The Hooker and the Hermit
Page 4

“My trainer suggested them,” I grumbled. “Don’t you have your yoga class to be getting to this morning?”
“Yes, I do, cranky. You’re obviously taking this all the wrong way. Don’t you know that the ability to laugh at oneself is the most desirous quality of all?”
“Not really in a laughing mood these days, Luce,” I replied gloomily and pulled a bottle of water from the fridge.
I could hear her sigh down the line. “I know. I’m sorry. I was trying to cheer you up. Promise I was. How is everything in the Big Apple? You settling in okay?”
“Don’t apologize. I’m a grumpy old bastard. And yes, I’m settling in fine. My car arrived yesterday which was kind of a cruel joke since all I can do here is sit in traffic. I should never have let Tom talk me into taking time off in New York. I wanted to go to Canada, get lost in the mountains or something.”
“Yeah, that would’ve been cool. But at least this way you get to go see the naked cowboy.”
“I don’t know who or what that is, but I think I’ll pass.”
“Spoilsport. I was looking forward to a picture of the two of you. Anyway, I’d better get going.”
“Okay, take care, Luce. I love you.”
She made a kissy sound into her phone that nearly deafened me. “Love you, too!”
The moment I hung up, my phone began ringing again, and this time it was Sam, my PR agent. I briefly considered ignoring the call but knew he’d have a fit if I didn’t answer. The man was more highly strung than Margaret Thatcher on the rag, God rest her.
“Sam, what can I do for ya, bud?”
“Oh, it’s more a matter of what I can do for you, my friend. But first, did you see were featured on New York’s Finest Saturday?”
Seriously, I felt like I was stuck in Groundhog Day, and that film always got on my tits. “Yeah, my sister already had the good grace to inform me.”
“Well, I don’t know why you sound so glum about it. This is a big deal, Ronan. You’re virtually unknown over in the States. This could be the thing that helps you crack America. I can just see it now, a picture of you reclining in a pair of tighty whiteys advertising for Calvin Klein on the side of a skyscraper.”
“Fuck, man. Are you a psychic? How did you know that’s my one true dream?”
I could practically hear him pursing his lips in irritation. “I’m going to ignore your sarcasm because I have more news, and I don’t have time for your pissy attitude. I have a friend who works for Davidson & Croft Media there in New York, and they’re just itching to meet you. They think they can re-brand you. Clean up your image. You know, turn you into the David Beckham of rugby.”
“Again, do you have a crystal ball, because this shit is positively clairvoyant.”
“They want to meet you today at one. I’m emailing you directions,” he said impatiently.
I glanced at the clock. “It’s already half past eleven. I have to shower, and the traffic in this city is a nightmare. Can we re-schedule?”
What I really wanted to say was, Can we forget about it altogether? But I still had some sense of professionalism, and yeah, I guessed working with this agency could probably do me some good. It would be like pulling teeth, but I knew anything worth doing was usually difficult. I ended the call and went to hop in the shower. I was in and out in less than ten minutes and made quick work of getting dressed. When I walked by my computer, I noticed that the website was still open, and I had a sudden urge to vent.
It seemed like my life was being controlled by faceless people sitting behind computers writing stories about me, and I was sick of it. Sam always coached me to have a “no comment” policy on this kind of thing, but I wanted to have my say for once.
Months of silence meant I had a lot to get off my chest, after all.
So I sat down in front of my laptop, opened up a fresh email, and began to type. Fuck it if I was late to the meeting. If these people were so eager to see me, they could wait.
March 10
Dear Socialmedialite,
Just thought I’d enlighten your vacuous little mind as to a few things.
1.) I’m not Colin Farrell, I’m Ronan Fitzpatrick. Go look me up. It’ll make for some colorful reading.
2.) Your fixation on the minute details of the male form leads me to believe that one, you have no life, and two, you have not been laid in a loooong time.
3.) I think that if you’re going to make these kinds of judgments on the appearance of others, then you should at least be open about who you are. Anonymity is the choice of cowards.
My suggestions:
1.) You actually do your research and make sure that when you think you’re getting a picture of Colin Farrell, it’s actually Colin Farrell. FYI: Ear-wigging on the conversation of a group of giggling women does NOT constitute research.
2.) Go out and have a drink. Talk to a guy. Let somebody fuck you. You’ll be amazed by what clearing those cobwebs can do for your frame of mind.
3.) Put up a picture. Tell everyone who you are. Let’s see if you can handle people criticizing your looks the same way you criticize theirs.
You’re welcome.
Ronan Fitzpatrick
And send.
That felt good.
I quickly made a note of the address Sam had sent me and then went to catch a cab. Arriving at the agency’s building, I stared up at the high-rise before walking in and announcing my presence to the receptionist. She was a slim, attractive blonde and immediately gave me the glad eye after she took in my appearance. If I was the same guy I was at twenty-two, I’d have been in there like swimwear. Unfortunately, I was a cynical, disillusioned twenty-seven-year-old with no patience for women and their wiles. Right now, all I was on the market for was no-strings sex. For years I’d been faithful to Brona, and then she’d gone and shoved my fidelity in my face by shoving my teammate’s cock down her throat.
But maybe Brona did me a favor. My vision was now remarkably clear. These women were all glittery, seductive eyes and shallow propositions. All I could see was another version of her: superficial, dim-witted, materialistic fame-whores, looking for a place to hitch their star, only out for what they could get. Not surprisingly, that was enough to deflate even the most determined hard-on.
“I’m looking for Davidson & Croft. Can you help me out” —I glanced at her name tag before finishing— “Stephanie?”
She smiled, all white teeth and glossy lips, before giving me instructions to take the elevator up to the twelfth floor. When I finally reached the busy offices, a handler was waiting for me—more glossy lips and white teeth. I checked out her arse as I was led to a room where several people were sitting around a table, dressed in smart business clothes. I looked completely out of my place in my dark brown leather jacket, boots, jeans, and a plain black T-shirt.
They all stood the moment I entered, and a short woman who, I shit you not, looked like Danny DeVito in drag came and offered me her hand.
“Mr. Fitzpatrick,” she said in a voice that was surprisingly feminine, given her appearance. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Joan Davidson, and these are my associates, Rachel Simmons and Ian Timor. Come, have a seat.”
I sized her up quickly. She was definitely the one in charge; there was just something imposing—almost intimidating— about her despite her size.
“Same to you, Joan. And you can call me Ronan.”
I nodded hello to Rachel and Ian before sitting down as instructed. A moment of silence ensued as I cleared my throat, leaned forward, and steepled my fingers in front of me on the table.
Joan tapped a finger on her chin as she contemplated me. “So, Ronan. I have to say, I’m very interested in working with you. I’ve been in this business for a long time, and I love a challenge. I’ve been acquainting myself with the details of your career, and what I’ve learned leads me to believe we could make a big difference working together. So, what would you like to achieve with us? I want to know your vision so that we can help you actualize it. We like to tailor the experience here at Davidson & Croft to the individual.”
I let out a long sigh. “I’ll be straight with you, Joan—my agent back home sprang this meeting on me just over an hour ago. Publicity isn’t my thing. I’m an athlete, and I don’t get the whole media circus that’s been surrounding my life lately. I just want to play rugby and be left alone.”
“Well, that’s positively boring,” Joan chuckled, soliciting grins from the thus far silent Rachel and Ian, and a glower from me. “And being left alone isn’t an option, I’m afraid. You’re the bad boy of rugby, the one all the girls swoon over.”
I grimaced. “Yes, I understand what’s expected. I’m aware of what the league is hoping to accomplish through me, but I’d like for it to be about how I play the sport on the field.”
She continued as though I hadn’t spoken, “The problem is you’re a little too bad right now. We need to make you clean bad, acceptable bad. We want you to be Mark Wahlberg, not Charlie Sheen. We want to reform you. Think Robert Downey, Jr., but younger and without any prison time.”
Rubbing at the back of my neck, I replied, “You see, this is the problem. All of what you just said went right over my head, love.” I was playing dumb, and it seemed that Joan was shrewd enough to sense that.