by Melissa Hill
“But the money is unbelievable,” Joseph told her. “The agency reckons that no one in their right mind would turn down a contract like this. And it’s a five-year commitment –”
“Of course it is,” Natalie replied brusquely. “The company are simply making sure they’re tying up England’s hottest young footballer for the long term, because they know that if they don’t, someone else will. I wouldn’t recommend it, Mr King, not in the long run. In the current healthy-eating climate and with the huge backlash against junk food, the media would have a field day with Jordan endorsing MagicBurger. We’d much prefer he be involved in promoting healthy products, sportswear, energy drinks – items like that. We don’t want him peddling heart-attack food to teenagers.”
Joseph looked thoughtful. “Still, the agency fought hard to get this contract for us – they must see it as beneficial to his career.”
“The agency is there to manage the business and financial side of Jordan’s career, Mr King – a PR agency has to see beyond the money and look to managing Jordan’s public profile long-term. As you know, footballers are valuable currency these days when it comes to the media. And you don’t want your son being dragged into everything that’s being offered to him. A clean-cut, respectable image is what I’d be looking at for Jordan if he were a client of our agency. Limited media appearances, very few TV interviews other than a couple of minutes post-match and negligible contact with the newspapers and magazines. The lower the profile, the more Jordan can concentrate on what’s important – his football. Think Michael Owen or Jamie Carragher. How often do you see those guys in the papers falling out of nightclubs or details of their love lives splashed across the Sunday papers?”
At the mention of those names, Jordan’s eyes brightened. Thank goodness for that, Natalie thought, breathing an inward sigh of relief. Thank goodness this kid saw balanced and upstanding footballers like that as role models and not imbecile piss-heads like Michael Sharpe or arrogant coke-heads like Nathan Corrigan.
“Michael Owen’s the greatest,” he said, sounding like any other teenage school-kid and nothing like the world-class superstar he’d undoubtedly turn out to be.
Natalie was more determined than ever to work on this kid’s behalf, not because she thought she’d get an easier time of it than she did with some of her more problematic clients, but because deep down she wanted to help shield him against the ugly side of professional football. The side of fast cars, booze and blonde bimbos who one night treated players like gods and the next were gone running to the papers with stories of wild sex. The side that tore families apart, the immense success and pressure of the spotlight turning the game the players adored into a noose around their necks. No, it might be idealistic, but Natalie wanted to help Jordan King avoid all this. Keeping this kid’s feet on the ground would do no harm to her beloved England’s chances in the long run either, she thought wryly.
Their food arrived at this point and, when the waiter had departed, Natalie took the plunge.
“So what do you think?” she said, addressing the boy but really asking his father. “Do you think you’d like to have the public side of your career managed by Blue Moon PR?”
“I think we’d certainly like to hear more,” Joseph King replied, his manner relaxing considerably as he and his gifted son sampled the menu of one of London’s finest establishments.
Three hours later, Natalie arrived back at Blue Moon HQ, still buzzing, despite the lack of lunchtime bubbly.
Jack Moon, the company’s fifty-something MD, accosted her on her way upstairs to her office.
“Well,” he queried, his curiosity almost palpable, “how did we do?”
Despite her optimism, Natalie was non-committal. “Well, it’s not official, but I did get the handshake.”
“Oh, well done, you!” he replied effusively. “Securing someone like King is a massive coup for the agency, Natalie. I knew I could rely on you.”
“No problem, Jack.”
“Did I hear you correctly?” Danni squealed as Natalie approached her desk. “Did you just tell Jack that we’re representing Jordan King?”
“Yep,” she replied proudly. “The father was a tough nut to crack but I think I impressed them both in the end.” They wouldn’t officially be representing Jordan until the contracts were signed, but after this afternoon’s lunch things were definitely looking good.
“Oh, my God, I can’t wait to tell Lee! He’s such a Reds fan and –”
“Don’t go shouting about it to your hubby too soon, Danni – not until we get the signature,” Natalie warned.
“Oh, all right, I suppose I’d better keep my mouth shut.” Danni slumped glumly back in her seat. “So what’s he like?”
“Jordan? A nice kid – a little bit naïve, but that’s probably a good thing.”
Danni sniffed. “A full season in the Premiership will soon knock that out of him.”
“True, but it makes a nice change from the usual prima donnas we get here. Any calls while I was out?”
Her colleague grinned wickedly. “Plenty, now that you ask.” She flicked through a list of messages. “Dean Phillips wants to know if you can arrange to get him tickets for The Murderers concert on Saturday night, Heat magazine want to know if Melanie Adams is available to talk about her divorce, Ken Forde wants to go over publicity plans for Blast’s new single and –”
“OK, OK, just give me the bloody list,” Natalie said, groaning. She still had to try and sweet-talk the Sun over the Michael Sharpe scandal, never mind arranging concert tickets for a fussy MD, interviews for a soap star and media appearances for a teenage boy band. But that was the job and, despite her apparent exasperation, Natalie loved every second of it and on any normal day would approach each task with gusto. But not today. Today – or more accurately tonight – could very well be the most important night of Natalie’s thirty-two years, and as the evening drew ever closer it was difficult to concentrate on anything else.
“Just one more thing,” Danni added, her voice dropping to a whisper. “The clinic phoned to confirm your next appointment for . . .” she trailed off and cast a furtive glance around the office, “you know.”
“For my lipo?” Natalie finished out loud, and Danni’s eyes widened. Natalie didn’t care if the entire world knew she was having lipo-dissolve injections – everyone over twenty-five was at it anyway. Natalie dealt with excess flab as she did with most things in life: if you didn’t like it, do something about it. Not for her the furtive sneaking in and out of clinics for lipo or botox. How different was it than going to the gym? The end result was the same (and admittedly a lot faster) so what was the big bloody deal? “Great, I’ll phone them later. Did you manage to speak to Michael, Danni?”
“Yeah.”
“So how did he react to my suggestion about the awards ceremony?”
“He said he’ll do it because he trusts you, but if the press start giving Clara a hard time about anything, he’ll deck them.”
“Wonderful. Pity he doesn’t think more about his wife’s feelings when he’s off screwing his bimbos,” Natalie replied tersely. “And tell him if he even thinks about going off on another cameraman again, I’ll . . .” She shook her head and went towards her office. “On second thoughts, don’t bother. I’ll give him a call myself.”
“Sure.” Danni was only too happy to offload this particular client to someone who knew exactly how to handle him. “But don’t forget to call Ken Forde, will you? He was insistent.”
Insistent, insistent, Natalie echoed inwardly – they were all bloody insistent, weren’t they? Retreating into the sanctuary of her third-floor office with its relaxing views over the Thames, she sat down and slipped off her heels. She used one hand to massage her aching feet and the other to dial the first number on her list – Ken Forde, the increasingly demanding manager of boy band Blast.
“Ken, hi, Natalie here,” she began. “Just returning your call. Yes, we’ve got lots of publicity in the pipeline for
the guys this time – nothing confirmed yet though.” She spoke quickly in the hope of heading him off at the pass. Ken was the type of manager who wouldn’t be pleased even if she’d arranged for the group to make a special appearance on MTV.
“There better be plenty, Natalie – we badly need a number one this time round.”
Well, maybe if you lot concentrated less on the partying and more on the music, you just might get one, she thought uncharitably – not at all in the right frame of mind to deal with Ken and his demands. Not when her mind was decidedly focused elsewhere.
“Well, you know we’ll do our best to help you achieve that, Ken,” she replied instead. “I just have a few things to confirm, and then we’ll send over a full publicity schedule. Don’t worry, this will be Blast’s biggest campaign yet.”
“OK, Natalie, I’ll leave it in your capable hands,” he replied grudgingly. “We’ll talk soon.”
“Sure, great to catch up,” she replied, before ringing off and sighing heavily. She and Danni would have to work double-time to get a decent campaign going for the group, who barely a year ago were UK pop’s Next Big Thing, but following some poorly subscribed concert dates, and a lacklustre follow-up to their debut single, were already in danger of becoming old news. Which would make it very difficult this time round for Natalie to secure Blast the requisite TV appearances and magazine features and, in effect, the second number one their manager so desired.
And speaking of number ones . . . Natalie moved to the next item on her list, concert tickets for British music’s Current Big Thing – a favour to another client.
“Mark? Hi, Natalie Webb here.”
“Well, hello there!” the concert promoter, who was one of Natalie’s many social contacts, replied. “How’s London’s sexiest PR queen?”
Natalie grinned. “You sure know how to flatter a girl, Mark Wallis. But listen, any chance you could get me a couple of tickets for The Murderers gig next weekend?”
“Sure, no problem. I didn’t know you were a fan.”
“I am but they’re not for me, unfortunately. Thanks for that, Mark – I owe you one.”
“Anytime, Nat. But with all the tight spots you’ve got me out of over the last few years you know damn well you owe me sod all.”
“Cheers, Mark!” Natalie quickly ended the call and made a mental note to get the tickets sent over to Dean Phillips, the MD of a technology company Blue Moon represented. She wouldn’t phone Phillips now though, she thought, looking at her watch. It was heading for six o’clock and today she needed to get home early. She glanced guiltily at the rest of her telephone messages. Damn it, they’d have to wait until tomorrow – as would her emails. Normally, she wouldn’t dream of leaving a client or contact waiting overnight, but today, she couldn’t help it. She just wasn’t in the right frame of mind. No, for once, she’d have to give over some of her precious time to her personal life. Hopefully, it would be worth it.
Picking up her Balenciaga bag and D&G trench, Natalie left her office and went back out front to Danni.
Her colleague looked at Natalie and then at the clock, mock surprise written all over her face. “What’s this? The great Natalie Webb leaving for home before eight o’clock on a weekday?”
Natalie winked. “I’ve got a date tonight, remember? A very important date.”
“Oh, God, I totally forgot! Yours and Steve’s anniversary!”
“Yep. Hence the last few weeks’ lipo sessions and yesterday’s spray-on tan.”
“I see,” Danni sat back, a dreamy look on her face. “So where is Mr Wonderful taking you tonight, then?”
Natalie grinned. “As if I’d discuss our bedroom antics with you.”
“Oh, you know what I mean!” Her assistant reddened. “What have you got planned? Are you two going somewhere nice?”
“I don’t know yet,” Natalie told her truthfully. “I think he’s planning to surprise me.” And hopefully not just with the location, she thought to herself.
“You lucky thing,” Danni sighed dreamily. “For our last anniversary Lee and I sat in with a takeaway. He wouldn’t go out because the Reds were playing, and the only celebrations we had that night were for the ball hitting the back of the net.” She sighed deeply.
Natalie said nothing. Danni and Lee had got married early that year and clearly adored one another, and in truth Natalie would have given her right arm to be in Danni’s position of cosy coupledom
Well, if all went well tonight, it mightn’t be as far away as she’d thought up to now.
“Well, have a great night, and you can tell me how it all went tomorrow,” Danni said, shaking her head sadly. “Make me even more jealous that you managed to land a dreamboat like Steve Watson, while I ended up with a yob like Lee.”
Chapter 5
Outside the Blue Moon offices, Natalie tried in vain for fifteen minutes to hail a cab. Shit, today of all days she’d hoped she wouldn’t have to take the tube. But there was little or no hope of her getting back to the flat any other way, so she’d have to bite the bullet. Tottering along on her heels, she made her way down the street to the nearest underground station, trying to remember the last time she’d travelled this way. Given that she usually left the office sometime after eight p.m., there was never any problem getting a cab, and in any case, she wasn’t usually in that much of a rush to get home.
But this evening, the dreaded tube would have to do, despite the fact that the dead air in the tunnels always seemed to tire her out. And Natalie wanted to be fully alert tonight – especially if tonight turned out to be the night. It had to be, didn’t it? They got on fantastically well, were madly in love and the sex was just amazing!
He’d ask her tonight, Natalie was almost certain of it. He’d been a bit coy and evasive lately, which she thought was a big hint.
No, her boyfriend’s confidence and single-mindedness were some of the traits that had made her fall for him in the first place. They’d met at one of the many social events she attended in the course of her work and had been introduced by mutual friends. That night, she couldn’t take her eyes off this tall, handsome and self-assured individual who, with his broad chest and closely cropped blonde hair, seemed the embodiment of potent masculinity, and who unfortunately also seemed hell-bent on resisting her charms. It had taken a while (and a few glasses of Veuve Clicquot) for Natalie to break him down and interest him enough to ask her out, but break him down she did, and the two had been together ever since.
Hopefully after tonight they’d be together for good, she thought, feeling the distinctive warm blast of air that signalled the imminent appearance of the next train to the platform. Soon after, she boarded the train and squashed into the carriage with what seemed like half the population of the city, trying her utmost to ignore the sweaty stench emanating from the person brushing up alongside her. It’ll be worth it, she told herself. You’ll be home soon and will have plenty of time to get ready for tonight.
Natalie’s flat was situated not far from Central London and, luckily for her, only a few stations away. Eventually reaching her destination, she practically raced out of the carriage and away up the stairs towards the exit.
Seven p.m. Steve would be picking her up at eight. Despite their intense relationship, the two hadn’t yet moved in together, although this was because of Steve’s necessity to be near the airport for all the travelling he tended to do with work. Natalie, on the other hand, had no desire to live outside a five-mile radius of Central London – she preferred the city on her doorstep. Still, she knew this couldn’t last forever, particularly if she and Steve were to get married. No doubt he’d want to move somewhere sensible and affordable, whereas Natalie would give anything for a pied-à-terre in Belgravia. Well, a girl could dream.
Reaching her flat, she flung her bag and coat on the sofa and headed directly for the shower. Their housing arrangements were certainly something they’d have to discuss when he popped the question tonight. Well, one thing at a time, she thought, m
assaging Clarins showergel onto her bronzed skin – bronzed courtesy of the good people at Sun FX. If tonight Steve produced the ring, like she was certain he would, they could think about the practicalities some other time.
Half an hour later, Natalie was fully made up and dressed to impress in a strapless raw silk Ben de Lisi, the raspberry colour of the dress setting off her dark eyes and glossy hair, now styled with seductive flicks à la Kelly Brook.
An hour later she was still waiting, the flicks drooping in tandem with Natalie’s spirits. Where the hell was Steve? He’d assured her he’d pick her up at eight before heading out to this surprise destination, which Natalie hoped was a suitably romantic spot for a marriage proposal. She’d tried his mobile, which was switched to messages, sent him a text enquiring about his whereabouts and still nothing.
At about nine thirty, when Natalie was just about to give up and change into a pair of comfy pyjamas, ignoring the La Perla ensemble she’d bought especially for the occasion, the love of her life appeared at her door.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, when Natalie had thrown the door open, her hands on her hips and the expression on her face leaving him in no doubt that he was in the doghouse. “Something came up at work, and I couldn’t get away.”
“You couldn’t get away for long enough to phone and let me know what the hell was going on?”
“Don’t be like that, babe,” he said, reaching out and lightly caressing her bare arm. “You know how these things can go.”
Almost immediately Natalie’s resolve softened. She could hold a conversation with someone as important and charismatic as Bill Clinton any day of the week without batting an eyelid but when it came to this man she was like a piece of limp lettuce. In a way, it was what she loved most about him. He was unpredictable, could be very unreliable yet was totally addictive.
And if he was planning to propose she couldn’t go too hard on him either, could she? Heaven forbid then that he might change his mind!
“You could have let me know,” she went on, her tone softening.
