The Kinnear: When one surreptitiously takes a picture of another person (usually a celebrity) without anyone else realizing the photographer is using his/her phone. Typically, the phone is completely hidden.

Best for: In crowds, e.g. airports, restaurants, while shopping.

Do not use: In quiet areas or in situations where movement is restricted.

 

 

*Annie*

Ronan Fitzpatrick.

His name was Ronan Fitzpatrick, and his hand had just been up my shirt.

The back of his fingers had brushed against my bare skin, sending really, really delicious spikes of awareness to the pit of my stomach and up my chest, neck, and the top of my head. My brain had been momentarily paralyzed.

I’d been alone, eating my feelings after my alter ego, The Socialmedialite, had received a truly heinous email. I’d read it less than an hour ago; it was from the asshat I’d mistaken for Colin Farrell last Thursday and written about on Saturday, but who was actually a disgraced Irish rugby player…named Ronan Fitzpatrick. And I’d just met him. In person.

I must’ve read the email three times.

Okay, I’m lying. I read it no less than twenty times.

Then I Googled the shit out of him. He was right. It made for colorful reading. Ronan Fitzpatrick, of the exceedingly posh and pretentious South Dublin Fitzpatricks, was Irish rugby royalty. His father had been a famous rugby player until his death in a car accident some twenty years ago.

As well, his father’s family was stinking rich. Old, old, old money rich. The kind of old money that Americans can barely comprehend. Like, hundreds of years of old money and aristocracy. My stomach hurt. I didn’t even know who my biological father was, and this guy could trace his family tree back over three hundred years.

Adding to his apparently charmed life and silver-spoon upbringing, Ronan was—if the papers were to be believed—the best hooker to come out of Ireland maybe ever. And by “hooker,” I don’t mean prostitute. Hooker is a position—a very pivotal position—on the rugby field. Based on my quick research, it appeared to be the rugby equivalent of an American football team’s quarterback.

Ronan was apparently the best hooker that ever was and ever will be, amen.

However, more recently, Ronan’s infamy stemmed from allegedly hospitalizing one of his teammates during an on-the-field brawl. Also recently were several pictures of Ronan sharing the front page of tabloids with a distressed-looking bottle blonde. She was labeled as an actress, singer, and Ronan’s ex-fiancée, Brona O’Shea. The photos were split screen style, like they’d been ripped in half.

I felt both judgey and vindicated as I took in her appearance. She’d obviously had several elective plastic surgeries. Just to be sure, I searched for pictures of her over the last five years. As I suspected, her appearance had changed dramatically over time.

At first she was a fresh-faced Irish rose: pink cheeks, sandy-blonde hair, clear blue eyes. The most recent shots made me grimace. Fake tan, fake tits, lipo, lip injections, Botox, nose job. God, what kind of hell must it have been for her to be with someone like Ronan? Had she changed herself so completely to please him? And he just dropped her after proposing marriage? I was disgusted.

After my glutinous Google-fest, I read his email once again.

At first I was shocked all over again, stunned, actually. Then I was outraged. Likely this was because his assessment of my cobwebs and cowardice struck a nerve.

He was right, of course. I was cowardice covered in cobwebs. But that didn’t make me any less pissed off by his insulting personal attack.

Most people could see the silly in my blog posts, laugh at themselves, handle it gracefully.

Mr. Ronan Fitzpatrick, it seemed, was not most people. He was obviously a privileged douchenozzle, used to getting his own way and everyone else be damned. I knew his type. His type was why I preferred to be confused with wallpaper. His type was why I was cowardice covered in cobwebs.

After receiving the email—reading it ad nauseam, working myself up into a knot of outraged and hurt fretfulness even though I knew I could never respond to it—I decided to cool off. I decided I needed food therapy.

The first thing I did was send a message to my best online pal.

 

@Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: I just received the douchiest email of all time. Remind me to never write about male sports figures again. Their meaty heads are impervious to jokes.

 

I took a walk, my feet carrying me to my favorite French bakery two blocks away and then back to the offices of Davidson & Croft. I made a detour for the break room, intent on brewing my special peppermint tea; I’d never met a problem that couldn’t be fixed with pastry and tea. Just as I sat down, I read my friend’s response.

 

@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: Oh no! It’s just like I always tell you: jocks are cocks. Sorry. :-\

 

This made me smirk. I could always count on her make me smile.

But then, one minute I’d been still smirking about my friend’s joke, quietly enjoying the closest thing to an orgasm I experienced these days—éclairs from Jean Marie’s on Fifth Avenue—and the next minute he was there.

I was assaulted by the sight, smell, and sad, soulful eyes of Ronan Fitzpatrick.

The paralyzation-athon was not what discomfited me, nor was it how my heart rate skyrocketed at his proximity. The source of my discombobulating anxiety was that, even after my brain wheels started spinning again, I hadn’t pushed him away. His hand was up my shirt, his face mere inches from mine, and I didn’t push him away.

I couldn’t.

He smelled so freaking good, like clean man and soap, just the tiniest hint of aftershave and mint. I stared at him, at his lips tugging to the side in a seductive smile; at the collar of his leather jacket where it touched his neck; at his jean-clad thighs, thick and muscular and powerful; at his heavily lashed eyes, sad and soulful. Every one of my nerve endings was on fire.

Holy heathen in heaven, it wasn’t even his looks.

He was…overwhelming and magnetic. Sensual and in-your-face sexual. Also not helping matters, he had no concept of personal space.

I finally managed to remove him, but my effort was half-hearted and done with shaking hands. The rest of our conversation had been a blur, right up until Joan walked in and promptly paired us up.

I stared at the empty doorway where they’d just departed, my mind working without purchase, trying to absorb all that had just occurred. Slowly but surely, my foggy irritation gave way to the earlier outrage and hurt I’d been feeling since reading Ronan Fitzpatrick’s nasty email.

No way.

There was no way I would pair up with this guy—the epitome of a privileged and entitled beefcake. He was everything I loathed rolled up into a tight, luscious, muscular, heady, and quixotically alluring package. My social phobias aside, I needed alone time with Ronan like a car needed a swim in the ocean.

I was standing, gripping the back of the chair I’d been sitting in, my tea now tepid, my éclair half-eaten, when Joan waltzed back into the break room. I glanced behind her, searching for him, a renewed spike of panic hitting me in the chest. I noted gratefully that she was alone. I also noted that she was grinning.

Joan never grinned.

She charged toward me like she was going to mow me and my chair down, but then stopped three feet from my table. “I didn’t know you were coming in today, dear.” She said these words cheerfully, her little eyes narrowing as her grin widened.

I returned her squint but not her grin, as I was too busy trying to determine the best course of action. Maybe I could feign a brain tumor and request a six-month leave of absence. She would see through any such attempt, of course. Joan was shrewd in the way other people were tall; it was in her DNA.

“Joan,” I began, quickly clearing my throat and deciding that honesty was the best policy because I’d never be able to out-maneuver or manipulate her, “I really, really do not want to work with that man. I understand if you need to assign me to his campaign, but pairing us up would not be beneficial to anyone.” My heart hadn’t quite recovered yet from Mr. Fitzpatrick’s hand up my shirt; therefore, I tried to surreptitiously even my breathing.

“Dear, pairing you up has already been beneficial to everyone.” Her grin became a small, knowing smile, and her black eyes glittered. Abruptly, she turned and called to me over her shoulder, “Follow me.”

I heaved a resigned sigh, swiftly gathered my tea and pastry, and followed her through the maze of hallways to her gigantic office.

She was waiting for me at her door and shut it after bellowing to her secretary, “Hold my calls, and tell everyone to go away until we’re done.” Then she turned to me and tugged on my elbow until I was sitting in one of the chairs that faced her desk. “You sit and eat. I’ll talk.”

Once I was deposited where she wanted me, she moved behind her giant desk and claimed the high-backed red leather chair. Behind her was an enormous window displaying downtown Manhattan. As ever, she was in the power position.

“Let’s get to the point, dear. Mr. Fitzpatrick gets what Mr. Fitzpatrick wants. And, having eyeballs, it took me less than three seconds to comprehend that Mr. Fitzpatrick wants you.”

If I’d been drinking my tea, I would have choked on it. As it was, I wasn’t drinking my tea; therefore, I choked on my tongue, but the effect was the same. I was coughing and sputtering; I felt my eyes widen to saucer size.

“Are you—are you suggesting—are you saying—”

Joan waved her hand in the air like she was flicking my half-formed thoughts away with her fingertips, “No, no, dear. Nothing so lascivious. Let me see how to put this….” She tented her fingers and peered at me over them. “Let’s start with the basics. Do you know who he is?”

I hesitated. I could recite all the details I’d just learned while cyberstalking him via Google news, or I could play dumb. But if I pretended to be oblivious, Joan would certainly see through my pretext of ignorance.

I decided to reveal only the most basic thread of my knowledge, so I answered, “He’s a rugby player.”

Joan nodded, “That’s right. But do you know who he is?”

I blinked slowly and gritted my teeth. “How could I? I just met him.”

“He is the brightest shining star of rugby. He has the potential to be the face of the sport all over the world—think David Beckham for soccer, just infinitely more masculine, dirtier, grittier, and with a fouler mouth. And he is on the precipice of greatness.”

She paused, maybe waiting for me to express my understanding of her inferred explanation, but I was lost. I typically had minimal contact with clients. My reports and presentations were usually handled by Rachel, the VP of Projects, or by Joan directly. I didn’t see why this guy was any more of a VIP or deserving of my undivided attention than the rest of our A-list.

Realizing my lack of comprehension, she took a deep breath. “Annie, the rugby people, specifically the RLIF, are ready to throw money at us for taking him on. They’re convinced he’s the one who will pull the sport into the limelight—specifically, bring interest and appetite to the USA—and they want us to cultivate him. Now do you get it?”

Feeling stubborn, I frowned. “Of course I understand why you want the client, and I’m happy to help lead the social media group cleaning up his image, but—with all due respect, Joan—I don’t understand why you would suggest that Mr. Fitzpatrick and I pair up, as you put it.”

Joan leaned forward, resting her slight weight on her elbows. She was typically four inches shorter than my five-foot-five, but from her scarlet perch, she appeared to hover from a substantial and menacing height. I wondered briefly if her feet touched the ground or if she’d used a stool to ascend to that impressive altitude.

“We need his cooperation.” She said these words slowly, her eyes moving over my gray sweater and brown skirt and then back to my eyes. “Before seeing you, Ronan Fitzpatrick wasn’t going to give us two minutes, let alone the months we need to set his image on the right path. But the moment I mention pairing the two of you, he’s smiling. He’s suggesting another visit to the office—he’s asking when we can get started.”

I swallowed, a growing dread unfurling in my stomach. I worried briefly that Ronan had somehow figured out who I was, that he knew I was The Socialmedialite, that he remembered me from the restaurant, that he saw me taking pictures of him, and that he was looking forward to our pairing in order to exact his revenge.

But I quickly dismissed the thought as preposterous. When he came upon me in the break room, he demonstrated no sign of recognition, just interest.

Just heated, intense, determined, pointed, carnal masculine interest.

Joan must’ve perceived the extent of my anxiety because she assumed a less oppressive posture, leaning back in her seat, and shrugged. “Again, I’m not suggesting that you return his attentions. I’m simply asking you to come into the office when he is here, discuss our plans with him in person, take him out for client lunches and dinners, personally assist him with the intricacies of navigating his launch onto the world stage—you know, precisely what I would ask any other member of the team to do. No more, no less….”

I closed my eyes, gathered steadying breath through my nose; I was clenching my jaw so tightly my temples ached.

I completely comprehended Joan’s not-so-subtle point, which was that I was frequently on the receiving end of special treatment. I was the only one who was absolved from meetings, excused from conferences, lunches and dinners, think tanks, presentations, et. al.

Basically, I did my thing. I did it alone. I had almost complete autonomy. I didn’t have to be a team player. Aside from intermittent infographic emails, I’d never had to schmooze a client.

But now she was calling in my hermit card. This was Joan reminding me how good I had it here. I had to admit, she was right. I had it easy. I had it great.

Unclenching my jaw, I opened my eyes and found her staring at me. Again, she was grinning, her eyes glittering.

She nodded slowly. “I see we understand each other.”

I pressed my lips together, rolled them between my teeth to keep from screaming in frustration, and returned her nod. Never mind the fact that every fiber of my being wanted to run away, maybe find a cabin in Maine, maybe become a true recluse who ate only canned beans.

I wouldn’t last three hours without Internet access, let alone the deprivation of New York’s cuisine. No éclairs from Jean Marie’s, no arepas from Flor’s Diner, no shrimp and grits from Tom’s Southern Kitchen, no kung pao chicken from Mr. Hung Dong. I would die of food tedium.

“Good,” she said lightly, obviously pleased. “We start tomorrow.”

I nodded stiffly, and gathered my cup and accoutrements from the little table next to my seat. Holding my pastry and cold peppermint tea to my chest, I turned to go, my thoughts in turmoil. But Joan’s voice stopped me just as I reached the door.

“One more thing, Annie. Use your business account to buy some new clothes. I think you wear that same outfit every time I see you. You’re a representation of the company. If you’re going to be taking Mr. Fitzpatrick out, you’ll need to look the part.”

I stiffened and turned to face her; knowing there was no point in arguing, I decided to stall. “That’s fine, but it’ll have to be next week. And, if I’m taking on Mr. Fitzpatrick’s account, I’ll have to pass over The Starlet to Becky.”

Joan looked thoughtful for a moment. The Starlet was one of our biggest individual clients and was our code name for Dara Evans, four-time Oscar nominee with a perpetual image problem. She had an image problem because she was a raging bitch.

We kept her looking like flowers and sunshine; she kept us on our toes with DUIs and assault charges. Her most recent debacle was from this last weekend. An amateur video shot with a cell phone showed her at a Yankees game, wherein she snatched a foul ball out of the hands of a crippled five-year-old boy (who had rightfully caught it). Then she made fun of his handicap and held the ball just out of his reach.

Yeah, so…raging bitch.

“Fine.” Joan nodded.

I immediately turned and left, assuming the “fine” was in reference to both handing over Dara Evans to Becky as well as delaying any new additions to my wardrobe.

I hurried down the hall, nodding politely to my co-workers but not stopping long enough to chat. I’d been working at Davidson & Croft Media since graduating with my master’s degree twelve months earlier; in that time, people had come to expect my behavior and very rarely tried to draw me into conversation.

Finally, I was back in the haven of my office. I shut the door and crossed to my chair, dropping into it and depositing my éclair and teacup on the desk. I tried to wrap my mind around how I’d gotten into this mess. Then I again briefly thought about how I might escape from having to spend any time with Ronan. Then I again pushed those thoughts away.

If I wanted to continue at Davidson & Croft Media—and I did want to continue at Davidson & Croft Media because no one else would pay as well and put up with my eccentricities—I would just have to suck it up and live through the next few months.

I unlocked my computer, planning my message for Becky, trying to find the words to break it to her that she would be taking over social media containment for The Starlet. I felt a measure of guilt. Becky seemed like a nice person. I wouldn’t wish Dara Evans on a dog I didn’t like.

When my screen awoke, I flinched. I’d left open The Socialmedialite’s email account, and Ronan’s odious message was mocking me. I stared at it for a moment, my fingers tapping impatiently on my desk.

Under usual circumstances, I would never respond to a message such as his. I would delete it, ignore it, and put him on my celebrity blacklist (those who are never discussed, referenced, or mentioned again). I knew the worst thing that could happen to a celebrity was to be made irrelevant. Society’s ambivalence is the death of notoriety.

But now—now that I was going to have to suffer through actual in-person interactions with Ronan—I couldn’t contain my desire to lash out at him in some way and return his insufferable message with a response worthy of my angst and aggression.

Annie might have to be nice to Ronan, but that didn’t mean The Socialmedialite had to take any of his crap. Without really thinking it through, I opened my alter ego’s email account and quickly typed out a message.

 

March 10

Dear Mr. Fitzpatrick,

Please accept my humblest apologies.

If I’d known my benign little blog post was going to get you all hot and bothered, I would have sent it to you directly and arranged a rendezvous to our mutual satisfaction. Despite your propensity to dress like the love child of a hobbit and a leprechaun, I can’t deny—toe-shoes notwithstanding—I wouldn’t be opposed to your dipping into my pot of gold, especially if that bulge were au naturel. Though, with your superiority complex, I suspect it was a tube sock. Let me guess, you drive a fast car…right? Maybe something with a lot of cylinders to compensate for other deficiencies?

Also, thank you for proving every Irish stereotype 100% correct. Now I know for certain your people’s predisposition for hysteria and dramatics has not been exaggerated. Well done, you. Keep up the good work.

Sincerely, The Socialmedialite