“Yes,” he said a little too hastily, with a touch too much enthusiasm.
I basically fell into my seat, my knees no longer cooperating, but covered the clumsy bit of discomposure by scooting myself closer to the table and straightening the stack of papers in front of me unnecessarily. I did my best to ignore the way my shirt was sticking to my abdomen, never mind the fact that Ronan—I mean, Mr. Fitzpatrick—was still blatantly staring at me. I could see him in my peripheral vision.
As a countermeasure, I released my sheet of hair from where I’d tucked it behind my ear, essentially blocking my face from view. If I had to sit through this meeting—and maybe a hundred more like it—dressed in these damn clothes, then I deserved a coping strategy. Hiding behind my hair would have to be it.
“Yes, well—let’s get started.” Joan sat on the other side of Mr. Fitzpatrick, her voice cutting through the chatter. “Ian, can you take us through progress to date?”
I still felt Mr. Fitzpatrick’s eyes on me, but mercifully Joan had decided to start with Ian’s status update rather than my part. I barely heard Ian. It didn’t really matter; I’d already read his memo, so I knew the team was vetting actresses, models, society types, and athletes in their search for suitable women to act as his “red herring” dates.
Part of me was glad. I would pale in comparison to those women, and Ronan’s attention would surely focus elsewhere.
Another part of me couldn’t think about Ronan attending a red carpet event, a supermodel draped on his arm, without wanting to stab something. I think I was a little infatuated with him after talking to his teammates.
After Ian, Rachel was next. She covered tangible media—so both print and television—and took the team through planned magazine spreads in Sports Illustrated, Men’s Health, GQ, and Playboy.
“I’ll say no thanks to the Playboy idea,” Ronan scoffed then continued humorously, “at least until after I’ve had my tits done.”
I tried not to smile. Rachel chirped a laugh, and Ian narrowed his eyes.
“Mr. Fitzpatrick, our aim is to make as many people aware of you as possible, and Playboy has a very large audience.”
Ronan folded his arms and stared at him coldly. “I thought we were supposed to be improving my image, you know, clean me up.”
“Yes, of course. But we’re not out to make you an altar boy, either.”
“I hope not. All the altar boys I knew are now heroin addicts.”
“Annie….” Joan paused, waited for me to meet her eye, and then said, “Help us out here.”
I nodded once and slipped Ronan one of my packets, withdrawing my fingers before he could make contact. If he touched me, my mind would blank, and I’d be even more of a spectacle. I placed my hands on my lap; they were shaking.
This was the part of the presentation Joan or Rachel usually did. I prepped the materials, and one of them would deliver the spiel. But not this time. No, no, no…not this time.
I cleared my throat and glanced quickly around the table. All eyes were on me. My heart beat faster, drumming uncomfortably in my chest. Everyone gathered had already read the proposal and signed off on the details of the mission statement, the ideal image sketch, and the social media campaign. They all knew it was my work. Nevertheless, it didn’t make speaking in front of a crowd any easier.
“I, uh….” I blew out a shaky breath, willed my mind to focus and cooperate, but it was no use. I could feel the panic rising, choking me like flood waters. I swallowed, the paper in front of me blurring.
Suddenly, Joan’s voice cut through my downward spiral, firm and steady. “Well, look at the time. I’m sorry, Mr. Fitzpatrick, but the team has another meeting. It looks like we’ll have to leave you and Ms. Catrel alone to discuss the specifics of the ideal image sketch. I hope you don’t mind?”
“No….” He answered almost absentmindedly at first, his voice sounding preoccupied, and then he responded in his normal tone, “No, not at all. I completely understand. I’m sure Ms. Catrel and I can take it from here.”
I came back to myself as the sounds of chairs being vacated and people leaving the room provided a backdrop to my breathing exercises. My clothes were sticking to me. I was sure my upper lip and forehead had broken out in sweat. I was hot and sticky and uncomfortable, but at least I wouldn’t have to give my presentation in front of the entire team.
No. Just Ronan Fitzpatrick.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, Fred Flintstone,” I mumbled.
The last sounds of my departing teammates were punctuated by the click of the door closing at my back, yet I didn’t look up from the table until several additional seconds had passed. I allowed myself a brief glance at Ronan and was surprised to find him reading the packet I’d placed in front of him.
Without looking up, he asked, “What does ‘ideal image sketch’ mean?”
A wave of gratefulness washed over me, and with it my heart stuttered then slowed. I didn’t know if Ronan was focusing on my work in an effort to disarm the tension caused by my near panic attack or if he was actually interested in the content of the plan. I guessed the former. Regardless, I breathed a silent sigh of relief and straightened in my chair.
Before I could respond, he continued, “Who put this together?”
“I did.”
His eyes darted to mine, a small frown creasing his brow, and then back to the packet. “I didn’t think you were all that involved so far.”
“I have been involved with the proposal, Mr. Fitzpatrick, even if I wasn’t present for the initial meeting. The preliminary details were discussed with you on Monday and Tuesday, and what Rachel and Ian reviewed today includes basic, common-sense strategies. Now, the work I do is much more focused on details, on shaping the message and creating your ideal image.”
“My ideal image?” His voice lacked inflection. He still wasn’t looking at me.
I lifted my chin, tossing my hair over my shoulder, facing him. “Yes. The version of you we want the public to see.”
“What’s wrong with my current image?” Ronan’s brown eyes met mine, and they held a challenge; he faced me, pushing his chair back a bit, placing our knees about a foot apart. His mouth curved into a slight frown as though I’d offended him.
I swallowed my nerves, fisting my hands on my lap. This was another area where I completely failed: one-on-one, tactful communication with clients. I didn’t know how to tell clients the truth—that the public doesn’t want the real Ronan Fitzpatrick, that we needed to make him a different version of himself in order to maximize the exploitation of his talents and move him forward in his career—without pissing the clients off.
“Please understand that I am not suggesting that I tell you how to live your life, your real life. I’m not at all qualified to give advice on living life, and I am in no way judging you at all.” I took a calming breath and added under my breath, “In fact, I’m the last person on earth who should ever give anyone advice about real life.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing, sorry.” I glanced at the proposal then back to his penetrating stare. “What I’m talking about here is your public image. I am an expert on perception, of how to use social media to achieve gains in public opinion. There is nothing wrong with your current image, it’s just—”
“So, you like my image?”
“Of course I do, I mean—”
“Specifically what do you like about my image?” Now the corner of his mouth tugged subtly upward, and his eyes were dancing, dark pools of amusement.
I pressed my lips together, trying to stifle my answering smile, knowing I’d walked right into that. “Well, I like that your teammates call you Mother Fitzpatrick.”