring on my i-pod, so I didn’t hear him come in.
I screamed and jumped backwards, smacking my skull against the shower door.
"Are you okay?" Blake asked, as I grabbed the back of my head.
"I will be." The bump was small, and the pain was already subsiding. When I looked up he was staring at my chest. I reached for the hotel bathrobe and wrapped it around me. Obviously Blake had seen me wearing much less than my black lace bra and panties, but not in many months. "What are you doing here?"
"I thought we were sharing," he said, then strolled into the bedroom and launched himself onto the king-size bed.
"I meant what are you doing here now?" I asked, as I followed him in. The red digits on the bedside clock radio glowed 5:35. "You’re not even supposed to be landing for another ten minutes."
"They cancelled the five o’clock, so they hustled me onto the four-fifteen."
"Where’s your bag?" Blake promised me he’d carry his tuxedo onto the plane after I’d had a nightmare that the airline lost his luggage and he had to accept his award in his de rigueur travel ensemble—faded t-shirt, leather jacket, and torn jeans. They never did find my lost bag, which presumably had found another home somewhere in Alaska.
> "I hung it up. Why are you so jumpy?"
"I’m not jumpy," I said, as I returned to the bathroom so I could finish applying my eye shadow. "I just want everything to go smoothly tonight."
"Why wouldn’t it?"
"No reason," I said, suddenly rethinking the wisdom of not telling him that Ethan would be receiving an award tonight too.
After I finished my makeup, I turned the bathroom over to Blake to shower, while I dressed in the living room.
Forty minutes later Blake emerged from the bedroom with his hair slicked back and his French cuffs peeking out from the sleeves of his tuxedo jacket. "How do I look?" he asked.
Like he stepped out of the pages of GQ. "You’ll do."
"Well, you look amazing."
I couldn’t help but smile. I’d worn this dress many times in the last five years but I still loved it. The shirred top made my breasts look bigger than they actually were, and the crisscrossed waist and slightly flared skirt meant I didn’t have to wear control top pantyhose.
Blake checked his watch. "We’ve got some time to kill. Any ideas?"
He followed up with a seductive smile but since "the Sheena incident" as Nicole and I referred to it, I’d developed an immunity. I shut the TV and grabbed my tiny purse. "We’re going downstairs for a drink, and you’re buying."
Blake steered me through the crowded bar with one hand on my back, and even pulled out my chair for me when I snagged us the last available table. I didn’t know we had an audience until he left to find a waitress to take our order.
At first all I saw was the hand on the back of the chair. "Sorry but that seat’s—" I looked up into piercing blue eyes—"Ethan."
"Hello, Sydney." He set his martini glass on the small cocktail table between us and sat down.
"Blake just went to find a waitress," I replied, as I tried not to stare at the clean-shaven, tuxedo-clad man sitting across from me. This was the first time I’d seen Ethan without a three-day beard and wearing something other than an ugly orange jumpsuit or faded jeans.
"That ought to give us plenty of time," he said, as he glanced around the standing room only bar.
Obviously he’d never seen Blake in action. I was betting he’d be back in less than two minutes.
"How are you?" he asked, as he reached for his glass. He didn’t drink it; he merely twirled the stem in his hand.
A complicated question. Or maybe just the answer was complicated. Blake, who I’d been infatuated with for most of my adult life, and who’d I’d finally gotten over, suddenly seemed interested in me again, at least for sex if not for dating. And Ethan, a man I hardly knew and hadn’t spoken to in months, one for whom my feelings had ranged from generally disliked to actively despised, was sitting across from me looking somehow appealing. It had to be the kiss. Or kisses. The first on the boat, and the second in his tent the day I left Wilde Island. Although the tuxedo probably didn’t hurt either. What man didn’t look more attractive in a tuxedo?
"I’m good," I said, wishing I had a martini, or any beverage, to play with too. I was desperate to find something to do with my hands. "And you?"
The next voice I heard was Blake’s. "What the fuck is this asshole doing here?"
Ethan sighed. "Mr. McKinley, a pleasure, as always," he said in a voice oozing with sarcasm. "Please, take my chair," he added, as he stood up. Then he turned back to me. "I’ll see you upstairs."
"What was that about?" Blake demanded when Ethan had disappeared into the throng of dark suits and fancy dresses.
"Didn’t I tell you? They’re honoring Ethan tonight too."
Blake’s anger had cooled by the time we entered the hotel’s glass elevator and pushed the button for the thirty-second floor. I told him by the time I’d found out about Ethan’s award, it was too late to cancel, which was technically true. My mother always said it was rude to back out of an invitation after you’d accepted. The mojitos Blake downed at the bar probably helped.
As we walked into the ballroom with its huge red and orange floral arrangements adorning each table, and hundreds of tiny spot lights casting everyone with a warm pinkish glow, a well-coifed older woman approached. I instantly recognized her from her online photos. The Arctic Preservation Society was one of many philanthropic organizations Emily Corus supported.
"The guest of honor has arrived," Emily Corus said, then introduced herself to Blake.
His million dollar smile probably would’ve been enough to make her night, but when he kissed her hand instead of shaking it, she practically swooned.
"I’m Sydney Green," I said, forcing her to reluctantly look away. "We spoke on the phone."
"Of course," she said, and gave me a limp handshake before turning her attention back to Blake. "If you don’t mind," she continued, then slipped her arm through his and dismissed me with a nod, "I have some friends who are absolutely dying to meet you."
Blake didn’t have an opportunity to object, as she immediately led him into the throng at the center of the ballroom. I found our place cards and made my own way to the table, where Ethan was already seated with a cocktail in hand.
"You’re at our table," I said, "What a coincidence." Yet secretly I was pleased. I knew the evening wouldn’t be dull with Ethan around. The only problem would be keeping things civil between him and Blake.
"Why wouldn’t I be? Lover boy’s not the only one being feted tonight."
I smiled. Despite the change in appearance, he was still the same old Ethan underneath. I draped my wrap and purse over the back of an empty chair two seats away but sat down next to Ethan.
"Drink?" he asked, holding up his high-ball filled with amber liquid over ice.
"Vodka martini." I was limiting myself to one since this was work for me.
Ethan returned with two. "I hope one of those is for you."
"Of course," he said, as he handed me mine. "Although I’d be happy to get you another."
"I bet you would," I said, then took a sip of the icy liquid, which went down very smooth.
"Why are you always impugning my motives, but lover boy gets a free pass? He’s the one you should be worried about, not me."
I followed his gaze to where Blake was standing two tables away. Emily Corus was still at his side, along with three other women ranging in age from late twenties to late sixties, all of whom were giving him their undivided attention.
I turned back to Ethan. "It looks like lover boy is doing just fine, thank you."
"You don’t mind?"
"Why would I mind?" Blake’s only task this evening was to be handsome and charming. From my vantage point, he was performing admirably.
Ethan shook his head. Then he went in for the kill.
Chapter 61
"How’s Sheena?" Ethan asked with a purposeful air of casualness, before he took a sip from his martini.
"You really are an ass."
"Why are you getting mad at me? I’m not the one who cheated on you."
I decided for purposes of this discussion I would accept Blake’s definition of sex, which didn’t include blowjobs. "Blake did not cheat on me."
"People magazine begs to differ."
"Since when do you read People magazine?" This was the man who claimed there was a direct correlation between tabloid consumption and low IQ.
"I have to read something while I’m standing in line at the liquor store."
"Then you must be consuming less alcohol than usual because Blake and Sheena are old news. If you kept up on your Us Weekly you would know he’s been romantically linked to two other women since they broke up. Claudia Tate, his co-star from Desert Sun, and some art director whose name I can’t recall. Neither relationship lasted, and Blake McKinley is still searching for that ‘special someone,’" I added with the air quotes.
Since our brief relationship ended, Blake was being much more discreet, at least with me. When it came to other women, I was on a need-to-know basis. But when paparazzi photos and magazine covers were involved, I needed to
know.
"Would you like any more Blake gossip? His next film role? His favorite color? What brand of toothpaste he prefers?"
"No, I don’t find lover boy’s personal grooming habits nearly as fascinating as the rest of you do."
"Good!" I was over Blake, but Sheena was still an open wound. I took a long swig of my martini, leaving barely an inch of liquid at the bottom of the glass.
"Another?" Ethan asked.
"No." Although I dearly wanted one.
"Then how about a dance?"
"Since when do you dance?"
"I’m an excellent dancer," Ethan said.
"I find that hard to believe."
"Then I guess I’ll have to prove it to you."
Ethan wasn’t lying. He really was an excellent dancer. Much better than me. While we swayed and sashayed, he asked what I’d been doing since I left Wilde Island, and I told him the circumstances under which I’d quit BB&L and started Green P.R.
"I always knew you’d do the right thing," he said, "in the end."
"You did not!"
"I did too."
I pulled away from him and stood rooted to the dance floor until he admitted the truth.
"Okay, maybe not those first few days on the island. But once you lost it over Brutus, I knew."
"I didn’t lose it over Brutus, which was your fault by the way. I still can’t believe you refused to help him."
"Not this again," he said, as he put his arm around my back and we resumed our swaying. "How many times do I have to tell you, Sydney? Scientists observe, we don’t interfere."
"You interfered for the vole."
"For the what?" he said, sliding us out of the path of an energetic older couple who appeared to be auditioning for So You Think You Can Dance.
"That mouse-thing Jake found. You made a splint for it but you wouldn’t even make a phone call for Brutus."
"I didn’t have a phone."
"You could’ve borrowed mine."
He stopped swaying, which I thought meant we were going to take a break, but he dipped me instead. Then before I could recover from that shock, he leaned in and said, "I’m sorry I couldn’t save Brutus."
