Chapter 3 #2
I don’t wait for him to answer; I’ll have Sam apologize to him later. I pivot on my white sneakers and head out the door of the restaurant, pulling up Tessa’s number and hitting the call button once I’m outside.
“Tell me everything,” I say before she can even say hello.
“Okay, so far, we’ve got public opinion on our side,” she says. “I haven’t found one gossip site or influencer pointing the finger at Bailey.”
“When did the blind item go out?”
“Thirty minutes ago,” she tells me as I unlock the door to my red Mazda CX-5. “I got a Google Alert for it.”
“It’s still bad, though,” I say, getting into the driver’s seat and pressing the start button. “It puts the breakup back into the conversation.”
And completely defeats the purpose of the joint statement, which was to kill any assumptions about Bailey and River and keep the focus on the show.
“Do you think it’s true?” she asks.
“I have no idea,” I respond.
The truth is, it’s not our job to know what really happened. What matters is what people believe. And right now, we’ve lost control of that.
A half hour later, I’m sitting on the green velvet couch in my living room, my laptop balancing on my knees, Brandwatch open and tracking mentions and sentiment on both clients, a piece of licorice dangling from my lips—the best I could do for dinner since I never got to eat mine—as I try to brainstorm ways we can stay ahead of this.
I could call Simone, but this isn’t an emergency just yet. I’ll wait until it is one before putting this all back on her plate. For now, I can handle this. I’m pretty sure.
I’ve got Tessa monitoring the internet in real time so we know if and when we need to move.
For my part, I’ve been drafting up a few potential response options in case we need one, and I’ve reached out to a couple of press contacts to gauge how much traction the blind item is getting.
So far the answer is: too much. But at least it’s not looking bad for Bailey. Yet.
My phone beeps next to me, and I pick it up, expecting a text from Tessa.
323-555-6775: So much for the joint statement.
I stare at my screen. There are previous texts from this person, and I scroll up to get more insight, clues about who it might be. Although I have my suspicions.
The last message I received from this number is just a GIF of someone running desperately into the ocean.
It’s definitely Luke. I remember that day.
We were in a meeting, and Simone had told him the statement he’d written for a client looked like the work of an intern.
He took it in stride in person, but afterward he sent me this.
This was right before he left Harrow & Finch. And following his exit, I deleted his contact from my phone. Apparently, that didn’t delete our text thread.
Here’s a side effect I didn’t expect from this blind item: Luke Wilder pestering me. If Simone could come back tomorrow, that would be wonderful.
Me: Who is this?
323-555-6775: The sexiest man alive
Me: Jonathan Bailey?
323-555-6775: Yeah, he’s definitely sexier than me. I’ll give you that. It’s Luke.
Me: What do you want, Luke?
323-555-6775: Did you really not know it was me?
Me: I deleted your contact info
323-555-6775: You deleted me and never listened to my voicemail. Noted.
I don’t respond. There’s nothing to say. I did both those things, and I have no regrets. Though part of me—a very, very small part—is still wondering what he could possibly have said in that voicemail.
My phone beeps.
323-555-6775: Did your client drop that blind item?
I stare at my phone. Really? He’s blaming Bailey for this? It just as easily could have been River.
That’s the thing about blind items—the source is almost never revealed.
Could be the celebrity, their team, a brokenhearted ex with too much time on their hands.
You never know and chasing it is a waste of energy.
What matters is what the story is doing.
And right now, it’s not doing much to Bailey.
I text back what I think Simone would say in this instance.
Me: No. She didn’t.
323-555-6775: River thinks she dropped it to make it look like he cheated.
I roll my eyes because of course he’d think that. This is how these kinds of things spiral. I’m sure if it were flipped and people were blaming Bailey for the breakup, she might think River was the source.
I quickly text again.
Me: Well, he’s wrong
Luke doesn’t reply, and I don’t add his name to my phone, out of pettiness.
The next morning, the internet is working overtime. Everyone is piling on River. There are full breakdowns online, in long and short form, and everyone agrees River is the villain and Bailey is the victim.
I’ve been reading all about it over my coffee from Common Ground, which I sent Tessa out to grab for us, along with some scones. We needed some sustenance while sifting through the wreckage.
“Poor River,” Tessa says, sliding her phone across my desk, her face sympathetic, her blonde bob tucked behind her ears.
It’s a video from You Oughta Know, a celebrity gossip influencer with a massive following built on chaos. She’s going on about another actress from the show that she thinks River cheated with. It’s probably totally made up, and it has over fifty thousand likes.
This is how things spiral so quickly in this business.
“Her voice is so whiny,” I say, sliding the phone back to Tessa. “I have no idea why people have given her a platform.”
For the rest of the morning, we are in a holding pattern of sorts.
Tessa’s keeping an eye out for any mentions of Bailey, and I call Kara, Bailey’s manager, to keep her in the loop.
She tells me that any communication between Bailey and River would need to go through their managers first. Note taken: They’ve blocked each other.
Because things are somewhat controlled at the moment, we also work on other clients, writing briefs and responding to media inquiries.
Sometime around midmorning, a harried Tessa comes rushing into my office, her pale complexion even more pallid, her trusty notepad tucked under her arm. She holds her phone out, the screen facing me, and I tell the client I’ve been prepping for an upcoming interview that I’ll call them back.
“So, this is bad,” she says, wiggling the phone in my face.
I grab it out of her hand, and my stomach instantly drops.
It’s River’s Instagram account. A picture he posted eight minutes ago of him and a golden retriever puppy in his arms. He’s tagged a rescue shelter, and the caption says: Meet Bear. My new buddy. At least one relationship in my life is unconditional.
“Crap,” I say, mostly under my breath. I’d love to say more, but we don’t cuss at Harrow & Finch. It’s in our handbook. Our partners are very old school.
“Yeah, crap,” says Tessa, her tone indicating that she’d also like to use other words right now. “What should we do?” She pulls her notepad out from under her arm, at the ready to jot down any ideas I might have.
I shake my head because I don’t know. This is a well-crafted post. It will garner sympathy and imply River is the wounded party without actually saying it. And it has Luke written all over it.
Dropping it midmorning on a Friday means he wants all eyes on it. News you want to disappear gets dropped on Friday night because everyone is too busy with their real lives to care, and by Monday, it’s usually forgotten.
But Luke wants this one seen and remembered. It’s a bold move. Under other circumstances, I might have been impressed, had this not just blown things up for me. Because it will. People are easily swayed by a puppy.
Annoyed by this new chain of events, I pick up my phone and send off a quick text.
Me: So much for playing nice.
I set my phone down, but it beeps almost instantly.
323-555-6775: Sorry. The client is my boss.
He’s not sorry. Not even a little. In fact, I bet if he took a Kingdom of Flames and Moonlight court test, he’d definitely end up in the Eclipse because he is basically the devil.
I press his number and hit the “Create New Contact” button. Then I add “Jerkwad” to the name field and save it. I have plenty of other things I’d like to call him right now, but please refer to the company handbook.
Once that’s taken care of, I slam my phone down on my desk. Just because.
“You okay?” Tessa asks, her big brown eyes looking concerned.
I let out a heavy exhale. “We need to hope this puppy post doesn’t work.”
She sucks in her lips, looking apologetic. “About that . . .” She holds her phone out to me again.
There it is at the top of the TikTok searches. River Rhodes adopts puppy is already trending, and right underneath is Bailey Lockhart cheated. Fan-freaking-tastic.
This means war.