4. At the Crossroads
4
AT THE CROSSROADS
O’CONNOR
The Archer Armstrong post was going through the roof.
That was good. I told myself it was good. If there had been anyone around me to talk to, I would have told them it was good.
But I was alone in my basement studio. Just me in my dark, high-tech supervillain’s lair, arms crossed and thoughtful in my Herman Miller Aeron, the world’s best office chair. Mine had been free because I’d liked the chair’s lumbar support and posted about it.
That was yesterday. What about today?
My focus was on three things: health and beauty (which was one thing, despite including two nouns), fashion, and celebrities.
Archer Armstrong was right in my wheelhouse. Perfect fodder for my massive social media machine. So why wasn’t I happy that the counter on the post couldn’t keep up with all the reads ?
Because it was all so damned arbitrary.
Yes, Aftermath was hot. Yes, any post featuring Archer Armstrong’s spectacular photo was going to get clicks. Yes, a post trashing someone would always get more attention than a Pollyanna We’re All So Happy post.
But success was not sustainable. In two minutes, one of my competitors would post something. Annoyingly pretty Bella Southdown would have a post about some fashion model picking her nose, or The Scoop would break the news of an actor farting on set, and Archer Armstrong—and I—would be thrown into the What Have You Done For Me Lately pile.
Social media platforms were emerging and disappearing like time-lapse photography of mushrooms growing in the forest. The appetite for scandal and drama and—best one of all—trauma was insatiable. Most of my competitors could be bought outright, and they were open about that. They no longer even tried to venture an opinion.
But my entire empire included the word opinionated . I was Opinionated O’Connor, known for turning down endorsement deals if I didn’t like the product.
I stood alone.
On a pinnacle.
A tall peak that was pushing up into the soles of my VEJAs.
Which I’d gotten for free since I posted about the company’s high-standard factories in Brazil. That was a story I’d been proud to share . . . and a post that got almost no likes. Still, that was one innovative company.
My point—and I did have one—was that I was tired of it all. Tired of the rat race, the ambulance chasing, the sniffing-out of innuendo and possible glory. Tired.
And tired of sitting in my studio all alone. If only everybody— everybody —didn’t want something from me.
My cell rang. Not my personal cell, which hadn’t rung since I’d trashed my stepmother’s favorite skin cream and her local pharmacy stopped carrying it.
No, this was my business cell, which meant someone wanted something.
“O’Connor.” I always answered briskly in the hopes that it would encourage people to get to the point.
“Ms. O’Connor, this is Phil MacGregor at the New Talent Agency. I hope you don’t mind me calling you. I got your number from Connie Albright, who ran the charity auction on Saturday.”
I gave the guy credit. He’d gotten to the point. I now knew who he was, how he’d found me, and what he wanted.
“Phil,” I said, boldly skipping the step of calling him Mr. MacGregor, “I’m not taking the post down.”
He chuckled. The best ones never showed their anxiety. This guy was a pro.
“Not at all,” he said. “I ascribe to the belief that there’s no such thing as bad publicity, as I said to the boys a few minutes ago.”
The boys. Like he’d been Aftermath’s father through the challenging teen years.
“I see. So, how can I help you?”
“Well, I think I can help you.”
A nice dodge. He wanted to get something from me and was going to pitch it as if I were the beneficiary.
“How nice. Please go on.”
“Well, my boy Archer is a little miffed that you think he’s a bad kisser.”
A little miffed. I eyed the counter on one of the screens before me. The shares were huge, and the total reads were already over a million. This was one of my most popular posts in months.
“A little miffed,” I repeated. “But he is a bad kisser, Phil.”
“I don’t question your expertise, Ms. O’Connor.” A delicate riposte implying that I was some kind of slut. I began to like this guy. “But I can see the counter as well as you can, and I think you know a good thing when you see it.”
“Phil, just call me O’Connor, okay? Not Ms. O’Connor.”
“It was a gesture of respect, but I understand. O’Connor, I’m saying that you need to ride this story for a while.”
More press for his client. Archer Armstrong truly was one of the most self-aggrandizing men I’d ever met, so I knew he was more than a little miffed, but his agent couldn’t give a fuck about that. He knew his band was on 1.2 million pairs of lips at the moment (whoops, make that 1.3 million), and he wanted to string that out. Couldn’t blame him.
“So, Phil, what are you suggesting?”
“Kissing school, of course.” I frowned, startled by the shocking idea. He went on. “Well, dating school, really. You teach the boy how to make any woman swoon and share the story with the world.”
The possibilities spun out into the future. I’d serialized some stories before, but never one with so much potential. I could drag this out for . . . a long time.
In fact, long enough to write a tell-all.
Book. Publishing. An industry centuries old and not likely to blow away in the digital wind. An author writes one book at a time. A social media influencer writes dozens of posts a week. Blogs regularly. Videos get churned out like they’re coming from a factory line. Now I was podcasting, too, and had to have something out every single Thursday, come hell or high water.
A book.
A scandalous, shocking, gossipy, must-have-it book about vain, handsome Archer Armstrong. Long-form. No-holds-barred. Tons of photos.
“O’Connor? Are you there?”
“How much would you pay me to take on the reformation of your lead singer, Phil? ”
Good. That was what he had expected. I could hear the smile in his voice. Guys like him loved to negotiate.
“Why, nothing. This is for you, my dear, not for me.”
At least I was working with an expert. “I’m not showing you anything before I post it. You get no editorial oversight.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. The whole world knows you’re honest.”
“And I get to use any photos I take.” I carefully didn’t say any photos I posted. This way, I could include photos in the book.
“Certainly. Standard libel laws apply, of course.”
“Of course. And you’ve got buy-in from Archer.”
“I will.” He was smooth. I knew it was a toss-up as to whether Archer Armstrong would be willing to subject himself to the humiliation of in-public dating school, but if he was . . .
“All right. Let’s get this all in writing and run it past our lawyers, and then we can start working on a schedule.”
“That’s wonderful.”
We exchanged contact information. He told me it was a pleasure doing business with me, and I agreed. Right. Get off the phone. I’ve got thinking to do.
Who was the best literary agent in publishing? This book wouldn’t make me a lot of money relative to the price to put a product endorsement video up on YouTube, but a bidding war between publishing houses would increase my prestige and make the next book more highly anticipated.
Archer Armstrong. That self-satisfied little boy in the body of a god. Who would have thought he would provide my path to stability and success?
I needed to make a plan. The ideas were flowing in fast.
I opened a new file on my computer.