But the dream haunts Tatum, and their client Mr. Albright is to blame. When Irina took on this account two summers ago, the first Mrs. Albright was dying of lymphoma, and Tatum and the other girls had to maneuver around the hospice workers. Meanwhile, Mr. Albright had already taken up with the woman who would become the second Mrs. Albright. He claimed this was with the first Mrs. Albright’s blessing. She wanted him to be happy.
Tatum was absolutely verklempt. Mr. Albright didn’t bring the girlfriend to the house, but he brought her to Nantucket—they stayed together in a suite at the Wauwinet. Appalling! Could he not just wait until his poor wife passed before he screwed somebody else?
Tatum wipes crumbs from the plastic bags covering the shirts. She’s late; she didn’t get to finish her cigarette; Irina radiates impatience. If Irina yells at her, Tatum is afraid she’ll start to cry.
The best thing about Hollis’s girls’ weekend is that it’s given Tatum something else to think about. She’ll have to dream up a little payback for Dru-Ann. That alone will make it worthwhile.
6. The Phantom
On Thursday morning, Dru-Ann Jones threads her Phantom through traffic on Lake Shore Drive, and, as usual, everyone around her changes lanes as if sensing that if they don’t, she’ll run them over. Dru-Ann loves this car—she’d debated getting a Ferrari for the wow factor, but the Phantom is so classy, it can’t be argued with.
Dru-Ann’s phone rings and a silken British voice announces, “Call from Marla Fitzsimmon.”
Whaaaaaa? Dru-Ann thinks. Marla, Dru-Ann’s cohost on Throw Like a Girl, is a Millennial and will talk on the phone only if she’s calling 911.
“Accept,” Dru-Ann says. Her tone is guarded when she says, “Hey, girl… what’s up?”
“Did Zeke get ahold of you?” Marla asks.
Zeke is their producer. (Yes, it does rankle Dru-Ann that the producer of their woman-forward sports show is a man.)
Zeke has not gotten ahold of her. Dru-Ann tried calling him multiple times so she could explain what had happened with Posey, but she had been relegated to his voice mail. Is it concerning that, apparently, Marla has spoken to Zeke? Marla is the ingenue on the show, the baby talent. She’s a former client of Dru-Ann’s. She was a basketball star at Tennessee heading for a starting position with the Chicago Sky until she tore her ACL skiing. The injury ended Marla’s basketball career, but did Dru-Ann give up on her? No! Zeke and the execs at ESPN had approached Dru-Ann about doing Throw Like a Girl, and she’d agreed to do it only as long as Marla could be her cohost.
“Why?” Dru-Ann says. “Is he angry about the Posey thing? Because for the record, that wasn’t my fault.”
Dru-Ann can hear Marla sucking on her vape. “Don’t shoot the messenger,” she says.
“He’s not canceling the show, is he?”
“No,” Marla says. “But he’s replacing you until this thing blows over. Crabby Gabby is taking your spot.”
“You have got to be joking,” Dru-Ann says. The cars in front of her have stopped, which Dru-Ann belatedly notices. She slams on the brakes, and her coffee spills all over the console. “Please tell me he’s not doing that.”
“He is doing that.”
“But it isn’t that bad!” Dru-Ann says.
“It is that bad, though, Dru,” Marla says. “I assume you haven’t checked Twitter this morning?”
After Dru-Ann pulls into her parking spot in her office building’s garage—is it her imagination or did the attendant give her a look?—she brings up Twitter on her phone and types her own name into the search bar.
#DruAnnJones
Trending
#cancelDruAnnJones
13.5k tweets in the last hour
#PrioritizeMentalHealth
11.2k tweets in the last hour
#TeamPosey
4.6k tweets in the last hour
Dru-Ann suddenly feels like her ass is fusing with the buttery leather of her car seat. She can’t move, and yet apparently her hands are on a different circuit, because they begin to shake. She holds a trembling finger over the screen. Should she read what people are saying? She has dealt with clients who were in this situation, most notably Tania Oaks, an Olympic champion equestrienne who was caught on video—on her way home from the Games, with the gold medal around her neck—calling the flight attendant a “basic bitch.” That video went viral. Dru-Ann had helped Tania handle the ensuing media frenzy by taking away her phone so she didn’t make things worse.
Follow your own counsel, Dru-Ann tells herself. Don’t look.
But this is different. This is me. And I wasn’t wrong. The people who are #TeamPosey don’t know the details. If they did, they would be #TeamDruAnn!
Dru-Ann wishes she could explain what actually happened.
It’s Friday evening. Dru-Ann, her client Posey Wofford, and Posey’s father, Nick Wofford—who is Dru-Ann’s boyfriend and maybe the long-awaited love of her life—are at a restaurant called Whine, which isn’t far from the country club in Midland, Michigan. The three of them are celebrating the fact that Posey leads by four strokes in the Dow Great Lakes Bay Invitational going into the final round.
They order cocktails—Dru-Ann a Casamigos over ice, Nick a martini, Posey a Pellegrino with a splash of cran. Dru-Ann peruses the menu; the Yelp reviews of this place were decent. Their drinks arrive and they raise their glasses.
Posey says, “I can’t stay for dinner. I have a Lyft coming in twenty minutes to take me to Detroit. I’m flying to Edinburgh tonight.”
Nick laughs. Dru-Ann is tempted to join in but she senses that Posey might not be kidding. Dru-Ann takes a measured sip of tequila and waits.
“Phineas just found out he made the open,” Posey says. “And as you know, they’re playing the Old Lady this year. He had a dream he was going to win. I have to be there.”
Dru-Ann looks at Nick; his reaction can best be described as At a loss for words. But Nick won’t tell his daughter no. Nick never tells her no. That job always falls to Dru-Ann. This is how she earns her money: by saving her clients from themselves.
“No,” Dru-Ann says.
“Yes,” Posey says, flicking her ponytail off her shoulder with defiance. “It’s the British Open. At St. Andrews.”
Dru-Ann takes another sip of tequila and considers her next move. She can’t downplay the prestige or mystique of the British Open. The tournament, when it’s played at the “R and A,” the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St. Andrews, is Dru-Ann’s secret favorite. (It has to be secret because how can she, as a Black woman, revere a club with “ancient” membership rules? They didn’t allow women to join until September of 2014 and they still don’t let women change inside the main clubhouse.) Phineas is presently ranked number 127 in the world. Dru-Ann can’t believe he’s playing in the open at all; this is very big news.
Neither can Dru-Ann diminish Posey and Phineas’s relationship. They’ve been together since their first week at IMG. They’ve withstood the challenges of a long-distance relationship and the pressures of tournament life—qualifying, rankings, a brutal travel schedule. Someday, Dru-Ann knows, they’ll get married and Posey will give birth to Dru-Ann’s next generation of clients.
Dru-Ann’s best strategy is to focus on Posey herself. “You’re in the lead by four strokes,” she says. “You’ve been owning the course. Bella is in her head; she won’t beat you and she’s your only real competition. You’re going to win this tournament, Posey.”
Posey smiles at Dru-Ann. “I don’t care.”
“You don’t care about winning a tournament on the LPGA tour?” Dru-Ann says. “Isn’t this what you’ve been dreaming about since Q-school?”
Posey shrugs. “It’s the Dow. We’re in central Michigan. It’s not”—she pauses—“the same thing.”
Nick stares at the round surface of his martini like he’s considering doing a cannonball into it. Dru-Ann kicks him under the table but he pretends not to notice. Can she love a man who has a blind spot the exact size and shape of his youngest child?
“How are you going to explain this to your sponsors?” Dru-Ann asks. “Ping? Lululemon golf? They invested in you.”
“I’m going to tell them it’s a mental-health issue,” Posey says. “Obviously.”
“A mental-health issue?” Dru-Ann knows her voice is loud enough to draw the attention of guests at surrounding tables, but she doesn’t care. “Are you kidding me right now? You can’t just trot out that excuse at will, Posey. It cheapens the suffering of athletes who have legitimate mental-health issues, like Biles and Osaka and the countless women we don’t even know about.”
“What I’m telling you is that I won’t be able to focus tomorrow. If you and Dad insist on making me stay to play the final round, I’ll be distracted thinking about Phineas. I’ll regret not going. I’ll wish I were there.”
“Right, sure,” Dru-Ann says, reining her emotions in. Here, she thinks, is a teachable moment. “But being distracted and wishing you were somewhere else isn’t a mental-health issue. Mentally healthy people feel this way all the time, Posey. Like when the Drake concert is the same night as a can’t-miss client dinner.” She searches Posey’s face for a sign of understanding. Did that example land? “You can easily play eighteen holes tomorrow and then go.”