“I guess,” I said, but what I thought was, But it didn’t feel like this with Dean. My mom was still my mom back then, so what’s the difference?
“The advice I give to every girl going through ‘mamma drama’ is—this is your wedding and your marriage. This is your story—you have to live with what you write. So don’t let nobody take your pen away.”
It was a deep moment from Cammi, who I doubt was more than a year or two out of high school, but it’s what I needed to hear. I wiped my tears away and had Wanda call Lisa back in to redo my full face of makeup. Within an hour, I’d chosen a dress, and we took the ninety-minute drive back to Edinburgh in silence.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
My phone explodes again on the bedside table.
“Ugh.” I blindly grab for it, keeping my eyes closed for a minute longer.
I squint at the screen. It’s full of notifications. Texts, social media tags, emails. I scroll through, searching for one that clearly explains whatever media disaster we’ve somehow stumbled into. Did one of my clients tweet a sexist comment? Forget to wear panties to a club? Have a total meltdown? Die?
Oh God, I hope not.
Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s something we’ve seen before at Toffee Co. Usually I’m insulated from it, the news filtering through one of my associates or assistants. But clearly, I’ve been gone too long, and someone has dropped the ball. Which I can only partially blame on my team because I’m spending most of my days in a one-gas-station town, planning a wedding, worrying about dates on headstones, and accidentally stalking the local priest. Who am I?
I tap on a random notification. As the social media app opens, my phone rings. It’s Marla, my VP. Damn. This must be big.
“Hey, Mar, what’s up?” I ask, trying not to sound groggy, which is pretty much impossible.
“Are you okay?” she asks, her voice sounding as tired as mine.
“Uh, yeah. Long day but I’m fine. Why? What’s going on?”
Dead air.
“You haven’t heard?”
“Uh, no. I’ve been . . .” I try to think of a better excuse than napping. “On set. What should I have heard?” I put the phone on speaker, curiosity growing, going back to my list of notifications as Marla hems and haws. I’ve never heard Marla like this. She’s a no-nonsense businesswoman who tells it like it is. Whatever the disaster, it must be huge, and it must affect our company directly.
“Marla, give it to me straight. What’s the lowdown?”
“I don’t know what happened. I thought Terry at ZTM was our inside guy.”
“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?