Bad Publicity

1

‘Fuck.’

Not a word I expected to come out of my mouth on the first day of my new job. In my first conversation with my new boss. From the look on her face, she wasn’t expecting it either. My hand flies up to my mouth but it’s already out there, in the air, floating around. Fuck , I say again, this time in my head.

‘Is something wrong?’ She’s all wide eyes and concern, which is better than judgement, at least. I look back down at the list between us, squinting, making sure. The name is still there, clear as day. Jack Carlson. Jessica follows my gaze.

‘Ah, I see. Nerves, right? He is a big name. I get it – I felt that way when I first started working on bigger authors.’

I open my mouth to correct her, then realise that explaining the actual reason would be infinitely worse. Five years ago at university, Jack Carlson screwed me over so catastrophically that I made a promise to myself I’d never have to be in the same room as him again. And until exactly this moment, I was pretty sure I’d sooner light myself on fire than break that promise.

‘I thought he wrote non-fiction?’ I say, trying to keep my tone neutral.

‘He does, usually. But his editor persuaded him over to the dark side last year, so you’ll get to be the publicist for his first novel. Once you’re over the nerves it’s actually a very exciting campaign!’

She starts telling me about the campaign, while I stare at the list of authors I will be representing in my first senior publicist role. The role I was so excited about until my big chance turned into my worst nightmare. I emerge from my stupor when I hear the words ‘book tour’.

‘What did you say, sorry?’

Jessica looks momentarily confused, then repeats herself without a hint of irritation. I like her very much. It’s a shame I’ll have to quit immediately.

‘I said, you’ll have time to get over those nerves when you accompany him on his book tour.’ Shit. I grip the edge of the desk to hide my reaction, while Jessica tells me that there are a few events planned in New York, then a European leg.

‘Europe?’ I say, trying desperately to gather my thoughts. As Jack’s US publicist, Europe is not my remit.

She nods and continues, her smile widening. ‘He’s extremely successful in France, Germany, the UK and Ireland, and our sister companies publish him in those territories, so we’ve arranged a tour.’ I silently pray that this explanation isn’t going where I think it’s going. ‘We did the same thing for Jack’s last non-fiction book, but there were a few hitches on the tour – miscommunication between publicists in different countries, missed flights, etcetera. So this time, to keep things clean, his agent has insisted that we stick to one publicist. One schedule. One person to make sure things run smoothly.’ She pauses, her expression expectant. ‘That would be you.’

Oh, good. It can get worse. My knuckles are practically white from gripping the desk at this point, and Jessica waits as I force a smile which probably comes out more as a grimace and try to think of an appropriate response. I am sure she’s expecting enthusiasm – and why wouldn’t she? It’s any book publicist’s career dream, to run a global tour for a world-famous author. I should be excited – this should be the culmination of all the work I’ve done so far, an opportunity to show what I’m made of.

I manage to choke out a strangled ‘Oh?’ from my throat, which suddenly feels like it has closed up. Fortunately, Jessica smiles gently, interprets my response as concern about planning such a large tour, and reassures me that they have already handled the flights and accommodation, and nailed down the schedule. All I have to do is go and make sure the tour goes off without a hitch. Which would be fine, if there wasn’t already a hitch: a fucking huge one. I excuse myself in a choked voice to go to the bathroom.

As soon as I find it, I lock myself in the nearest cubicle and let out a long breath. ‘Fuck. Fuck!’ I say, out loud, to no one in particular. It’s been bad enough, watching Jack’s stratospheric rise from a distance – New York Times bestseller this, literary award that. Historical documentaries, radio interviews. Viral threads about how hot he is, thirst traps, video compilations of him running his hand through his hair while he’s describing some battle that happened 500 years ago. Now, not only do I have to be aware of his success, I have to travel around Europe with him facilitating it. There are not enough swear words in the world to do this justice. I want to scream. But, somehow, I have to try and calm down. As disastrous as this reality is, it’s not going away any time soon. Come on, Andie. You can handle this.

Can you? a small voice inside me asks, and suddenly I’m dangerously close to being pulled back to that last semester at Edinburgh. To telling Jack I never wanted to see him again, and meaning it. To the weeks afterwards, when my world was smashed into pieces. But I shut all that in a vault long ago. If I’m going to get through this, I have to keep it there, somehow.

I clench my hands into fists at my side and start doing the meditative breaths my dad taught me. A fresh pang of grief appears at the image of him in his yoga trousers on the deck of my family home, but then the breaths start to work, clearing the cloud of emotions into an almost-calm. My eyes flutter open, bringing me back to the present. I check my watch: it’s been ten minutes. I’d better return to my desk, so Jessica doesn’t think I’ve disappeared completely.

I take one more deep breath, and leave the cubicle.

As I navigate through the office, my professionalism starts to take over, gradually replacing my earlier panic with a temporary resolve. For today, for this week, I need a plan. There are lots of other authors on that list. Perhaps until I can process this and strategise properly, I can focus on those.

Jessica is still at my desk when I return, sipping her tea as if I haven’t just sworn at her and had a near-meltdown. I sit in my new swivel chair, at my new desk, and – for a second – feel a flash of pride. I’ve made it here, to senior publicist in one of the most prestigious publishing houses in New York. The Andie who moved here from London as an intern would hardly be able to believe this.

Unfortunately, this lasts about three seconds before Jessica starts talking about Jack again and I almost fling my pen across the room at the sound of his name. I’ll have to get better at that.

‘As you’ll see there’s quite a list of authors here, but most of them are under control – your predecessor lined up a lot before she left. So your focus will mostly be on Jack’s campaign for the next few months.’ I swallow the sound of frustration that moves up my throat and plaster what I hope is an excited expression on my face. So much for focusing on my other authors. ‘The book publishes this week,’ she continues, ‘so we have events in the city spread over the next few weeks. The first event is this Thursday, actually. It would be a great chance for you to meet him.’

‘This Thursday?’ I say, my voice about three octaves higher than usual. I overcorrect my tone and my ‘Great!’ comes out in a baritone. Jesus Christ, Andie. Get it together.

‘Wonderful,’ she smiles, still seemingly unfazed. ‘I’m sure he’ll be delighted to meet you.’

Or he’s about to get the shock of his life.