B009R9RGU2 EBOK (13 page)

He doesn’t comment on my wine, and I suppose I am grateful. I can’t stand when he gets all judgmental—it’s not like he’s some teetotaler, for God’s sake. But it’s hard to be indignant and self-righteous when you’re the one getting drunk and you know that your reactions are probably not as levelheaded as you would like. Nonetheless, a disapproving attitude is rolling off Jacob in waves, threatening to drown me, and I intentionally
reach for my wineglass to take another gulp in defiance of his obvious censure. What an ass… This is my home and I am entitled to get trashed every night if I want. It’s not like I’m driving or anything.

Jeff Probst begins explaining the “reward” challenge, and I get caught up in the “real” world of
Survivor
, eager to leave the lonely island of my own making.

The Black Crows’ “Hard to Handle” is annoyingly
blasting from far away.
Turn it down, asshole
, I groggily think from beneath the covers of my soft bed.
Trying to sleep here
. Even with the ceaseless guitars, exhaustion wins, pulling me back under its comfortable embrace. Happy happy sleep. My fingers curl around the edge of the… sheet? Instead of the familiar smooth Egyptian cotton, I detect soft knit wool.
Huh?

My eyes open and reluctantly focus. I’m curled in a fetal position on the living room couch. The wool throw from atop the adjacent armchair has been draped over me.

Jacob.

I must have passed out. The empty wineglass on the coffee table reminds me why.

A never-ending soundtrack is coming from my bedroom down the hall.

My alarm clock.

Oh crap
.

I jerk upright, and quickly regret the sudden movement.
What time is it?
Clutching my head, I check the cable box display. It’s 9:20
A.M
. I am supposed to be meeting with Elle and
the Nintendo people
in ten minutes
. How long has that damn alarm been going off?

There’s no time for a shower. I splash some water on my face, quickly brush my teeth (ugh, cotton mouth), and throw on a Nanette Lepore dress. My hair is its bedhead best, but all I can do is pull it back in a ponytail. Grabbing heels and my makeup bag, I race down to my car. As I stop at red lights along Wilshire, I apply mascara and lip gloss and slip my heels on, trying to look semi-presentable. I am desperately scrolling through my BlackBerry as I finally pull into the office building. Tru should be in the office by now, and hopefully she’ll be able to forward me some notes from my desktop when she gets my panicked email, but for right now, I’m winging it.

As much as I wish to ignore them, my mom’s words come back to haunt me:
Don’t bite off more than you can chew
. I am
so
not prepared for this meeting. Whereas getting Billy Fox to sign with us was the well-rehearsed song and dance with a personal touch, the more formal Nintendo agenda requires concrete details for their upcoming launch party and media rollout. I had planned to review all the consolidated info and get fully prepared last night. And I totally passed out. I seriously don’t know what happened. In business at least, I’m never a flake. And yet twice in two weeks I’m racing to an important work meeting. I used to only have nightmares about sleeping through my alarm clock and missing my final exams or an important interview. Now I am living them.

Riding up in the elevator, I focus on everything I know about the Nintendo launch. The venue logistics. Jennifer’s
work with the band. The confirmed guest list. Melissa left me her notes on the project, but we hadn’t truly discussed it yet. She steered our few short phone calls—technically forbidden as part of her mandated stress-free bedrest—toward office gossip and other business that the fellow workaholic greatly missed. My later attempt to connect found us in a frustrating game of phone tag. And because of yesterday’s distracting Billy/Jacob agitation, I totally forgot to call Melissa back in time. Now, on the spot, I have a ton of unanswered thoughts about the plans, but I need to check with Melissa before I pitch anything new to the Nintendo team in front of Elle. If Melissa already went over it, I’ll just look foolish, and worse, the company will look incompetent. When you’re the switch point person on a client, the transition has to be seamless. That’s the difference between Bennett/Peters and the competition. I know that, and I fear I’m not going to be able to deliver today.

As I walk up to the glassed-in conference room—
dead publicist walking
—I catch Elle’s tight expression and her sharp glance toward the clock. Mortified, I check it myself. 9:50. I’m twenty minutes late. Since no excuse will justify twenty minutes, I decide that as they all look up at me I will simply apologize and move past it.

“Everyone, this is Sophie. She’s been handling the campaign since Melissa had to leave.” Elle masks her disappointment, making introductions around the room in a friendly, business-as-usual tone. I feel myself begin to sweat.

“I’m so sorry to be late.” True. “It was unavoidable.” Not true. “I know Melissa wishes she could have stayed on the campaign
until the launch, but she is staying in touch—we exchange emails and phone calls daily.” Sort of true, minus the phone calls… and the daily. “Well, I definitely don’t want to waste everyone’s time bringing me up to speed,” I say, taking a seat beside Elle, “so let’s continue, shall we?”

Forget my wish to get Priscilla fired. I’m doing a fine job putting myself out the door first.

Ping
. The instant messenger box pops up in the center of the notes I am drafting on what I did and didn’t screw up in the Nintendo meeting. Right now the lists seem distressingly even.

Only Izzy could get away with saying that to me right now.

I
am
busy, but I also really don’t want to talk about this with Izzy right now. I mean, what am I going to say? That I’ve turned into a lunatic I barely recognize? And frankly, I am still reeling
from the barely disguised disaster that was my morning. My head is throbbing and I am staring at the untouched turkey wrap sandwich in front of me, wondering how I expected to choke down this food. I should have just ordered fries with extra grease and been done with it. I hear Tru answer my line as I pick up the pickle lying alongside my sandwich and am about to take the plunge when she buzzes me.

“It’s Jeff.”

I take it. “Jeff. What’s up?” Anything to distract me from my thoughts.

“Emergency. Code red. Orlando is sick. He has to cancel the
Tonight Show
booking.”

“Oh, God. When’s he supposed to be on?”

“
Today!
He’s supposed to be getting into the car in less than three hours. Jesus. Who can we offer them? Help save my ass.” Now, obviously, the producers understand that people get sick. It happens. And certainly Orlando Bloom will be forgiven under such circumstances… but the firm doesn’t want to risk our relationship with the “late night leader” by not at least offering them another excellent guest. It’s only good business.

“Give me ten minutes.” And I hang up. Now it’s time to cross my fingers. I dial, and pray.

“Hello?”

“Billy? It’s Sophie.” Thank God he answered. That’s the first hurdle. “I know this sounds crazy, but I’m wondering if you’re free this afternoon to do a guest appearance on
The Tonight Show
.”

“What, like
today
?”

“Yes, in a couple hours actually. You’d need to be there at
four for the taping at five. Orlando Bloom—another one of our clients—just got ill and had to cancel last-minute. And so Leno is in a bit of a bind. We’d love to offer them a replacement that’s, you know… on the same… level. You’d be doing me a huge favor.” Oh God… what was I saying? I should definitely shut up now.

“Um… yeah sure, I can do it.”

“That’s fantastic. You’re actually doing us
all
a huge favor. The show will love you for it too.”

“Yeah. No problem.”

“Okay. Thank you so much, Billy. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Well,
you’ll
be there, right? You want to grab a drink or bite afterwards?” The warmth in his tone, the suggestion, makes my stomach do a triple somersault.

“I’d love to but…”
I have a boyfriend. I’m in enough trouble as it is
.

“You’d deny the request of a ‘lifesaver’?” Billy teases.

He’s right. I do owe him a little. And it’s just a bite. Only my overheated imagination needs a chaperone. “All right. You win. I know a fabulous French bistro practically across the street from the studio.”

“Perfect.” And he is gone. A deep breath, and then I am back on the phone.

“Jeff. We’re golden. Billy Fox is available tonight for Leno. Do you want me to make the call?”

“No. With good news like that to soften the blow, is it okay if I do it?” I love this kid and his can-do attitude. And Jeff’s right. He needs to get comfortable doing the dirty work too. And as far as an “I’ve got bad news and good news” kind of call goes,
this one has a happy ending. So it’s the perfect chance to let him get his feet wet.

“Call me back. Let me know what they say.”

“You bet.”

With another disaster averted, I lean back and consider an email to Elle. Bottom line, I owe her an apology. Big-time. And even though I ultimately rallied and left the Nintendo folk smiling, I am going to have to eat some major humble pie to get her to forget about this morning. Securing Billy Fox to step in last second isn’t even going to win a half smile out of her. An email isn’t enough. And flowers are too kiss-ass. What can I do?

My thoughts are interrupted by an email.

No note, nothing. Somehow the succinct email feels very ominous, but then Jacob can be curt in emails without the intent. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. My normal “when in trouble” response is to delay… and spend hours dreading the inevitable. But right now, I’m in a “rip the bandage off” mood. So I dial his work line.

“It’s Sophie,” I say when he answers. The less I say the better.