When We Were Enemies: A Novel(86)

“Marla. Stop. I can’t be any help if I don’t know what happened. You know what—hold on. I’ll brief myself.”

I tap on the blue-and-white Twitter logo with a shocking number of notifications in a red circle in the corner. The app pops open, and so does a grainy picture of two figures sitting in a car in an intimate conversation. Another photo of the figures standing outside a hotel, looking as though they’re holding hands. I zoom in on it to get a better look.

It’s me and Patrick.

My stomach drops, and I click on the link.

The headline pops up: ELISE BRANSON CAUGHT WITH PRIEST LOVER!

I read the first few lines.

Our sources say Elise Branson, former fiancée of deceased star Dean Graham, and currently engaged to business icon Hunter Garrot, showed she has more in common with her famous grandmother Vivian Snow than her smile when she was discovered outside a hotel in a compromising position with a local religious leader, Father Patrick Kelly. Mac Dorman’s newest documentary on the early life of icon Vivian Snow reveals a similar love triangle in the actress’s early life. Like grandmother like granddaughter, it seems . . .

“Shit,” I say into the phone. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.”

Marla lets me have my moment of panic. It’s a normal response; I’ve seen it countless times with my clients.

All the things that I roll my eyes at when other people say them pop into my mind. I want to tell off every single one of my contacts at ZTM. I want to sue everyone who picked up the story after the picture was leaked. I want to write a comment on every post to rebut the claims. I want to send out my own statement ASAP, correcting every assumption made in this stupid article.

But I know that’s not how things work.

“Well, what do you think?” Marla asks eventually.

“I think we need to find out who the source is,” I say, scanning through the rest of the article that’s filled with claims not only about my “relationship” with Patrick but also my grandmother’s relationship with an Italian prisoner in the POW camp in 1943.

The prisoner’s name is familiar—Antonio Trombello.

Oh my God—the guy from the pictures and the one who bought Grandpa’s burial plot. It’s extremely specific information that could only come from someone working on this film.

“I agree. I’ll reach out to Terry, but you know he’s pretty tight-lipped about these things.”

“I know, which usually is good for us . . . ,” I say, recognizing the irony.

“Messaging strategy?” she asks, going through the crisis checklist.

“No statement. Not yet. So far, it looks like it’s just trash mags that have anything. Retweets by a few Snow/Branson fans. I’d like to know the media impressions if Farrah could run that. And have Helen add some alerts for my name, Hunter’s name, Father Patrick Kelly—you know what—just everyone named in that article. I don’t want to be surprised again.”

“Agreed,” Marla says, typing as I speak. “Your mom? Hunter? Should I call them, or do you want to?”

Hunter. My fiancé whom I’m supposedly cheating on with a priest. Oh my God. Hunter, who this very minute is probably getting ready for his flight, who is supposed to spend the next four days here. Hunter, who has enough staff to keep on top of every single media hit mentioning his name.

“I’ll call them. Please tell everyone to insulate Hunter and my mom from this as much as possible, okay?”

“Will do.” Marla pauses, and it sounds like she’s waiting for a statement or some words of wisdom from me.

“Just so you know, it’s not true,” I say, wanting to maintain my dignity with my staff. I may have feelings for Father Patrick, and I may have let things go a little too far, but he’s not my lover in any way, shape, or form.

“Okay,” she says with doubt in her voice.

I get it—it’s not our job to determine if our client is telling the truth. It’s our job to create a positive image and then help protect that image in moments of crisis. But I wish I knew she believed me. I need someone to believe me.

“Reach out when you know more. I’ll go talk to my mom and have someone get in touch with Father Patrick to give him a heads-up and fill him in on some best practices.”

“Perfect plan. I’ll brief the team while you call Hunter.” When I hear her say his name, intense anxiety crushes my lungs. I feel like I can’t take in even the smallest amount of oxygen. “Good luck,” she adds, the phrase turning up at the end like it might be a question.

I hang up without a goodbye, still struggling to breathe. What can I possibly say to him?

Hey, Hunter. I know the papers say I’m screwing the local priest, but don’t worry—that picture isn’t what it looks like.

What if he doesn’t believe me?

Well, whether he’ll believe me or not, I have to call him. I rush to the bathroom, nauseated. I fill a plastic cup with water from the tap and chug it, fill it again and chug until I can take a breath. Then I pace around the room, each buzz from my device amping up my anxiety until I can’t take it anymore. I dive onto the bed, pick up the phone, and call Hunter’s number.

Oh God, I might vomit.

I roll onto my back, my waterlogged stomach bloated and near bursting.

The call goes straight to voice mail. I hang up and call again with the same result. One more time. Nothing. I switch to text.