Chapter 4
Here’s the thing about a PR war: I’ve never been in one.
Sure, I’ve fired back some shots a time or two, but I’ve never actually had to go to war.
It’s only been an hour since River’s post, and it’s been shared so many times that it’s already crossed over from fan accounts to mainstream entertainment outlets.
People are starting to see River as the heartbroken one.
So basically, I’m panicking.
Which is why this is now an emergency and Simone will need to come back. As in, right now. She can deal with this whole cheating thing and also Luke Wilder. She could do it with both hands tied behind her back. Not that she would, because that would be stupid, and Simone is anything but that.
I pick up my phone and call her, playing with the hem of my pencil skirt while I wait. Across from me, Tessa sits, pen poised above her notepad, ready.
“Hello,” a deep voice says over the speakerphone. I scrunch my brow because that’s definitely not Simone. Her voice is low and sultry, sure, but not a baritone.
I look at my phone screen to make sure I dialed the right number. It’s definitely hers. Tessa gives me questioning eyes, and I shrug.
“Um . . . Hi, is Simone available?” I ask, sounding like I’m back in elementary school calling my friend Molly from my mom’s phone to see if she can play.
“Hello, Miss Claire.”
There’s a warmth to that tone, almost a chuckle in his voice, and just the slightest hint of a Southern accent.
And I know instantly who it is: Marcus Caldwell, Simone’s husband of fifteen years.
He always calls me Miss Claire, and I kind of adore it and wish more people would refer to me that way. Maybe I’ll make it a personal policy.
Focus, Claire.
“Hello, Mr. Caldwell,” I say. “How are you?”
“I’ve been better,” he says. It’s his standard answer. I’ve only met him a handful of times at the holiday parties the firm throws, but every time he’s had the same response, like I’m an old family friend.
“Sorry to bother you, but can I speak to Simone? It’ll just be for a minute.” Long enough for me to tell her she has to come back to work immediately.
“No can do,” he says on a breath.
“What do you mean?” I ask, Tessa and I giving each other twin pinched-brow looks.
“Simone won’t be coming back to work for a while.”
My stomach drops.
“Wh-what do you mean?”
He sighs over the speaker. “Her blood pressure is dangerously high. Doctor’s orders—complete rest, no work, no stress. No exceptions.”
“Oh,” I say, my stomach dropping again, but for a completely different reason.
“So, I’m sorry to say, Claire, she’s no help right now. Not until we get this under control.”
I nod my head at the phone, even though he can’t see me. “Right.”
But I don’t really understand. This is so unlike Simone. I’ve seen no signs of stress from her. The woman barely breaks a sweat. She’s incredible under pressure. Obviously there was more going on than I realized.
“I’d pass on a message, but I’ve got her completely off her phone. No news, no social media, nothing. She doesn’t need the stress.”
Translation: a complete media blackout.
“She must be hating that,” I say, trying to be lighthearted. But imagining Simone sitting in bed, propped up and reading a book—imagining her doing anything other than eating lesser PR professionals for breakfast—is making my brain hurt.
“Oh, she’s been a beast to deal with,” he says, chuckling.
“Well, please tell her I’m thinking of her,” I tell him.
“I can pass on that one. Take care, Miss Claire.”
“You too,” I say before pressing the “End Call” button.
“Wow,” Tessa says, her eyes still on the phone.
I lean back in my chair, my thoughts all over the place. Simone, my powerhouse of a boss, has high blood pressure and won’t be coming back to work anytime soon.
This is terrible news. For Simone, of course. But also . . . for me. But obviously, mostly for Simone.
It would be one thing if she could at least give me some advice, anything to help me through this. But she can’t, and there’s no one above Simone that works in celebrity PR. The other partners deal mostly with corporate and political clients.
So that means I’m fighting this PR war solo. Something I’ve never done before. I kind of feel like crying. Or perhaps a little primal screaming would soothe my soul right now.
Get it together, Claire.
“Okay.” I look at Tessa, the word coming out a bit shaky. “I guess we need to figure this out.”
She writes Figure this out on her notepad and underlines it twice.
Helpful.
There’s a knock at my open door, and I look up to see Rick Calloway, one of the partners, standing there.
“Hi, Rick,” I say, giving him what I hope is a confident smile, but it’s tinged with all the anxiety I’m feeling right now.
“Have you talked to Simone?” he asks, taking a step inside.
“No. But I just talked—”
“You’ll be handling her clients,” he says, cutting me off. Rick isn’t known around here for his touchy-feely management style.
“Of course,” I say, sitting straighter in my chair.
“Her calls and emails will be forwarded to you. Let the coordinators and interns handle the smaller stuff. You take the rest.”
“Will do,” I tell him.
“I’d offer to help myself, but this,” he says, making a circular motion with his index finger, “isn’t my wheelhouse.”
He nods once and leaves.
I let out a breath, sagging in my chair. It’s been a long day, and it’s only ten thirty.
But the hits keep on coming, because half an hour later, as I’m brainstorming what to do for Bailey, my office phone rings and the caller has no identification.
I say a prayer that it’s somehow Simone on a secret phone, telling me this has all been a silly misunderstanding and she’s headed into the office.
“Hello?” I say after hitting the speaker button, my voice hopeful.
“Uh, hi,” a soft and lilting voice that’s definitely not Simone replies. “I’m looking for Simone Caldwell?”
How do I respond? I’ve been given no direction. Do I tell whoever this is that Simone is out on leave indefinitely? What would Simone do in this situation?
“Simone is not in the office today,” I say, giving some semblance of the truth.
“Oh,” says the woman. “Well, this is Bailey Lockhart. Is there any way to speak with her?”
I gape at Tessa. She gapes back before writing something in her notes.
“Hello?” Bailey asks when I don’t reply.
“Sorry, Ms. Lockhart, I can help. I’m . . . uh . . . covering Simone’s accounts while she’s out.”
You sound like an idiot, Claire.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “Who is this?”
“This is Claire Archer,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I am.
I’m not starstruck—I’ve met too many people, been to too many industry events, to feel that way.
But I guess I’m sort of client struck? This is a higher-level client than I’m used to dealing with, and I want to make sure I get it right.
Because I can’t botch this. I’ve got to pull it together for me and for Simone. Even if Simone is sitting on a couch at home drinking a cocktail (Can you even do that when you have high blood pressure? Probably not.) and left me here with no instruction and no idea what I’m doing.
That’s not true, though. I do know what I’m doing. This might be a higher-profile client, but I am fully capable of this. Probably.
I take a fortifying breath. “What can I help you with, Ms. Lockhart?”
“I really need to speak with Simone.”
I rub my forehead with my fingers. I know where she’s coming from because I, too, would like to speak with Simone. But it’s not possible right now.
“I promise I can help you,” I say.
She lets out a sigh. “Okay, sure. Do you know what’s going on right now with . . . everything?” The last word comes out a little quieter.
“Yes,” I answer. “I’m fully up to speed with the blind item and the social media post.”
“Great,” she says, on a sob, followed by a shaky-sounding exhale.
I look to Tessa and mouth, “Is she crying?” Tessa gives me a look that says she’s very glad she’s not the one handling this call right now.
“Ms. Lockhart?” I ask, unsure what to do.
I’ve had clients cry before, of course. Crisis management tends to involve people who are actually in crisis.
Funny how that works. It’s rare that a client is joyful during a disastrous turn in their career.
Though there have been some—since publicity, no matter what shape it comes in, is still publicity.
But these tears aren’t from a career in crisis. We haven’t heard anything worrisome from the studio. These sound more like the brokenhearted kind. And that, I don’t have a lot of experience with.
“Sorry,” Bailey says, her voice thick.
“It’s totally fine,” I reassure her.
“I’m just not sure what to do about the blind item and . . . River’s post.” Her voice is wobbling so much now, I can barely understand her.
Okay, Claire. Time to show her what you’ve got.
“Well, you have options,” I say. “You can do nothing, of course. You can stay quiet and see where the narrative goes.”
“I don’t want to do that,” she says with no hesitation.
That’s good, because in a case like this, you definitely want to quell any negative rumors quickly, before they spin out of control.
“I’m not going to let people think I’m the one who cheated.” Her voice catches on the last word.
“Okay, then.” I pause, trying to come up with the right answer here while the sound of Tessa’s scribblings fills the space. “You can do something retaliatory to his social media post.”
She sniffles. “Like adopt a dog too? I don’t know if I want to do that.”
Bailey’s climb to stardom was fast. This is probably her first real PR crisis. She doesn’t know yet that you don’t fight fire with fire—you have to be strategic. Her next move should be calculated and purposefully vague, and then people can draw their own conclusions.
“No, I mean you do something else, in the same vein. You—” I pause to think of something. “Could be seen buying yourself flowers, for instance. Showing everyone that you don’t need someone in your life.”
“Okay,” she says slowly. “But . . . that doesn’t feel like something I’d do.”