Chapter 29
After a fitful night’s sleep, I dropped Lucy off for her last day of ballet camp, but not before another intense morning of negotiations.
From the moment Lucy’s eyes peeled open, she tried to get out of going to camp, throwing every excuse in the book at me.
But I had meetings stacked all morning, and there was no way I could miss another day of work after my recent absences.
With my back against the wall, and tired of offering carrots, I resorted to the stick.
If she wanted to go back to tennis camp with Mirabelle next week, she needed to finish out ballet camp without any more whining.
I had to hand it to her—she handled the rest of the morning routine like a Hollywood starlet, covering her pout with a pretend smile.
Having gotten through what I hoped would be the most challenging hour of my day, I drove to the office.
Billie Eilish was on the radio, and I belted out the chorus to cleanse my mental palate.
It would be another day at the office filled with polite greetings to my face and whispers behind my back.
Today, at least, I had a security blanket in the form of the newly resurfaced necklace, which I had slept in.
Lately, Rebecca and I had been adhering to an unspoken mutual agreement to avoid confrontations at the office.
But I thought she’d appreciate the news that Lucy was going back to tennis camp on Monday, so I planned to swing by her office and tell her.
If she also happened to notice my “phantom” necklace, all the better.
I was a mere three blocks from the office when my phone rang.
Hoping it was Tim coming through with his PI, I fished the phone from my purse and then blew out a puff of air when I saw Harper’s name on the screen.
As usual, her sixth sense had kicked in.
I checked the time. I wanted a latte in the worst way and I had ten minutes to make it to my first client meeting.
My finger hovered over “Decline” as it rang a few times.
It was beyond unprofessional, but I’d been avoiding her ever since our call with Emily and Bronwyn beseeching me to produce Max.
Maybe it was Max’s necklace that gave me the courage, but I answered, “Hi, Harper.”
“It’s about time. What the hell, Thea? Have you found him?”
“Not beating around the bush, huh?” I stalled, despite it doing absolutely nothing to advance Project Latte Before Work.
“No time for that,” Harper said quickly, New York–style. “The internet chatter is gaining steam, and Emily’s been texting me five times a day for an update. The higher-ups at the publishing house have gotten wind of a potential scandal, and Emily’s starting to feel the heat, which means I am, too.”
“So your solution is to make me feel the heat, too?” I aimed for a tone of fun and light, but even to my ears, all I managed to sound was vacuous. I heard Harper huff and steeled myself for the blowback.
“Thea, this is not helping,” she said sharply. “Time to put on your big-girl pants. Tell me where things stand.”
Apparently there was no limit to the number of times I could be mortified in one summer.
But Harper was in a mood, and I couldn’t risk jeopardizing another relationship.
There was a limit to the number of allies I had in my life.
So I broke down and confessed: “Max is nowhere to be found. He ghosted me. I’ve tried literally everything I can think of.
It’s like he’s vanished into thin air. I have the tiniest bit of hope that my lawyer’s PI might be able to find him, but truthfully, I have even less hope that Max, or whoever the hell he is, would cooperate if we do manage to track him down. ”
“Damn it,” she muttered. “This is really bad. We have to bring Emily up to speed right away if she has any prayer of crafting a strategy to contain this. You need to know that the New York Times book editor contacted her yesterday with concerns about how the story is reflecting on the paper’s bestseller list.”
“Oh my gosh. They couldn’t rescind my bestseller status, could they? I haven’t done anything wrong. It wouldn’t be fair.”
A painful silence hung in the air.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Harper said as bile rose in my throat. “I’m going to propose a call later today, and you will make yourself available and answer every question they have for you. Got it?” She was done messing around.
“Yep, got it.” I blinked back tears.
“One last thing,” Harper said. “You mentioned a lawyer before? Why do you have a lawyer?”
“Uh, well, uh,” I stammered, hoping to avoid yet another mortifying confession. An ego could only take so much in a single five-minute phone call. “Just a little dispute with my in-laws. Not about the book.” Not only about the book.
“Well, please, for all our sakes, see that it stays little,” she warned. “I’m afraid your career might not survive another scandal.”
The coffee cart in the lobby taunted me as I sprinted past it, but my time was up.
With no caffeine in my system, a full slate of meetings on my plate, and now a mandatory call with my superpissed publisher and my superstressed agent added to the mix, I felt like a hollowed-out shell of myself.
Everything I’d worked for seemed to be slipping away, and all I could do was watch.
Harper texted that the call with Emily was set for 1:00 p.m.
In the interim, I endured three hour-long client meetings in a row, during which my colleagues and I dazzled with new creative campaigns and complex data analyses that were designed to justify our exorbitant fees.
By 11:55 a.m., I’d barely poked my nose out of the Rustic Canyon Conference Room all morning.
My nerves were frayed from anticipating the call with Emily.
I ducked into the bathroom for a moment to collect myself.
As I washed my hands and checked my makeup in the mirror, I screwed up my courage.
First I would swing by Rebecca’s office.
I flung open the restroom door and bumped straight into Coco.
“Ouch!” we both exclaimed simultaneously and then laughed.
“Sorry!” we both said simultaneously and then laughed again.
“I haven’t seen much of you around here lately.
How are you?” she asked with her head tilted and a strained smile.
I had no clue what exactly my colleagues were saying about me or how much they knew about the fiasco that was my life, but it was clear from her awkward expression of empathy that I was a hot topic.
“I’ve been—” I started.
“Holy crap! Your necklace!” she said and pointed, her heavily mascaraed eyes popping.
I’d worn a white button-down and left an extra button undone to make sure the necklace was on full display for Rebecca. Now I reached up to touch the pendant. “Thanks, it’s pretty, right?”
“That bitch! I can’t believe she gave it to you,” she growled.
“She?” I asked. “No, it’s from—”
“I know who it’s from, Thea,” she said, snorting. “I should know. I made the damn thing. And I loaned it to her on the condition that she would give it back after she wore it to that party.”
“Hang on, Coco. Can you please back up a few steps? I’m really lost here. Who is she? Are you talking about Rebecca?” My stomach tensed.
She rolled her big eyes at me like I was the most clueless loser in history. “Bronwyn.”
“Bronwyn?” I asked. “My publicist Bronwyn?”
With her focus laser-trained on my necklace, she exaggerated an exhale. “Yes. Remember at your book launch party, I invited you out to a bar after, but you couldn’t come?”
“Vaguely,” I answered. It felt like another lifetime.
“Well, a bunch of us ended up going out that night. Bronwyn came along, too,” Coco scoffed.
“She was talking about some big party she was going to in the Hamptons with a bunch of celebrities the next weekend. When she complimented my bracelet, I immediately recognized a brand-exposure opportunity. I loaned her that necklace because I knew it would look a-mazing on her long neck. She promised to wear it to the party and post a TikTok. She has like twelve thousand followers. I was counting on that publicity for the launch of my new jewelry business, but then she totally flaked. She never posted anything and didn’t bother returning the necklace.
I was pissed. It’s worth like two thousand dollars.
I DM’d her multiple times but she ignored me.
I thought about asking for your help, but I didn’t want to interfere with your professional relationship, and it wasn’t like it was your fault, so I finally let it go. ”
This was a plot twist I hadn’t anticipated. “Let me get this straight. You gave a necklace that looks like this one to my publicist, Bronwyn Worthington,” I said slowly and clearly while pointing to my neck.
“No, not one that ‘looks like that one,’” she said with finger quotes. “That one. That very necklace.”
“But are you sure?” I said, my voice growing softer as understanding dawned.
“Yes, I’m absolutely positive. All my designs are one of a kind. It’s part of my strategy to differentiate my brand.”
“Oh.”
“So Bronwyn didn’t give it to you?” she asked.
“Not exactly,” I said. “If I had to guess, I think she gave it to a mutual, um, acquaintance, who passed it off to me as a gift.”
“Oh, well, sorry?” She gave me an apologetic glance. “I know this is weird to ask, but do you think I could have it back?”
“Yes, of course,” I said, covering it with my hand. “But if I promise to return it to you, can I please keep it for just another few days?”
I would happily rid myself of this beautiful symbol of my idiocy, right after it fulfilled its next mission as an inciting prop in the upcoming chat with my publishing team. I stomped back to my office, furious at the entire freaking world, and texted Harper.
Urgent!!! Please switch the conference call to a Zoom and make them promise Bronwyn will be there or I’m not showing up
Zoom link attached—pls use this one
Harper responded immediately with three question marks.
I shot back: Take the number of questions you have and multiply by infinity—and you’ll be halfway to the number I have for Bronwyn