Four weeks on the road to promote Marchand’s new Victory780. Some photo shoots and interviews, along with a guest appearance at their big Chicago Municipal Opera gala as a finale. No sweat. Except for one snag. He wasn’t Marchand’s only brand ambassador. While he was promoting the Victory780, opera superstar Olivia Shore would be touting their ladies’ watch, the Cavatina3.
“Bonjour! Bonjour!” Henri Marchand appeared at the front of the plane, arms outstretched, his French accent oozing from him like Nutella from a warm crêpe. The long brown hair slicked back from his face fell over the top of his collar. Even without a beret perched on top of his head, he brought the air of the Continent with him. He was thin, maybe five nine, with a narrow face and sharp features. His impeccably tailored, charcoal wool suit had the European cut brawnier American-born men couldn’t pull off, although Thad had a similar striped neck scarf he sometimes wore in the European way because—why not?
Marchand advanced on The Diva. “Olivia, ma chérie.”
She extended her hand. He kissed it like she was fricking Queen Victoria, even though Thad happened to know she’d grown up in Pittsburgh, the only child of two deceased music teachers. Thad had done his homework.
Henri gazed toward the back of the plane, once again extending his arms. “And Thaddeus, mon ami!”
Thad gave him a bro-wave and contemplated stealing the name of his tailor.
“We will have such an adventure together.” More arm waving. “First stop, Phoenix, where you, madame, sang a breathtaking Dulcinée in Don Quichotte. And you, my friend Thad, threw a seventy-yard touchdown pass against the Arizona Cardinals. Glory days, yes? And the glory still shines brightly.”
For The Diva, maybe, but not for Thad.
Henri turned to the young woman who’d followed him on board. “This, mes amis, is my assistant Paisley Rhodes.” Was it Thad’s imagination or did Henri’s overly bright smile dim?
Paisley looked ready to head across campus for her Psych 101 class: a long swath of straight blond hair, too-perfect nose, slim figure dressed in a short skirt, blouse with a French tuck, and ankle boots. She also looked bored, as if stepping on a private jet took major effort.
“Paisley will be assisting us throughout our tour. If you need anything—anything at all—please let her know.”
Thad half expected a “whatev” to come out of her mouth because Paisley couldn’t have looked less interested in assisting anyone. He suspected a favor had been called in to get her hired.
The girl’s eyes settled on him, and he saw her first flicker of interest. Ignoring The Diva, she headed back to take the seat right next to him. “I’m Paisley.”
He nodded.
“My dad is, like, this huge football fan.”
Thad made his standard response. “Glad to hear it.”
As the plane took off, she proceeded to tell him her abbreviated—but not abbreviated enough—life story. Recent graduate of a Southern California college with a degree in communications. Just broke up with her boyfriend. She was an old soul in a young body—her assessment, not his. Her life goal: to become a personal assistant to a big—any big—celebrity. And—wait for it—her grandfather was a good friend of Lucien Marchand, which explained how she got the job.
She examined the watch on her wrist, one of Marchand’s basic models. “I never wear a watch.” She tapped her phone. “I mean, what’s the point, right? But they’re, like, making me wear a Marchand for the tour.”
“Bastards,” he said, with an absolutely straight face.
“I know. But my grampy says I have to start somewhere.”
“Good ol’ grampy.”
“I guess.”
To her credit, she left him alone in favor of her phone after the plane took off. He tilted back in his seat, closed his eyes, and indulged in his favorite fantasy, one where Clint Garrett threw three interceptions, broke his tibia, and was out for the season, leaving Thad to pick up the pieces. Clint, the poor bastard, ended up stuck on the bench watching Thad lead the Stars to the Super Bowl.
Henri Marchand’s silky French accent disturbed his fantasy. “I trust you’ve had time to read through the materials I sent about the Victory780.”
Thad reluctantly opened his eyes. He had a good memory, and he had no trouble recalling the details about the watch he’d been hired to promote. Henri Marchand, however, wasn’t taking any chances. “We’ve been developing the Victory780 for over ten years.” He settled on the next seat. “It’s a state-of-the-art chronograph watch, but it still reflects our classic Marchand heritage.”
“And a twelve-thousand-dollar price tag,” Thad noted.
“Prestige and precision have their price.”
As Marchand began expanding on the integrated self-winding movement and larger mainspring of the 780, Thad studied the watch he now wore on his wrist. He had to admit it was great looking, with a heavy steel bracelet, platinum case, and black ceramic bezel. The watch had a sapphire crystal, metallic blue dial, and three steel-rimmed sub-dials he could use to time his runs or to see how long Clint Garrett could go without saying “dude.”
“Tonight we have dinner with five of our biggest accounts,” Marchand said. “In the morning, you’ll be doing radio interviews—sports stations and morning talk—while Madame Shore visits the classical music station.”
Giving The Diva plenty of time to relax her precious vocal cords while Thad ran his ass off.
“Newspaper interviews after that. Some important bloggers. A public event in Scottsdale with photos.”
Thad had done product promotion before, and he knew exactly how these things worked. His name and Shore’s name opened the door for more interviews than Marchand could book on the brand’s name alone. Thad would be asked about his career, the state of pro football, and every current controversy in the NFL. In the process of answering, he’d be expected to talk about the watch.
Marchand finally excused himself and returned to The Diva’s side. Paisley reappeared and once again settled in the seat across from him. Thad noticed she hadn’t yet approached The Diva. Only him.
“Henri told me to give you this. It’s your updated itinerary.” She handed over a black folder embellished with the Marchand logo.
Thad was familiar with the schedule. For most of the next month, he and the Disagreeable Diva were being well paid to travel around the country promoting the brand. Eventually, they’d end up back where they started, in Chicago. While Thad took a two-week break, The Diva would be in rehearsals for the Chicago Municipal Opera’s production of Aida. On the Sunday night after the premiere, Marchand Timepieces was sponsoring a charity gala in conjunction with the Muni. After that, Thad’s obligations were over.
“I put my number on the first page,” Paisley said. “Text me any time. Any time.”
“I’ll do that.” He responded curtly—right on the border of rude—but he needed to nip this in the bud before it went any further. He had enough difficulties ahead of him dealing with The Diva, and he didn’t want any complications from Henri’s assistant. Besides, he hadn’t been into twenty-one-year-olds since he was twenty-two.
She tossed her long hair. “I mean it. I want you to know you can count on me.”
“Got it.” He slipped his headset back on. She finally took the hint and left him alone. He dozed off to Chet Baker.
*
The Diva sat in the opposite corner of the limo, sunglasses still on, cheek resting against the window. So far, the only communication she’d shared with Thad was a look of active hostility when they’d gotten off the plane. Paisley’s thumbs raced over her phone, more likely texting a friend than doing any work. Henri was also on his cell, engaged in an energetic conversation. Since Thad only spoke some menu French, he couldn’t decipher the topic. The Diva, however, understood. She opened her eyes and waved a hand.
“C’est impossible, Henri.”