Chapter 4 #2
“You might have to step out of your comfort zone.”
“I get it. But I don’t know if I want to do that. What’s another option?”
“I understand,” I say, stalling for time while I try to come up with another idea. “Um . . . then how about a public dinner with friends? Something that shows you’re happy and you’ve moved on.”
Bailey sighs. “But . . . I haven’t.” Her voice is thick again, and the sniffling is back.
There’s silence on the other end of the line, and I give her time to deal with her emotions.
She clears her throat after what was probably a few seconds but felt like minutes. “I think I just want to be blunt, you know?” she says finally. “I hate these stupid games.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling a little more confident now because this is something I can handle. “I think going direct is a good move. I can draw up a statement, and with your approval, we’ll have People release it first before it goes out to the other sites.”
We usually give People priority on these kinds of things—they’re more sympathetic than TMZ, who’d rather be first than fair.
“Can you tell me what it’ll say?”
I pull my chin inward. She wants the statement now? Like, right now?
“Well,” I start, because Bailey is expecting Simone-level crisis management.
Think, Claire. Think.
“Okay, you could start by saying you had no idea about the rumor,” I offer.
“I was blindsided,” she says, her voice cracking.
“Yes, that’s stronger,” I say, glancing at Tessa to make sure she’s getting all this. Not that I need to. She hasn’t stopped writing since the call started.
“So, something like ‘I was blindsided by the news, just like everyone else.’”
“That works,” a sniffling Bailey says.
I search around the room while I think of the next line. It needs to be simple but hit hard.
“I know this is sensitive, but would you be okay with posting something about how heartbroken you feel?”
“Um . . . I . . . I guess,” she says.
“Nothing too revealing,” I reassure her. “Something like ‘I’m heartbroken and trying to move forward.’”
“Yeah,” Bailey says. “That could work.”
“We’ll keep it short and end with a simple ‘I won’t be making further comments about my personal life.’”
“I like that,” she says. And I breathe out a sigh of relief, having pulled that off.
“It’s dignified,” I tell her. “It says what it needs to say—you’re acknowledging what happened without taking the blame.”
Then the fans can decide who they believe, and hopefully it will be Bailey.
She sniffles over the phone speaker. “Let’s do it.”
“Consider it done,” I tell her. “I’ll send it to you first, so you can post at the same time as People, or you can share their post. Whatever you’d like to do.”
“Thanks for your help,” Bailey says, sounding sincere. “I really appreciate it.”
We hang up, and then with Tessa’s notes, I quickly type up what we discussed, text it over to Bailey for her approval, and call my contact at People and ask if they want it.
It’s an easy yes, and the statement is live twenty minutes later.
Bailey shares it with her fans, and it’s not long until other outlets are posting it on social media.
Just like that, in the span of half an hour, we’ve made our move. What happens next is up to the fans. And River and Luke, I guess. I’d love it if this were the end of it all, but something tells me it won’t be.
Then, as if I’ve conjured him like an evil spirit, he texts me.
Jerkwad: So, you went with a statement. That’s like PR 101
Me: Jealous you didn’t think of it first and instead went with a puppy stunt?
Jerkwad: That was a good move and you know it
It was good, but I’ll never tell him that.
Me: It was underhanded. But I should expect that by now.
Jerkwad: That was not underhanded
Me: Says the guy who stole my client
Jerkwad: I didn’t steal anyone. You should have listened to my voicemail.
I send him a rolling-eye emoji, but I wish I could recover his message from my phone. Simply out of curiosity.
Jerkwad: Doesn’t matter, we’ve got public opinion on our side
It’s way too soon for him to be making any judgment calls about whose side people are taking. Tessa has been watching the response, and so far, fans are all over the place—some in River’s camp, some in Bailey’s.
The next couple of days will reveal how this plays out, and neither of us can really know who will pull ahead.
I send him back one word.
Me: Sure
Later that evening, when I’ve caught up on almost everything I can and we’re in a holding pattern as far as Bailey is concerned, I head to the one place I can always count on to lift my spirits—a place where nobody has any idea what’s going on in pop culture, also known as: my parents’ house.
It’s still home, even if my old bedroom is now my mom’s crafting room, and Gigi has taken over Ryan’s. She moved in a while back when living alone stopped working—she’ll tell you she was “forced,” which is technically accurate.
There’s a standing Friday dinner invitation at the Archer household, and I haven’t made it in a while. Tonight I need a home-cooked meal and whatever off-the-wall thing Gigi is going to say. She never disappoints.
“Mom? Dad? Gigi?” I call out as I walk inside, the air-conditioning a welcome relief after driving here in my car that never quite cooled off after sitting in the hot sun all day.
The house has a contemporary feel, with cream-painted walls covered in framed family pictures.
Everything from baby photos, terrible school portraits, and candids of me in dance to shots of Ryan playing soccer.
It smells like the same linen-scented plug-in my mom has been using for at least a decade.
“What’s up, dummy?” Ryan says. I look into the sitting room off the entrance to find my older brother and his girlfriend, Sienna, cozying up on my parents’ gray leather sofa, looking loved-up and happy. Yay. Just what I need right now.
“Where’s everyone else?” I ask him.
“Hello to you too,” he says.
“How rude of me,” I say, purposefully looking at Ryan’s girlfriend of two years instead of at him. “Hi, Sienna, how are you?”
“I’m good,” she says, giving me a little wave.
“Oh, and I guess hello to you, Fartface,” I say, which is my most used nickname for him.
“They’re on the patio,” Ryan says, pointing toward the back of the house.
I walk through the kitchen and family room and slide open the glass door to find my mom and Gigi settled into wicker chairs around a matching table, my dad at the grill. The warm evening air smells of grilling meat and jasmine from my mom’s garden.
“Claire,” my mom says, getting up from her chair to give me a hug. Her graying hair is pulled into a ponytail, and she’s got a spot of dirt on her white T-shirt that probably came from working in the garden.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” says Gigi, not bothering to get up. I give her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” I say while walking over to the grill to give my dad a hug.
He’s wearing an apron that says License to Grill, and on his hand is an oven mitt that’s red and shaped like a lobster.
There are six chicken breasts on the grill, so my mom is either clairvoyant and knew I was coming, or she made extra for Ryan because he’s a pig. Either way, it worked out.
“Good to see you, Claire-Bear,” he says, calling me by the nickname I’ve probably had since birth.
I leave him to it and sink into the chair next to my mom, across from Gigi.
Weekends are usually mine to enjoy, but not this one.
I’ll be keeping an eye on the Bailey situation, because that’s what Simone would do.
In hindsight, I really should have seen the blood pressure thing coming and should probably start monitoring my own.
“You look tired,” Gigi says, her pixie-cut gray hair blowing in the wind. “The bags under your eyes could be seen from space.”
“Thank you, Gigi,” I say, my tone flat.
“How’s work going?” my mom asks, probably trying to deflect from Gigi, but instead she’s brought up the one thing I don’t want to talk about right now.
“Never mind that,” says Gigi, tugging on the collar of her light sweatshirt. “I want to know about the last date you went on with that Joshua fellow.”