B009R9RGU2 EBOK (25 page)

The embarrassing lecture I feared from my far more sensible friend never comes.

That evening as we’re washing plates and rinsing empty beer bottles to recycle, Izzy offhandedly remarks, “It feels kind of odd to be back in California and not see the ocean.”

An idea—befitting our rebellious teenage years—hits me.

From the linen closet I grab two bath towels. Lizzie’s ears prick up as I open the sliding glass door. “Sorry, girl, you gotta stay. But you,” I say, pointing to a puzzled Izzy, “follow me.”

Outside it’s still hovering around eighty degrees. Beyond the back patio, the rolling green hills of the golf course are softly illuminated by a half-moon overhead and the glow of other houses dotting the perimeter of the fairway. I must have a peculiar look on my face because Izzy is at my side whispering, “What are you up to?”

“I can’t offer the ocean but there’s a private ‘beach,’ ” I say.

A hundred yards away is the pale, amoeba-shaped outline of a sand trap.

“Sophie Atwater. Rule-breaker.” Izzy pats me on the back. “I take it back. You are
still
badass.”

We leave our shoes behind on the fairway. The sand is warm from a day in the blazing sun but comfortable enough to enter barefoot and select a prime spot to lay out towels. When we’re on our backs, gazing up at the stars, with toes in the sand, the illusion of open beach—however mute the surf—is complete and peaceful. I should have thought of this retreat years ago. In the relative dark, no one takes notice of the intrusion. I mean it’s not like we rolled a keg and a DJ out here to party, interrupting my older neighbors’
CSI
viewing.

“I forgot how much I’ve missed this place,” I say. “Everything is simpler here.”

“You certainly don’t see stars this clearly in Manhattan,” Izzy says, tracing constellations with her fingertip.

“I kind of wish I never had to go back. With my job in limbo and Jacob done with me… Maybe I
can
just stick around longer.”

Izzy props herself up on her elbows and then flips to her side, facing me. “Okay, Sophie, let’s get serious. We both know
you’d be bored out of your mind here in no time. You belong in LA. It’s where you thrive.”

“Thrived,” I correct.

“I don’t believe that. Yes, you’ve had a setback—okay, a major one. Or two. But everything is going to work out. You know how I know? Because I know you.”

“I wish I had your confidence. Hell, sometimes I wish I had your life. It’s all come together just like you imagined.”

“My life isn’t perfect, Soph.
No one’s
is. I still fight with Simon sometimes. There are nights I’d sell my soul for a solid eight hours’ sleep. And work is, well, lots of work. A busy career, long days, two working parents, and a two-year-old aren’t exactly so ideal and stress-free. I envy
you
sometimes.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Now I wouldn’t trade my life for anything—Charlie and Simon are my world—but you’re at a moment of unlimited potential. The future is just waiting. And you don’t even see it.”

“I’ve made some bad decisions.”

“Perhaps. But you’ve got to stop kicking yourself. Learn from mistakes and move on. Look, you know I’m a huge fan of Jacob. But if he can’t step up or understand how you feel… Who wouldn’t fight to commit to you? You’re Sophie Atwater, Badass Extraordinaire. If there wasn’t Simon, Charlie, and our irrepressible fondness for men,
I’d
scoop you up.”

“Technicalities,” I say, and we share a laugh.

In my heart I know she’s right. I need to pick myself up. A break from LA was necessary, but hiding out is just another form of denial. I can’t change the past, but I can shape my future.

“What would I do without you?” I say to my best friend.

“Let’s never find out. But I’m sure it would be awful.”

“Unimaginable.”

“Or, come to think of it, college.”

“An expensive reminder that we’re best stuck with each other.” There’s really only one other thing to express. “Thank you.”

Izzy takes my hand and squeezes.

Two big city girls lie back and resume stargazing in the desert. No other words are needed.

Early the next morning I see Izzy off to the airport. We hug good-bye, promising to keep in close touch (okay,
I
promise to do better), and then Izzy’s off to rejoin her family. Waving from the driveway, I realize I too am ready to go home. And very very sore from yesterday’s workout. Rubbing my arm, I head inside to pack up my own stuff. I wish I knew where life will take me next. But with renewed faith and confidence, I’m going to be all right.

While an ambitious junior publicist at Bennett
/Peters, I witnessed one of Elle’s A-list clients—a three-time Grammy Award–winning performer of a certain age—utter something so audacious it became an in-joke between Izzy and me. I was at the late Virgin Megastore on Sunset assisting Elle with her legendary client’s
Greatest Hits
CD release signing. Several hundred ecstatic fans stood in line, their numbers snaking through the roped aisles and out the front door, patiently awaiting precious seconds of basking in the diva’s greatness.

My role was to pass out Post-its for fans to pre-print a name if they wanted their newly purchased CD personalized, and to remind them—again and again—that absolutely no memorabilia or albums would be signed except the latest one. There simply wasn’t time for each superfan to pull out a half dozen promotional photos, magazine covers, boxed sets, and random sentimental objects—and
they would
if allowed—to have signed and still keep the line moving.

Plus, signed teddy bears aren’t Nielsen SoundScan–counted and thus won’t boost the all-important
Billboard
ranking.

Elle gestured to me from the roped-off atrium, where she stood behind her seated client, monitoring the scene. At the time I was still in awe of all-access status, relishing the jealous glares of others as with a wave of the laminated pass around my neck I sailed past jaded salesclerks, stressed-out event coordinators, and enormous security men.

“I need you to take over photo duty,” Elle said, handing me the next-in-line fan’s digital camera. A single posed photograph was allowed, but
we
snapped it and it was a clockwork affair. The fan was not allowed behind the table or even to touch the star. Instead, he or she leaned into the frame to capture a flash of beatific smile as the star signed her increasingly illegible name. There were no do-overs.

I soon got into the rhythm of the process. Some overwhelmed fans were literally speechless when they got to the head of the line, shyly nodding when addressed and almost fleeing from the table with their signed CD. They were the easy ones. Others were determined to make their moment count. While the star autographed or posed for the requisite photo, the über-fan regaled her with praise, trivia, personal anecdotes, and even bids at being Barbara Walters. They were the ones we had to move along, playing “bad cop” to the star’s generosity.

But after two hours even I felt a certain exhausting sameness. And the line was still going strong.

Up next, an excited male fan rushed the revered diva, but before he could open his mouth, she held up a bejeweled hand and plaintively said, “
Please, anything but ‘the Story
.’ ”

From that moment, whenever I wanted to defuse a situation, I’d utter those unforgettable words. Too much of anything is insufferable. You reach a point where you just don’t care.

These days I’m taking the command to heart—no longer wallowing in the mire of the last couple of weeks. What’s the point of rehashing past mistakes in my head, wishing I had done things differently? Feeling sorry for myself isn’t going to get my job back. And if not Jacob or Billy,
someone
worthy will enter my life. But opportunity is not going to find me sitting in old sweats at home watching cable.

Ever since my return to LA a week ago, I’m starting to feel like my old self—more or less. Even the rare restless day I don’t, it’s better to fake it, to push through—because there’s really no acceptable alternative. Like Izzy said, I’m
Sophie Atwater
. Enough with the moping.

It’s time I regain some control.

And I’m going to approach it in the way I do things best—as a highly skilled publicist. Yet this time the client in need of a makeover is myself. Bring out the color-coded checklist.

First up, I’m getting back out there socially. Otherwise a life of relative solitude at thirty-one is the gateway to an existence of microwaved dinners in the cherished company of several cats. The perfect opportunity arrived while I was off in Palm Desert. Amid the usual bills and junk mail, I discover an official invite from Travis’s parents to his thirtieth birthday blowout at their home in less than three weeks. Jacob will likely be in attendance, but Travis is my friend too. I refuse to lose him in the “divorce.”

I RSVP yes.

Speaking of Jacob, there’s been no word from him other than coming home to find his copy of my house key slipped under the door in an envelope with the simple note:

Instead of uncorking a bottle of wine, I went online and researched local kickboxing classes. My ten-class card is now nearly up for a renewal. Izzy, my ever-cheerleader, has been sending fist pumps from remote. I’m still not begging instructors for more crunches, but I do feel like I belong among my sweaty classmates. And I’ve got some fancy fingerless gloves to prove it.

Jacob’s old key is now in my kitchen junk drawer. Somewhere out there, a guy doesn’t know it yet, but this key—to my home and my heart—is awaiting his arrival. Or so says my mom… and I’ve chosen to believe her. It’s that or stocking up on kitty litter.

With my newly adjusted attitude, I fill my days helping out at Mom’s bookshop and taking classes or catching up with friends. The next book club is held poolside at Tina’s Spanish-style apartment complex on Melrose. I’m not only prepared—having “read” this month’s selection via book-on-tape on the ride home from Palm Desert—I bring
notes
. Since my usual contribution is to ask, “Another round?” JoAnn nearly chokes on her mango margarita when I volunteer to lead the discussion.

“I don’t think we’ve met yet,” jokes Tina to the new me. “But I’ve got a hunch we’re going to be tight.”

“Must be a psychic connection because I was thinking the very same thing,” I say, as we tap our plastic cups together in tribute.

The upside to my former workaholic nature at Bennett/Peters is that I acquired several weeks of unused vacation time—in addition to the usual personal and sick days—so
for now
I’m at least financially solvent. I’ve been putting off contacting a headhunter or even networking because there’s only one place I truly want to call “home” again. Elle’s well aware of my intention—and financial time line—and we’ve set up a future meeting “to discuss.” This state of limbo can’t last forever. Short of being Priscilla’s assistant, I’m prepared to accept any terms if it means I’m back in business with my sorely missed clients.

As for Priscilla, the only contact I have is when she regularly appears on my punching bag. I know in my gut she’s somehow responsible for my outing, but I haven’t had any luck finding irrefutable proof to support it. And so, maddeningly, she’s still my replacement. Per Billy, she’s not exactly winning over my clients with her icy charm, but it appears she hasn’t unequivocally tripped over her incompetence yet either.

To think
I’m
the one to disappoint Elle kills me.

Yes, I’ve stayed in contact with Billy too. Through a semi-daily text exchange, I’ve gotten the chance to know Billy the person versus Billy the star. I’d go so far as to say we’ve become actual friends. He now hilariously relays disastrous dates and the latest on-set fiasco. In turn I find the humor in my own life. Yes, he’s still a big flirt, but I’ve learned to take a compliment and realize it doesn’t have to mean anything. It’s his very nature to charm. On one hand, it’s weird. I am not Facebook
friends with any of my exes. But Billy isn’t really in that category anyway. He’s in his own league, and frankly, his friendship has meant a lot through this unsettled period. I know if it weren’t for him maybe I’d still be with Jacob. But that isn’t Billy’s fault. I know now it’s my own.

With total freedom—and all right, to stave off boredom… and maybe a little guilt too—I throw myself into the Tribe of Hope benefit gala planning. It feels good to have a purpose. And without all the previous drama and distractions, I’m great at it. As Izzy foresaw, I’m truly starting to get my mojo back.

Tonight, for instance, I’m brainstorming with a handful of other publicists and talent agents generously volunteering their time and service in a corner of the foundation’s loft-like office space. The celebrity gala event—the foundation’s critical annual fund-raiser—is rapidly approaching. Over the past several weeks, my subcommittee has been diligently garnering prizes for the popular silent auction, enlisting media contacts to promote and cover the event, and securing use of A-list names for the “hosting” masthead. It’s shaping up to be a huge success, but any publicist worth her salt keeps upping the potential till the end.