THE CLIENT

RYAN

There was an art to being a perfect client—a delicate balance between getting what I needed, and ensuring that I was “progressing” behind closed doors in whatever way the publicist needed. Or, so I’d heard.

Today marked the two-month term for my current publicist and she was glaring at me from across my desk—looking as if she was struggling to get a single word to fall out of her mouth.

“Is your throat dry, Heather?” I pointed to the glass of water between us. “Is that why you keep clearing it?”

“I keep clearing it because I’m hoping that what I’m about to ask you isn’t true.” She picked up the glass and drank half of it in one gulp. “A reporter from The New York Times called me at three o’ clock this morning to inform me that someone you used to date—”

“I’ve never dated anyone.” I interrupted her.

“Fine.” She held up her hands. “Someone you used to screw. Better?”

“Much better.”

“Anyway,” she said, “she apparently is sitting down with one of his colleagues to do an expose piece on you, the man who still refuses to sit down and do interviews with reporters himself.”

“I highly doubt she has any valuable information.” I leaned back in my chair. “I don’t typically talk about my personal life with whoever I happen to be fucking.”

“Well, that’s good to know.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “This expose piece is a deeply personal one, and she’s using it to let the public see what type of man you really are behind closed doors. She’s provided them with some of the text messages you’ve sent her in the past.” She put on her reading glasses and looked at her notebook. “Here are the top four messages: One, I’m looking forward to fucking your mouth this weekend. Two, How wet is your pussy right now? Three, I’m impressed by the way you swallow. Four, Tell me how wet your pussy is right now.”

I smiled. “What’s the problem?”

“The problem is that your company is hoping to launch a global initiative within the next two years. You can’t afford anymore press like this, so I’ve alerted your CFO and he’s agreed to pay them a sum to kill the story.”

“So, once again, what is the problem?”

“You need a new publicist.” She stood to her feet. “I’m done as of right now. Thank you very much for hiring my firm and taking a chance on me and my vision for you.”

“You’re very welcome.” I stood up to shake her hand. I’d been in this position far too many times before to ask her any further questions, to wonder if something could’ve been done differently, or to even care about her abrupt resignation. The second she left my office, I’d have another publicist walking into the building to take her place.

“I wish you all the best, Mr. Dalton. I truly do,” she said. “I hope you find the right firm who’ll be better equipped to handle your account and your huge—” She glanced at the crotch of my pants and blushed. “Ego.”

“I will.” I let her hand go. “Best of luck to you, Heather.”

Still blushing, she glanced at my pants one last time before walking out of my office. The second the doors shut behind her, I picked up my phone and called my personal assistant and secretary, Linda.

“Yes, Mr. Dalton?” she answered. “What do you need?”

“I need you to get me a new publicist. Heather just quit.”

“How shocking...”

“What did you just say?”

“Nothing at all!” She changed her tone. “I’ll go through your requirements and get you someone new right away.”

Four months later...

Subject: A “Pleasure” + My Resignation

Dear Mr. Dalton,

I would love to say that it’s been a “pleasure” working for you, but that would be a lie. You are without a doubt, the worst client I’ve ever had.

I honestly find it quite sad that women in this city flock to you like flies and act as if you’re some type of God. (You’re not.) And after your most recent scandal (that I unfortunately cannot deal with at all) I highly doubt any publicist in this city will want to work with you.

I quit.

Violet Sanders

Embassy PR

Two months later...

Subject: A Notice & Your Most Recent Interview

Dear Mr. Dalton,

We appreciate the “experience” we’ve had during our past few months of working with you, but to be quite blunt: We can’t take this shit anymore.

The live Today Show interview you did Saturday morning was the last straw. (Do you have any idea how long it will take the American viewing public to forget you saying that “fucking” is your favorite hobby? Hint: FOREVER.)

We are done.

Veronica & Michael

Welch PR

Six months later...

Subject: I QUIT.

THAT. IS. ALL.

Eva Daniels

Avenue PR

I debated whether I should respond to the latest publicist’s email, but I was slightly pre-occupied by the sight of my brother Leo frantically pacing around my office like a lunatic. It was moments like this that made me wonder how the hell we were related, how the hell he ever became my “calm and collected” CFO.

“I can’t believe this, Ryan.” He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. “Another publicist quit on you? This time within her first two weeks? Do you have any idea how this is going to look to the board when they find out?”

I didn’t answer. He always tended to ask four or five questions in a row before giving me a chance to answer one of them.

“You are the CEO of a billion-dollar real estate corporation.” He said the words as if he couldn’t believe them himself. “You are a billionaire.”

“That was more than implied by your first sentence...”

“I just don’t understand you sometimes.” He looked at me like I was deranged. “You have the world at your fingertips, but you’d rather risk it on stupid shit that brings you negative attention. I’m honestly starting to wonder if you care anymore. Like, do you wake up first thing in the morning and think to yourself, how can I possibly make my public image even worse today?”

“I’m usually thinking about pussy first thing in the morning. I don’t typically have any other thoughts when I wake up.”

He stopped pacing and glared at me. “You’ve been through thirteen publicists this year alone and thirty-six total over the past four years. Do you have any idea what that means?”

“This city clearly needs better publicists.”

“It means that once again, we have to delay our global initiative efforts and our stock options because there is no way in hell Wall Street will have anything to do with our brilliant yet battled CEO. It also means...”

I stopped listening. My brother overreacted to everything and our views on the company couldn’t have been more different. True, over the past few years my public persona had taken on a life of its own, but the press made it ten times worse than the reality. Yes, I once partied like there was no tomorrow. Yes, I once fucked a different woman every week—almost every day for a couple years. And yes, I tended to say whatever came to my mind during press interviews, but after the two decades of nonstop work and sweat equity I’d put into making this company what it was today, I more than deserved it.

And as of seven months ago, I actually hadn’t had sex or partied once since The New York Times decided to run a different version of that “explosive” sexting article. (That, and the board made me sign a seventh-month agreement that promised no public social outings while my image recovered.)

“I can’t get a single PR firm past the word ‘Hello’ when I tell them I’m calling about representation for you.” Leo was still talking. “Now, I’ve done my best with the board in practically begging them not to ask that you resign from your own company, but I don’t know if I can do much more.”

“What?” I was paying full attention now. “What did you say about me resigning?”

“Look.” He sighed. “You’re one scandal away from them asking you to step down as CEO. You’d still have your stock options, they’d send out an amicable press release to make it seem like it was your idea, and the company will still technically be yours, but...”