Chapter 8
“Ms. Lockhart, over here!” a paparazzo yells as I watch my client smile and pose.
Bailey looks dazzling in front of the step and repeat in a floor-length navy blue gown, the white backdrop behind her covered in the Silverline Studios Foundation logos, the press lined up opposite her, cameras raised and her name being called from every direction.
We’re outside a hotel ballroom in Beverly Hills, and I’m just off to the side, waiting for her, hidden in the shadows, wearing all black like a good crisis manager. My job is to orchestrate without being noticed.
I’ve been to press junkets, boutique premieres, industry cocktail parties—but nothing with full press coverage, A-list attendees, and two clients who have avoided being in the same room until tonight.
Translation: I don’t get paid enough for this.
I’ve prepped for a week. Luckily, the PR war hasn’t escalated.
The Wooster video brought sympathy back to Bailey, and Luke didn’t retaliate.
Yet. I’ve been expecting something, keeping an eye on Brandwatch, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But it’s been silent from River. The anticipation is almost worse than whatever Luke has planned.
And I know he’s got something in the works.
But even so, the reprieve has been much needed, because I had a lot to do for this gala, pulling press lists to find who Bailey should stop for a photo or interview with, avoiding any who have been hostile.
I’ve briefed Bailey on what to say if asked about River (nothing), the show (nothing that involves River), or her personal life (also nothing).
I briefly considered getting her a sign that said “On vocal rest” so she wouldn’t have to answer anything but decided against it. Barely.
There was some coordination with Luke for this one.
We needed to change seating arrangements and stagger arrival times, with Bailey going first and River showing up later.
This will be the first time they’ve been in the same room since the blind item dropped, and people are champing at the bit to get pictures of them together. Not on my watch.
I’ve got Tessa monitoring things in real time back at the office, keeping an eye on what people are posting online during the event so we can combat any backlash if necessary.
My phone beeps.
Jerkwad: We’re here
That’s right—we’re keeping each other in the loop. I find myself in strange territory with Luke because of this gala. We’ve had to actually cooperate, which feels . . . wrong. We’ve even come up with a system so we can signal each other if needed.
With a wave and a point to my watch, Bailey knows it’s time to wrap up. She gives the cameras one last smile and follows me inside to the greenroom, where we’ll wait before heading into the ballroom.
“Good job,” I say once she’s away from any last sneaky camera shots. The room is fairly empty, except for some event staff and a couple of stylists who are on hand for touch-ups.
She shakes her arms out and closes her eyes for a brief second. “That was rough,” she says.
“You handled it like a champ.”
We’ve talked enough on the phone that seeing each other in person didn’t feel like a first meeting—more like finally putting a face to a voice. Well, she put a face to mine, since I already knew hers.
Sam and I finished season three over the weekend. The cliff-hanger was brutal.
Bailey is smaller than I imagined, very petite. And more nervous than I’d expect an A-lister to be. But given the circumstances, it makes sense.
“Did you see that one guy in the front that kept asking me if I had a thing for men with pointy ears?” she asks.
“I think he might have been from one of those clickbait entertainment sites.”
Or perhaps he has a fetish.
Bailey takes a deep breath, her shoulders rising and falling. “I need to find a seat and take these off.” She points to the nude pointed-toe heels peeking out from the bottom of her dress.
“Absolutely,” I say, grabbing myself a water from the credenza along the wall and then following her to one of the couches, where she takes a seat before removing her shoes.
She sighs, sitting back against the couch. “Can I just stay here tonight?”
“Sadly, no,” I tell her. “I need to find out when you should be in the ballroom and make sure the seating is all figured out.”
Bailey’s face falls. Just a little, but I caught it. Originally, Bailey and River were sitting together front and center. They are Silverline’s darlings right now, after all. But with everything that’s taken place over the past three and a half weeks, they will be sitting as far apart as possible.
Before heading to the ballroom, I peek over at the step and repeat. Luke is already there in a black suit, hiding in the same spot I just vacated.
“Is your client going to play nice?” I sidle up to him, my voice low.
He glances over at me, but I only see him in my periphery as I keep my eyes on River, who’s wearing a well-fitted black tuxedo, his hair perfectly styled. He’s all smiles while he ignores prying questions from the press.
I wonder if he’ll get asked about the pointy ears too. My guess is no.
“Only if yours does,” Luke says.
I turn briefly to see the corner of his mouth pulled up into a half smile before I turn my attention back to River.
I clasp my hands behind my back. “My client will be the picture of decorum.”
“So will mine,” he says.
Someone asks River if he plans to keep playing Kaelric in the future. I look at Luke to see him watching, waiting to see his client’s response.
“I plan to play him as long as Silverline will have me,” River says, his voice clear, his posture oozing confidence.
Luke gives one single nod as if to say Nailed it.
“Well, I’m going to go make sure the seating is how we want it,” I say, and then feel sort of weird about my usage of “we.”
“Great,” he says. “Make sure your client is seated as far in the back as possible.”
“I can’t because that’s where yours will be sitting.”
His lips pull up into a smile, and in that moment, a little more of the irritation I’ve been carrying toward him disappears.
His gaze turns back toward River. “Is your client in the greenroom?” he asks.
I nod. “Yes, and she’ll stay there until after the cocktail hour.”
“Perfect,” he says. “We’ll skip the greenroom and go straight to the cocktail hour after this.”
“I guess I’ll see you in the ballroom, then.”
“Make sure you get something to eat. I need your A game, and I know how you are when you’re hungry,” he says, looking over at me for a beat, a little smirk on his face.
I frown. “Don’t you worry. I’ve brought my A game.”
I turn on my heel and head toward the ballroom, weaving through the crowd of A-listers and industry people gathered just outside the doors.
Cocktail tables are scattered around, and two bars are set up along the walls; the waitstaff circulates with appetizers.
I snag a couple and scarf them down quickly, cursing Luke while I do.
Inside, the staff is running around doing last-minute adjustments. I see the large seating chart and find Bailey’s name, at the exact table I requested, then I scan over to the opposite side to verify that River’s name is there.
Then, I go over to the individual tables to make sure our clients’ place cards are in the right spots, because “thorough” is my middle name. Actually, it’s Dawn, and I’ve always hated it.
I shoot a quick text over to Luke that simply says: Seating is correct.
Once the cocktail hour is over, I walk with Bailey from the greenroom toward the ballroom. Everyone is already inside, including River, and the gala is about to start.
“Tell me River looked terrible,” she says as we walk, her heels making clicking noises on the glossy tile floor.
“Oh yeah. He looks terrible. Totally hideous,” I lie.
Thank goodness he looks substantially different in person than he does on my television screen, because, like the rest of the world, I have developed quite the crush on Kaelric.
Bailey lets out a weary breath, stopping just before the open doors of the ballroom, the sound of chatter and the clinking of silverware drifting out into the foyer.
I stop with her. “Are you okay?” I ask, lightly touching her arm.
“No,” she says, giving me a thin smile.
“You just need to eat dinner, talk to the others at your table, smile when the camera is on you, and that’s it.”
She places a hand on her stomach, steadying herself. “I haven’t been in the same room with him in weeks.”
“I know,” I say. “And tonight you just have to be in the same room. You don’t have to talk to him, look at him, or acknowledge he exists. You just have to be Bailey Lockhart, the darling of Wooster.”
She smiles. “Thanks, Claire. Simone would have just told me to suck it up.”
“Yes, she would,” I chuckle. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”
Two hours later, after dinner, a performance by John Legend, and an awards ceremony, I’m standing on Bailey’s side of the room, leaning up against the wall, exhausted and wishing this evening would just end already, when I get a text from Luke.
Jerkwad: Your client is fidgeting
He gives me a smirk from across the ballroom, and I look over at Bailey, who is currently trying to adjust the top part of her dress.
She’s probably ridiculously uncomfortable in that getup, having to sit there so long. We’re currently listening to Gerald Marsh, the foundation’s chair, who has been thanking everyone by name for the past twenty minutes.
I text back.
Me: I saw your client pick his nose earlier
Jerkwad: That was just a scratch!
I look up from my phone to see him smiling at me. I twist my lips, trying not to smile back.
Me: Sure
Jerkwad: If Gerald starts thanking the hotel staff, I’m starting a riot
Me: That would not bode well for your client, so you should definitely do it.
I watch him type back, his head dipped slightly, thumb moving across the screen, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
Jerkwad: The headlines would say “River Rhodes’s very hot PR guy causes uproar at gala”
Me: Very hot?