Chapter 14. Rosie, the Journalist
Rosie, the Journalist
ONE YEAR EARLIER, CENTURY CITY
The hulking headquarters of the Gerson Public Relations Agency towered above the streets of Century City, its domed, geometric walls blindingly white, a stark contrast to the blackout windows.
Somehow, the round building itself managed to look imperious.
It was no wonder Hollywood called the place the Death Star, Gerson’s rivals the Golf Ball of Doom.
Rosie Wright had called it her workplace for the last six grueling months.
She bumped the conference room door open with her hip and pushed through, carrying a tray stacked precariously with water and crystal glasses, each of which was worth a week of her pay.
She wouldn’t drop them—not like her first week, when she’d accidentally poured a whole pitcher of water into the lap of the VP of Crisis Comms. Rosie had regretted that mistake until she’d heard a rumor that the vice president had once thrown a stapler at her assistant when she was angry.
Rosie swept into the room and delivered the platter smoothly onto the marble table.
The late-night meeting between the partners was being held in the agency’s largest and most luxurious room on the top floor.
Officially, its name was Conference Room A, but unofficially, Rosie and her fellow assistants called it DEFCON 1.
Rosie had let out an audible gasp the first time she’d toured the building.
Since appearing wealthy and powerful helped lure in clients, the agency’s conference rooms were shrines to designer elegance: top-shelf liquor at built-in bars, architectural chandeliers, vases of fresh peonies.
This particular conference room had soaring views of Los Angeles that stretched all the way to the ocean.
Neil Gerson, the oldest of Gerson’s four partners and the only man—who also happened to be the agency’s founder—waved away the water. “Get me a scotch, doll, would you? It’s Friday night, and if I have to sit around with these hatchet slingers, I’m going to need a pick-me-up.”
“Happily,” said Rosie, turning with a pronounced swish of her hips that ruffled the pleats in her skirt.
She was genuinely happy to ply Gerson and any of the other partners with as much alcohol as they wanted.
This was a closed-door meeting with only one other assistant in attendance, after the majority of other employees had gone home for the weekend.
It sounded like a recipe for an HR disaster, which was exactly what she was hoping for.
Rosie had a story to write, and she’d really rather hurry it along.
It was nearly a year ago when a much less glamorous-looking Rosie—zero highlights, no tight clothes, sans makeup—received an anonymous tip about Gerson PR.
According to her source, Gerson was working to cover up legitimate sexual harassment claims that had been leveled against several of their A-list clients.
The source wouldn’t reveal their name, only that they were a former employee.
They also wouldn’t name who the clients were, or who at the agency was spearheading the cover-up, only that everyone involved was important.
But that was okay—Rosie was a big girl; she could do her own research.
And after a year of covering dry-as-dirt municipal issues for the Los Angeles Times, the tip had lit a fire in her. She’d rushed a pitch to her editor.
Who’d promptly rejected it.
According to her editor, no one was interested in sexual harassment stories anymore.
#MeToo had come and gone, and the appetite for holding men’s feet to the fire was waning, if not over.
Look at the country’s politics, she’d said.
Look at the collective exhaustion over callouts and exposés.
If Rosie wanted to be the next Ronan Farrow, she’d have to find a juicier subject to sink her teeth into than the systemic exploitation of women.
Rosie had politely disagreed, which had led to her editor politely firing her.
But if anything, facing that rejection had made Rosie all the more determined to tackle the story.
After all, Nellie Bly hadn’t chosen to blow the lid off mental health asylums in 1887 because it was fashionable.
She’d done it because she’d witnessed injustice and needed other human beings to see it.
At twenty-four, Rosie might have been young, but she knew there was such a thing as right and wrong, and whether or not a journalist reported on an issue shouldn’t be determined by trending topics or if the culturati wanted to dissect it at their dinner parties.
Journalists were supposed to lead the conversation, not follow it.
She had just enough optimism left to believe that if she uncovered something real—real harm—she could make people care.
The afternoon she got the news that Gerson had accepted her as an entry-level assistant, she’d bought herself a cheap bottle of champagne and raised a glass to Nellie.
And then six months of undercover work had flown by, and she’d found nothing.
PR was a field dominated by women. And not just any women: In large part, the employees at Gerson were one and the same.
White, “bronde,” and under forty. They even dressed and talked alike, with their Rent the Runway skirt suits and TikTok slang, so it was hard for Rosie to tell them apart in the first few months.
But the fact that this story wasn’t going to be yet another article about men covering up other men’s bad behavior, but rather about the women who sold out their own, was fine—great, actually.
How’s that for novelty, Los Angeles Times?
She’d even started imagining the headline: “The Handmaidens of Hollywood: PR’s Patriarchy Problem.
” Or something like that—she never got to choose her own headlines, anyway.
“Come on, Neil,” said Consuela Rivas, the youngest, slickest, and best-dressed of the partners.
She leaned back in her supple leather chair.
“You’ve been attending these meetings for eight years.
Surely you’re used to premedicating by now.
I assumed that’s why you stumbled into your chair, old man. ”
The monthly standing meeting between the partners to discuss the most pressing issues facing the agency was confidential, no one allowed inside other than a few lowly assistants to do their bidding.
When Rosie had discovered the existence of these meetings, she’d done everything in her power to get the assignment.
If the powers that be at Gerson were colluding to cover up client indiscretions, surely this was where they discussed it. This had to be her ticket in—finally.
“Enough ball busting.” Jessica Michaels was the most intimidating of the partners, broad-shouldered and silver-haired.
“We’re here to talk about Gabriel Knox’s presidential run, and whether we’re going to help him with the optics.
This could be a big payoff for us, but we’d have to thread a very fine needle. ”
Rosie nearly poured Neil’s whiskey on the table.
Gabriel Knox was the founder of Knox Aeronautics, a cutting-edge drone manufacturer with big Defense Department contracts, who’d successfully transitioned into politics and was now a house representative for California.
Knox was straight out of the Gavin Newsom school—on the younger side, handsome, good at speaking boldly and plainly.
Except, unlike Newsom, Knox’s politics hovered around the center-right, which was unusual for California.
The combination had won him a lot of attention, but Rosie still hadn’t imagined the man already had presidential ambitions.
If she wasn’t laser-focused on her investigation, she might consider jeopardizing her cover just to scoop the news.
“Careful with that decanter, honey,” Neil said. “I hear you have a tendency to pour one out in a person’s lap.” His rheumy eyes held mischief as he patted his lap. “Why don’t you sit here to make sure it stays safe?”
“Neil, for Christ’s sake,” said Consuela, covering her eyes. “You’re a Neanderthal.”
Oh, this was wonderful. Good old-fashioned sexual harassment, like a cherry on top of her story sundae.
“If you insist,” Rosie said, sitting exactly where he’d patted.
She could see the other assistant’s eyes flash wide with alarm on the other side of the room and had to suppress a victorious smile.
A witness and everything. Bless you, feminist Jesus.
“Rosa, please remove yourself from Mr. Gerson’s lap.” Jessica’s tone brooked no argument. Rosie got up and fled to the back of the room without bothering to correct her about her name. “Neil, if you’re done being a liability, I’d like to get back to Knox.”
“The way I see it,” said the fourth and final partner, a middle-aged woman named Anisha Subramanian, “Knox is smart to see the benefits an LA-based firm brings over DC. We know presidential elections are essentially popularity contests. The DC firms can get him oppo research and the usual press, sure, but they can’t get him on game shows, in Superbowl ads, or get A-list talent at his rallies.
My question is, what is he willing he do for us in exchange for backing him? And I’m not talking about money.”
Jessica nodded thoughtfully. “We’ve wanted those union regulations gone for a long time.”
Rosie forced herself to breathe. They were talking about helping get a man elected in exchange for political handouts. It wasn’t what she’d come here to expose, but it was certainly something. And to think the other assistant stood in the corner staring off at the skyline, bored.
“Give me a break, we’re already up to our balls in the Gabriel Knox business,” said Neil, swishing his scotch. “Back in the old days, Anisha, before your time, we did regular cleanup for the man. There’s trust established. I don’t see the downside.”
Cleanup? Rosie almost bounced on her feet. Now they were getting somewhere. She prayed silently that Neil would say more, but Jessica cleared her throat and glared.
“Anyway.” Jessica swept a not-too-subtle glance at Rosie, and she pretended to look as bored as the other assistant. “Connie, you haven’t weighed in yet. What do you think?”
Consuela leaned in and steepled her hands.
She wore thick, sculptural rings that clanked against the table.
“I think the downside, Neil, is what happens if word gets out that we’re helping a conservative take the highest office?
The man isn’t exactly friendly to women or queer people.
Or immigrants. Or the working class, God rest their souls. ”
“I’m so sick of these labels,” Neil scoffed. “What happened to just being people?”
“Your disgust notwithstanding,” Consuela said, “we’re in the optics business.
And the optics of helping Knox aren’t great, especially here in LA.
What happens if that group—you know the one, those women who cut men’s throats in the middle of the night—what if they get ahold of this and come after us? ”
Rosie abandoned all pretense of boredom and physically leaned in.
“What group?” Anisha asked. Rosie could’ve kissed her.
Jessica chuckled. “You haven’t heard of this? It’s the latest rumor getting our assistants’ panties in a twist. Apparently, Scout Sage is running some sort of … hot girl murder club. I think that’s what they call it.”
“The little pop singer?” Neil blinked. “The blond? With the jugs?”
“That’s the rumor,” Consuela said, twisting one of her rings.
“Granted, I don’t know if it’s true. But I do know that anyone who messes with her gets fucked.
Remember Dalton Preston over at Sony? He ran around on his wife, some British designer, for years, with no consequences.
Then the wife becomes friends with Scout, and next thing you know, the FBI is investigating him for tax fraud. ”
“He’s sitting in prison as we speak,” Jessica said ruefully. “One of our clients, and there was nothing I could do to save him. Though I did hear the wife didn’t care about the cheating. She was pissed he was hiding money from her.”
Rosie’s brain whirred a mile a minute. This was entirely unexpected.
A group of women actually clearing the board of men when they stepped out of line?
She pictured it: feeding Neil’s name to a circle of cloaked figures, the hammer coming down one night when he made his way alone to his parked car. A delicious warmth spread up her spine.
“What bullshit,” growled Neil, beckoning Rosie for more scotch. She obliged, and he continued to speak around the curve of her ass. “We don’t make business decisions out of fear. Especially over some boogeyman who probably doesn’t exist.” He waved a hand. “My apologies—boogeywoman.”
“God forbid I agree with Neil,” said Anisha, “but for all we know, the rumors are part of some viral marketing campaign for Scout’s next tour.
Though I do agree,” she added, nodding at Consuela, “that signing a contract with Knox could make some of our more outspoken clients unhappy. We’d have to keep a tight lid on it. ”
“I’m hearing a yes, as long as we’re careful?” Jessica looked between her three partners. “We agree to back Knox’s campaign?”
One by one the partners confirmed, and as dusk turned to darkness outside the top-floor windows, talk turned to boring subjects like the rate of return on Gerson’s stock portfolio. Rosie tuned it out. Their earlier conversation was more than enough.
She was certain her anonymous source’s accusation was true, and if she kept digging, she’d eventually find what she needed to prove it.
But this story—a group of women haunting the power brokers of Hollywood with the threat of vigilante justice—now that was fresh.
And unsettling, if she was being completely honest. It suggested there was a new generation of women who refused victimhood so profoundly they’d rather take the only other route available to them, and become villains.
Rosie could feel in her bones that this was something people would care about.
But there was something else here, too, a bigger question.
In J-school, one of Rosie’s professors had showed them a famous quote by Margaret Atwood that read: “All stories are about wolves. All worth repeating, that is. Anything else is sentimental drivel.” It had stuck with her as a sort of journalistic ethos over the years: Always follow the wolves.
The thing was, this supposed Hot Girl Murder Club—these women didn’t strike her as wolves, not in the traditional sense.
She had no idea what to call this new creature.