The Hooker and the Hermit
Page 7
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She paused, maybe waiting for me to express my understanding of her inferred explanation, but I was lost. I typically had minimal contact with clients. My reports and presentations were usually handled by Rachel, the VP of Projects, or by Joan directly. I didn’t see why this guy was any more of a VIP or deserving of my undivided attention than the rest of our A-list.
Realizing my lack of comprehension, she took a deep breath. “Annie, the rugby people, specifically the RLIF, are ready to throw money at us for taking him on. They’re convinced he’s the one who will pull the sport into the limelight—specifically, bring interest and appetite to the USA—and they want us to cultivate him. Now do you get it?”
Feeling stubborn, I frowned. “Of course I understand why you want the client, and I’m happy to help lead the social media group cleaning up his image, but—with all due respect, Joan—I don’t understand why you would suggest that Mr. Fitzpatrick and I pair up, as you put it.”
Joan leaned forward, resting her slight weight on her elbows. She was typically four inches shorter than my five-foot-five, but from her scarlet perch, she appeared to hover from a substantial and menacing height. I wondered briefly if her feet touched the ground or if she’d used a stool to ascend to that impressive altitude.
“We need his cooperation.” She said these words slowly, her eyes moving over my gray sweater and brown skirt and then back to my eyes. “Before seeing you, Ronan Fitzpatrick wasn’t going to give us two minutes, let alone the months we need to set his image on the right path. But the moment I mention pairing the two of you, he’s smiling. He’s suggesting another visit to the office—he’s asking when we can get started.”
I swallowed, a growing dread unfurling in my stomach. I worried briefly that Ronan had somehow figured out who I was, that he knew I was The Socialmedialite, that he remembered me from the restaurant, that he saw me taking pictures of him, and that he was looking forward to our pairing in order to exact his revenge.
But I quickly dismissed the thought as preposterous. When he came upon me in the break room, he demonstrated no sign of recognition, just interest.
Just heated, intense, determined, pointed, carnal masculine interest.
Joan must’ve perceived the extent of my anxiety because she assumed a less oppressive posture, leaning back in her seat, and shrugged. “Again, I’m not suggesting that you return his attentions. I’m simply asking you to come into the office when he is here, discuss our plans with him in person, take him out for client lunches and dinners, personally assist him with the intricacies of navigating his launch onto the world stage—you know, precisely what I would ask any other member of the team to do. No more, no less….”
I closed my eyes, gathered steadying breath through my nose; I was clenching my jaw so tightly my temples ached.
I completely comprehended Joan’s not-so-subtle point, which was that I was frequently on the receiving end of special treatment. I was the only one who was absolved from meetings, excused from conferences, lunches and dinners, think tanks, presentations, et. al.
Basically, I did my thing. I did it alone. I had almost complete autonomy. I didn’t have to be a team player. Aside from intermittent infographic emails, I’d never had to schmooze a client.
But now she was calling in my hermit card. This was Joan reminding me how good I had it here. I had to admit, she was right. I had it easy. I had it great.
Unclenching my jaw, I opened my eyes and found her staring at me. Again, she was grinning, her eyes glittering.
She nodded slowly. “I see we understand each other.”
I pressed my lips together, rolled them between my teeth to keep from screaming in frustration, and returned her nod. Never mind the fact that every fiber of my being wanted to run away, maybe find a cabin in Maine, maybe become a true recluse who ate only canned beans.
I wouldn’t last three hours without Internet access, let alone the deprivation of New York’s cuisine. No éclairs from Jean Marie’s, no arepas from Flor’s Diner, no shrimp and grits from Tom’s Southern Kitchen, no kung pao chicken from Mr. Hung Dong. I would die of food tedium.
“Good,” she said lightly, obviously pleased. “We start tomorrow.”
I nodded stiffly, and gathered my cup and accoutrements from the little table next to my seat. Holding my pastry and cold peppermint tea to my chest, I turned to go, my thoughts in turmoil. But Joan’s voice stopped me just as I reached the door.
“One more thing, Annie. Use your business account to buy some new clothes. I think you wear that same outfit every time I see you. You’re a representation of the company. If you’re going to be taking Mr. Fitzpatrick out, you’ll need to look the part.”
I stiffened and turned to face her; knowing there was no point in arguing, I decided to stall. “That’s fine, but it’ll have to be next week. And, if I’m taking on Mr. Fitzpatrick’s account, I’ll have to pass over The Starlet to Becky.”
Joan looked thoughtful for a moment. The Starlet was one of our biggest individual clients and was our code name for Dara Evans, four-time Oscar nominee with a perpetual image problem. She had an image problem because she was a raging bitch.
We kept her looking like flowers and sunshine; she kept us on our toes with DUIs and assault charges. Her most recent debacle was from this last weekend. An amateur video shot with a cell phone showed her at a Yankees game, wherein she snatched a foul ball out of the hands of a crippled five-year-old boy (who had rightfully caught it). Then she made fun of his handicap and held the ball just out of his reach.
Yeah, so…raging bitch.
“Fine.” Joan nodded.
I immediately turned and left, assuming the “fine” was in reference to both handing over Dara Evans to Becky as well as delaying any new additions to my wardrobe.
I hurried down the hall, nodding politely to my co-workers but not stopping long enough to chat. I’d been working at Davidson & Croft Media since graduating with my master’s degree twelve months earlier; in that time, people had come to expect my behavior and very rarely tried to draw me into conversation.
Finally, I was back in the haven of my office. I shut the door and crossed to my chair, dropping into it and depositing my éclair and teacup on the desk. I tried to wrap my mind around how I’d gotten into this mess. Then I again briefly thought about how I might escape from having to spend any time with Ronan. Then I again pushed those thoughts away.
If I wanted to continue at Davidson & Croft Media—and I did want to continue at Davidson & Croft Media because no one else would pay as well and put up with my eccentricities—I would just have to suck it up and live through the next few months.
I unlocked my computer, planning my message for Becky, trying to find the words to break it to her that she would be taking over social media containment for The Starlet. I felt a measure of guilt. Becky seemed like a nice person. I wouldn’t wish Dara Evans on a dog I didn’t like.
When my screen awoke, I flinched. I’d left open The Socialmedialite’s email account, and Ronan’s odious message was mocking me. I stared at it for a moment, my fingers tapping impatiently on my desk.
Under usual circumstances, I would never respond to a message such as his. I would delete it, ignore it, and put him on my celebrity blacklist (those who are never discussed, referenced, or mentioned again). I knew the worst thing that could happen to a celebrity was to be made irrelevant. Society’s ambivalence is the death of notoriety.
But now—now that I was going to have to suffer through actual in-person interactions with Ronan—I couldn’t contain my desire to lash out at him in some way and return his insufferable message with a response worthy of my angst and aggression.
Annie might have to be nice to Ronan, but that didn’t mean The Socialmedialite had to take any of his crap. Without really thinking it through, I opened my alter ego’s email account and quickly typed out a message.
March 10
Dear Mr. Fitzpatrick,
Please accept my humblest apologies.
If I’d known my benign little blog post was going to get you all hot and bothered, I would have sent it to you directly and arranged a rendezvous to our mutual satisfaction. Despite your propensity to dress like the love child of a hobbit and a leprechaun, I can’t deny—toe-shoes notwithstanding—I wouldn’t be opposed to your dipping into my pot of gold, especially if that bulge were au naturel. Though, with your superiority complex, I suspect it was a tube sock. Let me guess, you drive a fast car…right? Maybe something with a lot of cylinders to compensate for other deficiencies?
Also, thank you for proving every Irish stereotype 100% correct. Now I know for certain your people’s predisposition for hysteria and dramatics has not been exaggerated. Well done, you. Keep up the good work.
Sincerely, The Socialmedialite
Chapter Four
Calories: 4,500.
Workout: 5 hours in total.
Steamed chicken: Starting to fantasize about frying, roasting, sautéing, grilling, braising, barbecuing...
*Ronan*
Six-thirty in the morning, and I’m staring at the screen of my laptop, pissed. The only reason I had the thing was so that I could email Lucy and Skype with her and Ma from time to time. Other than that, I wasn’t much of an Internet sort of bloke. When people asked me if I was on Facebook and I told them no, they looked at me like I was an alien from another planet.
Realizing my lack of comprehension, she took a deep breath. “Annie, the rugby people, specifically the RLIF, are ready to throw money at us for taking him on. They’re convinced he’s the one who will pull the sport into the limelight—specifically, bring interest and appetite to the USA—and they want us to cultivate him. Now do you get it?”
Feeling stubborn, I frowned. “Of course I understand why you want the client, and I’m happy to help lead the social media group cleaning up his image, but—with all due respect, Joan—I don’t understand why you would suggest that Mr. Fitzpatrick and I pair up, as you put it.”
Joan leaned forward, resting her slight weight on her elbows. She was typically four inches shorter than my five-foot-five, but from her scarlet perch, she appeared to hover from a substantial and menacing height. I wondered briefly if her feet touched the ground or if she’d used a stool to ascend to that impressive altitude.
“We need his cooperation.” She said these words slowly, her eyes moving over my gray sweater and brown skirt and then back to my eyes. “Before seeing you, Ronan Fitzpatrick wasn’t going to give us two minutes, let alone the months we need to set his image on the right path. But the moment I mention pairing the two of you, he’s smiling. He’s suggesting another visit to the office—he’s asking when we can get started.”
I swallowed, a growing dread unfurling in my stomach. I worried briefly that Ronan had somehow figured out who I was, that he knew I was The Socialmedialite, that he remembered me from the restaurant, that he saw me taking pictures of him, and that he was looking forward to our pairing in order to exact his revenge.
But I quickly dismissed the thought as preposterous. When he came upon me in the break room, he demonstrated no sign of recognition, just interest.
Just heated, intense, determined, pointed, carnal masculine interest.
Joan must’ve perceived the extent of my anxiety because she assumed a less oppressive posture, leaning back in her seat, and shrugged. “Again, I’m not suggesting that you return his attentions. I’m simply asking you to come into the office when he is here, discuss our plans with him in person, take him out for client lunches and dinners, personally assist him with the intricacies of navigating his launch onto the world stage—you know, precisely what I would ask any other member of the team to do. No more, no less….”
I closed my eyes, gathered steadying breath through my nose; I was clenching my jaw so tightly my temples ached.
I completely comprehended Joan’s not-so-subtle point, which was that I was frequently on the receiving end of special treatment. I was the only one who was absolved from meetings, excused from conferences, lunches and dinners, think tanks, presentations, et. al.
Basically, I did my thing. I did it alone. I had almost complete autonomy. I didn’t have to be a team player. Aside from intermittent infographic emails, I’d never had to schmooze a client.
But now she was calling in my hermit card. This was Joan reminding me how good I had it here. I had to admit, she was right. I had it easy. I had it great.
Unclenching my jaw, I opened my eyes and found her staring at me. Again, she was grinning, her eyes glittering.
She nodded slowly. “I see we understand each other.”
I pressed my lips together, rolled them between my teeth to keep from screaming in frustration, and returned her nod. Never mind the fact that every fiber of my being wanted to run away, maybe find a cabin in Maine, maybe become a true recluse who ate only canned beans.
I wouldn’t last three hours without Internet access, let alone the deprivation of New York’s cuisine. No éclairs from Jean Marie’s, no arepas from Flor’s Diner, no shrimp and grits from Tom’s Southern Kitchen, no kung pao chicken from Mr. Hung Dong. I would die of food tedium.
“Good,” she said lightly, obviously pleased. “We start tomorrow.”
I nodded stiffly, and gathered my cup and accoutrements from the little table next to my seat. Holding my pastry and cold peppermint tea to my chest, I turned to go, my thoughts in turmoil. But Joan’s voice stopped me just as I reached the door.
“One more thing, Annie. Use your business account to buy some new clothes. I think you wear that same outfit every time I see you. You’re a representation of the company. If you’re going to be taking Mr. Fitzpatrick out, you’ll need to look the part.”
I stiffened and turned to face her; knowing there was no point in arguing, I decided to stall. “That’s fine, but it’ll have to be next week. And, if I’m taking on Mr. Fitzpatrick’s account, I’ll have to pass over The Starlet to Becky.”
Joan looked thoughtful for a moment. The Starlet was one of our biggest individual clients and was our code name for Dara Evans, four-time Oscar nominee with a perpetual image problem. She had an image problem because she was a raging bitch.
We kept her looking like flowers and sunshine; she kept us on our toes with DUIs and assault charges. Her most recent debacle was from this last weekend. An amateur video shot with a cell phone showed her at a Yankees game, wherein she snatched a foul ball out of the hands of a crippled five-year-old boy (who had rightfully caught it). Then she made fun of his handicap and held the ball just out of his reach.
Yeah, so…raging bitch.
“Fine.” Joan nodded.
I immediately turned and left, assuming the “fine” was in reference to both handing over Dara Evans to Becky as well as delaying any new additions to my wardrobe.
I hurried down the hall, nodding politely to my co-workers but not stopping long enough to chat. I’d been working at Davidson & Croft Media since graduating with my master’s degree twelve months earlier; in that time, people had come to expect my behavior and very rarely tried to draw me into conversation.
Finally, I was back in the haven of my office. I shut the door and crossed to my chair, dropping into it and depositing my éclair and teacup on the desk. I tried to wrap my mind around how I’d gotten into this mess. Then I again briefly thought about how I might escape from having to spend any time with Ronan. Then I again pushed those thoughts away.
If I wanted to continue at Davidson & Croft Media—and I did want to continue at Davidson & Croft Media because no one else would pay as well and put up with my eccentricities—I would just have to suck it up and live through the next few months.
I unlocked my computer, planning my message for Becky, trying to find the words to break it to her that she would be taking over social media containment for The Starlet. I felt a measure of guilt. Becky seemed like a nice person. I wouldn’t wish Dara Evans on a dog I didn’t like.
When my screen awoke, I flinched. I’d left open The Socialmedialite’s email account, and Ronan’s odious message was mocking me. I stared at it for a moment, my fingers tapping impatiently on my desk.
Under usual circumstances, I would never respond to a message such as his. I would delete it, ignore it, and put him on my celebrity blacklist (those who are never discussed, referenced, or mentioned again). I knew the worst thing that could happen to a celebrity was to be made irrelevant. Society’s ambivalence is the death of notoriety.
But now—now that I was going to have to suffer through actual in-person interactions with Ronan—I couldn’t contain my desire to lash out at him in some way and return his insufferable message with a response worthy of my angst and aggression.
Annie might have to be nice to Ronan, but that didn’t mean The Socialmedialite had to take any of his crap. Without really thinking it through, I opened my alter ego’s email account and quickly typed out a message.
March 10
Dear Mr. Fitzpatrick,
Please accept my humblest apologies.
If I’d known my benign little blog post was going to get you all hot and bothered, I would have sent it to you directly and arranged a rendezvous to our mutual satisfaction. Despite your propensity to dress like the love child of a hobbit and a leprechaun, I can’t deny—toe-shoes notwithstanding—I wouldn’t be opposed to your dipping into my pot of gold, especially if that bulge were au naturel. Though, with your superiority complex, I suspect it was a tube sock. Let me guess, you drive a fast car…right? Maybe something with a lot of cylinders to compensate for other deficiencies?
Also, thank you for proving every Irish stereotype 100% correct. Now I know for certain your people’s predisposition for hysteria and dramatics has not been exaggerated. Well done, you. Keep up the good work.
Sincerely, The Socialmedialite
Chapter Four
Calories: 4,500.
Workout: 5 hours in total.
Steamed chicken: Starting to fantasize about frying, roasting, sautéing, grilling, braising, barbecuing...
*Ronan*
Six-thirty in the morning, and I’m staring at the screen of my laptop, pissed. The only reason I had the thing was so that I could email Lucy and Skype with her and Ma from time to time. Other than that, I wasn’t much of an Internet sort of bloke. When people asked me if I was on Facebook and I told them no, they looked at me like I was an alien from another planet.
