That was the second time someone had insinuated she was all about appearances. On the one hand, it thrilled Rebecca to know that Tom thought highly of her, particularly after a drought of anyone thinking of her at all. But on the other hand, it wasn’t as if she had any experience with the media. What few media encounters she’d had had been more than ten years ago after winning the Miss Texas crown. Nevertheless, she knew she could do it, just like she knew she could do the Silver Panthers. How hard could this be? All she had to do was have confidence (A Woman’s Guide to Meaningful Employment); visualize herself in the role; and give off an appearance of self-assurance and capability (Unqualified Applicant Rule 11: Never wear pink and never go sleeveless).
It was obvious that Uranus and karma were making plans for the permanent renovation of her house! Yeah bay-by, her life was finally about to turn around. And to keep it on track, Rebecca made time to practice her self-visualization techniques, and jotted down her three daily positive affirmations:
Nice clothes
Good, phone presence (phone bank) with a HEART, unlike some people
Hard worker (yard signs) when some people think their lame ideas are all the work they need to do. P.S. there is nothing wrong with placing yard signs where they are aesthetically pleasing to the eye!
And thereby being fully prepared, Rebecca arrived at the Four Seasons in a tastefully low cut, sheer lavender blouse with full sleeves, a knee-length black skirt, and black knee-high boots. She spotted Tom in the very crowded bar, noticed he’d even managed to snag a table in the center of the room, where he was flanked by two twenty-somethings. That surprised Rebecca—for some reason, she had pictured “media types” as looking generally like Tom Brokaw mini-mes.
When Tom caught sight of her, he came instantly to his feet. His companions—a male and female, both thin and wiry and dressed in black, both sporting black-rimmed matchbox glasses, and both with the bed-head look, only hers a little longer—swiveled in their seats to have a look.
“Rebecca!” Tom called, as if she hadn’t seen him, which of course she had, since they were looking directly at each other and waving.
Visualizing Rebecca, campaign strategist, she marched forward to greet them. “Hi, Tom. How are you?” she asked as she reached the table, confidently extending her hand.
“Great! I’d like you to meet Gunter Falk and Heather Hill. They are with DGM and Associates, our new media consultants. Gunter, Heather, this is an old and dear friend of mine, Rebecca Reynolds.”
“Umm . . . Lear,” Rebecca politely corrected him as Heather shifted, folding her arms on the table as she had a look at Rebecca from the top of her head to the tips of her boots.
“Yo,” said Gunter, giving her a two-finger salute as he slid down in his chair so deep that he was practically prone, looking a little like an elongated semicolon. “You work with Tom’s campaign?” he asked, as he, too, eyed her critically—so critically that Rebecca was beginning to feel just a smidge self-conscious.
“Ah, yes,” she said, feeling, all of a sudden, that she looked like some souped-up soccer mom, and definitely not a player. Unqualified Applicant Rule 7: Be confident! If you aren’t confident in yourself no one else will be confident in you, either.
“Rebecca, would you like something to drink?” Tom was asking her.
“I’d love a glass of wine.” Like an entire barrel.
He smiled reassuringly as he held out a chair for her. “We were just talking about a look for the campaign.”
“Masters!” someone shouted. Tom jerked his head up, saw whoever it was and waved. He then leaned down, patted Rebecca on the shoulder. “Rebecca, tell them what activities we have planned, okay? I’ll be back in a sec. Oh, hey! If you didn’t know it, Rebecca was Miss Texas!” he announced in what was becoming a really annoying habit of his, and stepped away from the table before Rebecca could frantically grab his coattail and pull him back.
“Really?” asked Gunter, outwardly amazed, as Tom strutted away.
“Well,” Rebecca said, laughing nervously. “That was more than ten years ago.”
“But that’s so cool,” Heather said, nodding in unison with Gunter. “But probably way too old for us to use,” she added thoughtfully.
Well, thanks, Heather! Want to borrow my comb? “Fortunately, I’m not the one running,” Rebecca reminded her with a sheepish laugh.
“Right,” Gunter said, nodding again. “Let’s get a drink. And then you can tell us what all the campaign has going on.”
What all the campaign had going on? All she knew was that Tom wanted her to meet some people! Heather and Gunter were discussing what they would order from the bar, so Rebecca tried to think. Here she was with media types, talking about . . . what? She had no idea what Tom had in store.
The waitress appeared with two martinis and a glass of wine. White wine. Rebecca despised white wine; it made her silly. But she took a good, fortifying sip all the same and looked at her new companions, Frick and Frack, who blinked back at her. Okay. She’d been at the top of Dallas’s social scene, which meant she had swum in shark-infested waters many times. A couple of kids from L.A. shouldn’t be a challenge. Where the hell was her alter ego, anyway?
“So. We’re looking for some of your upcoming events and how we can weave those into a couple of TV spots about Tom,” Heather said. “You know, Tom Masters doing good things and meeting people, that sort of thing.”
“Oh,” Rebecca answered brilliantly.