The Gift Bag Chronicles (17 page)

“Okay,” I say, turning to Steven, “then this is a problem for Kia corporate. The host committee members should be those stars with whom they have endorsement deals, and we’ll go from there.”

He shrugs. “I don’t think they have them nailed down yet.”

“Then tell them they should,” I say, trying not to sound as impatient as I feel. “We’re not getting paid to do their entire marketing campaign, just their PR on this event.” I check my watch. Oh, God, it’s so late, and we haven’t touched on the Kia gift bag and the
C
party, which will take forever by itself.

“Okay, we’ll do the Kia host list once you get those names, and tell them to also start thinking about their gift bag, although I’m only assuming they want to do one,” I say to Steven, “but now we have to move on to
C
’s Christmas party.”

Everyone slumps back in their chairs. Everyone except Caitlin, who is still working on the salad.

“Why is
C
still our client?” Allie says, drumming her pen on the table. “I thought they hated us.”

“They don’t hate us,” says Marissa. “They just don’t know us,” she adds, referring to Jay and Patrice.

“That’s right, they just don’t know us,” I say, aiming for a chipper we-can-do-it tone, although God knows, I’m with Allie on this. “Now, ideas?”

We spend the next hour and a half running it down — possible dates in December; venues, probably a private home; the cosponsors lined up so far, starting with the Diamond Council, the magazine’s big advertiser, and Absolut vodka, which always sponsors their parties because they sponsor practically every event in town; and finally the potential host committee members. The last category is going to be the toughest; given the magazine’s neurotic sense of itself in the fashion/Hollywood pantheon — north of
InStyle
but south of
Vogue
— and given that we will have to vet everything by Jay and Patrice. The party is still three months away, but L.A. books up fast in December, and given all the nervous second-guessing the magazine goes through, there’s not a minute to waste. Besides, I have to meet with Andrew and the rest of the team in New York next month, and I want to present a good proposal.

“Okay, I think that should hold us for now,” I say, looking up from my notes. Everyone except for Marissa is slumped way down in their chairs.

“Does that mean we can go?” Allie says.

I look at her. “And to think I was going to make you point person on this.”

“Oh, God,” Allie says, pushing herself upright. “Kill me first.”

“I’ll do it,” says Marissa. “I think it will be fun.”

“Bless you, my child,” I say. “And I think I speak for all of us.”

Almost 6:00 and I’m back in my office gearing up for the last act of the day, rolling my calls, followed by a screening at 7:30 and then finally home by 10:00. Shit, the painters’ stuff will still be there. I’ll have to check all that out tonight before I meet with them in the morning. And somewhere in there I need to call Charles. Or call him back. Again. Nothing like trading calls with your boyfriend. Maybe in the car on the way to the screening.

“Caitlin, you ready?” I call out. Rolling calls is more typical of agents than publicists, and it does seem pretentious having my assistant place the call — “Hi, I have Alex Davidson calling” — but it’s a habit I’ve gotten into, and God knows most publicists in town do it now, and if I took the time to talk to everyone as they called me during the day, I’d never get anything done.

I hear a muffled yelp that I take to be a yes. “Okay then, let’s go,” I say, pulling on my headset.

We go down the list; there are at least thirty calls to place, and of course only a few of them can actually take my call when I call, so then they start to double back on themselves, callers I just called now holding when they call me back. We press on like this for a good thirty minutes or so.

“I’ve got Patrice on line one and now Oscar on line two,” Caitlin calls out.

Great
. The two people I haven’t called and don’t particularly want to speak to are calling me. I debate telling Caitlin that I’ll call back and then think better of it. Best to get this over with. “Tell Oscar to hold a second,” I say, punching line one. “Patrice.”

“Alec,” she says in her plumy voice. “Alec, I wanted to let you know I’m in New York next week,” she says, dispensing with any pleasantries, any mention of seeing each other at the wedding or her calling Charles and complaining about me.

“Ah, okay?” I say, not entirely clear why she’s calling to tell me her travel plans.

“Well, I know Andrew and I are anxious to get going on the Christmas gala,” she says, pronouncing it “gah-lah.”

“Yes, and we are too,” I say carefully. “In fact, we just had our first planning meeting on it today.”

“Well, that’s perfect then,” she says. “Andrew and I can meet with you in New York and you can fill us in on what you have so far.”

Oh, now I get it. “Ah, that would be good,” I say. “But unfortunately, I can’t be there that soon with everything else that’s going on here this month.” I may be the magazine’s event publicist, but I have no plans to be in New York until the third week of October and have no intention of changing that to suit Patrice. If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that you set your boundaries early with clients and stick by them. It’s like training a dog.

“Hmm,” she says, temporarily stymied. “Well, I know Andrew does want something on it soon,” she says, trying to turn her annoyance into some kind of demand.

“Yes, I know he does,” I say evenly. “And I’ll have it for him when I’m there that third week in October — as I planned. I hope you’ll be able to join us for that.”

I hear her sniff on the line. “Well, why don’t we have lunch later this week, say Thursday, and you can walk me through the preliminaries now? That way I can run them by Andrew when I’m in New York next week.”

Yes, that would suit you, wouldn’t it? “Honestly, I’m booked this week,” I say, not even bothering to look at my calendar. “And frankly, we’re still pulling stuff together on this end. Anything I could tell you now would be virtually meaningless.”

“‘Meaningless’?”
she says, sounding startled. “That doesn’t sound very reassuring.”

I am tempted to tell her that even though she’s never done an event like this before, I have, but I think better of it. In my
experience there are two kinds of clients — those who hire you, trust you as a professional — or as professional as it gets in the event planning business — let you do your job, and go home happy. Then there are those clients who hire you less for the event itself than for the chance to work out on you — second-guess your every decision, your every move — because they think making your life a living hell is all part of the fee.
C
was pretty much in this latter category before Patrice came on board; now I can see they are heading for the red zone.

“Look, why don’t you plan to join Andrew and me at our October meeting? That way you can see how this comes together from the ground up,” I say briskly. “Meantime, call me when you get back next week and let’s get together then.” Before Patrice can say anything more, I hang up and punch up Oscar.

“Sorry, I haven’t had a chance to get back to you about the wedding,” I say, heading right for professional collegiality and intending to stay there. “Any feedback yet?”

“Alex, Alex, Alex, why are you avoiding me?” he says in an exaggeratedly aggrieved voice.

“I’m not avoiding you. I spent most of yesterday with you,” I blurt out without thinking. Shit. This is exactly where I did not want to go.

“Yeah, and then you just disappeared. Like your mother had died or something.”

“I did not ‘disappear,’” I say, trying to back out of this hole and managing only to dig myself in deeper. “We both
left
. The Dodgers were losing, you had somewhere to be and so did I. End of discussion.”

“End of discussion? When did you get to be so
Robert’s Rules of Order?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Caitlin stick her head in the door. “Look, I’ve still got calls to return here, so let’s touch base about the wedding when one of us hears from them,” I say, looking up as Caitlin hands me a note saying that the screening has
just been canceled, some problem with the print or something. “Besides, I’ve a screening to get to tonight, so let’s talk later in the week and I’ll fill you in on
C
’s Christmas party. Patrice is already on my case about it, and it’s not even October.”

“Fine, play it that way,” Oscar says, and I can’t tell if he’s actually annoyed or just cutting his losses. “I still say you’re avoiding me. Call me when you can.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I say, clicking off. I’m about to punch up the next call when I realize Caitlin is still standing by my desk.

“What?” I say, looking at her.

“Nothing,” she says with a small smile, turning for the door. “Nothing at all.”

It takes us another thirty minutes or so to finish all the calls
.

“Okay, I’m leaving unless there’s something else,” Caitlin says, sticking her head in the door.

“No, fine, go ahead,” I say, deep into returning e-mails now. Without the screening, I can really clear my desk tonight. Maybe even pick up my dry cleaning and swing by Whole Foods and get real food for a change. Actually spend an evening at home.

I’m just dispatching the last of the e-mails when one from Charles flashes on the screen, marked
NYC
. What? Where is he that he’s e-mailing instead of calling me? Especially since we haven’t spoken all day. Must be from his BlackBerry. I click it open.

It takes me less than a second to put this together. That bitch. Patrice must have called Charles right after she and I spoke, not thirty minutes ago. I can
not
believe that she went around me to him.
Again
. And worse, that he bought her song and dance. Shit. I reach for the phone and punch up Charles’s cell. Of course, I get his voice mail. I hang up without leaving a message and call his BlackBerry. Same thing. Damn it. Now what? I hate getting bad news, and I especially hate it when I have to wait to get the bad news straightened out. Still, this is going to require some finesse on my part. Obviously I can stick with my plan and
not
go to New York next week, but that means Charles will run the first meeting on the party with Andrew and Patrice while I’ll wind up even more sidelined — and behind the eight ball — than I am now.

On the other hand, if I go, I have to rearrange my whole schedule, rush to put something down on paper about this blasted party before we even have it figured out. Worst of all, it means I’ll have totally caved in to Patrice — and she’ll know it — which is absolutely what I do not,
should
not, do. Completely sends the wrong signal and opens a whole can of worms with her thinking we jump to her every move. Shit. Shit. Shit.

I check my watch. Just about 7:00. What screening is going on at 10:00
P.M.
in New York? And how can he have spoken to Patrice just a half hour ago and be incommunicado now? Wait, unless Patrice actually called him a couple hours ago, arranged the whole meeting in New York with him, and then called me and played all innocent. The more I think about it, the more that makes sense. Great. Maybe there’s a reason Patrice has climbed to the top of the food chain at
C
, not that there’s all that much food per se involved at a fashion magazine. Maybe she’s more of a handful than I bargained for.

I stare out my window. Just after 7:00
P.M.
and it’s still searingly bright — and probably still 100 degrees outside — but the roar of the rush-hour traffic on Wilshire is plainly audible. Well, I can
either sit here like an idiot and wait for Charles to get out of whatever screening he’s in and call me so we can spend the rest of the night arguing about it, or I can leave, do my errands, go home, and we can argue there. Suddenly the idea of dry cleaning, grocery shopping, followed by arguing with Charles in the midst of my house filled with all the painters’ stuff is too mind-numbing to contemplate. Besides, it’s way too passive.

I turn back to the computer and type my reply.

I read it over a couple of times, delete it, and retype it.

I read it again — much better, nonconfrontational and yet assertive — and press
SEND
. I scroll back up my e-mails to Maude’s weekly yoga update, click it open, and type my reply:

I’m halfway to the yoga institute in West Hollywood when I realize I have nothing to wear to class. I used to keep a bag of gym clothes in the car, back when I had a semblance of a regular workout schedule, but I quit hauling that around months ago when I realized it was just making me feel guilty. What now? The institute has a lost-and-found that always has T-shirts and shorts in it, although that’s kind of gross, even if they do wash them. Wait, I have my earthquake kit in the trunk, if I can remember what I shoved in there. A bottle of water. Aspirin. Band-Aids. Tampax. A
roll of TP. An energy bar, I think, unless I dug that out and ate it one night after working some long food-free event. I did stick some clothing in there, although I can’t remember what exactly. Oh well, whatever it is, I’m wearing it. I only hope it wasn’t my old ripped leggings that I used to use for painting.