THE PUBLICIST

PENELOPE

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I stepped out of a town car at Broadway and Fifth Avenue, juggling my umbrella and coffee in one hand and my clients’ files in the other. Today marked the eighth day in a row that heavy rains had fallen over this city, and I was beginning to regret not renting office space closer to my apartment.

“Good morning, Miss Lauren.” The concierge greeted me, as he pulled the door open. “Good to see that you’re two hours early as always.”

“Good morning to you as well, Oliver,” I said, smiling. “You know I’m allergic to being late.” I walked inside and hit the button for the elevator, taking it straight up to the seventh floor.

The second I stepped off, I stared in awe at the shiny, silver plated lettering that hung high above my double doors: Penelope Lauren & Associates.

My firm was one of the smallest public relations companies in Manhattan, and our clients were mostly mid-level athletes, local celebrities and colleges, and a few Wall Street assholes who were incapable of keeping their cocks in their pants. Every now and then, we’d land a huge account but they’d eventually be lured away by the brighter lights of a larger firm. A firm with more staff, bigger resources, and other big name clients that I could only dream about landing.

Still, with only six years under my belt, I was proud of how much my team of five and I had accomplished thus far.

I unlocked the door to my office and started my morning ritual: Listen to thirty minutes of an audiobook, respond to all the important emails, and vow to give two hundred percent effort for the rest of the day. I read through my current clients’ files—making sure I was on schedule for everything they needed, and by the time I finished, my secretary, Tina, was setting a fresh cup of coffee on my desk.

“Good morning, Miss Lauren,” she said. “I’ve got your daily updates.”

“Great.” I looked up and motioned for her to take a seat. “I’m listening.”

“Mr. Bradley of V-tech wants us to write his speech for that ribbon cutting ceremony next week. He wants it to be ‘beautiful, poignant, and humorous, all at once.’ And in addition to requesting our help with press interviews, he also wants us to get him a beautiful redhead for a date. He’ll settle for a brunette, but no blondes.”

“Have Jenna get me a first draft of the speech by tomorrow and have Bob arrange four interviews with the local stations. Then kindly tell Mr. Bradley that we are not a match making service. He can find his own date.”

“Got it.” She scribbled in her notepad. “On to a quick client update: New York University wants to extend their account with us for another six months. Hilton wants a phone call at the end of the month to discuss local rebranding and um, Taylor Carew ...” She mumbled the rest of her sentence.

“Could you repeat the last thing you said?” I asked. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Taylor Carew is ending his account with us effective immediately. He sent us a ‘Best of luck’ fruit basket, and he’s officially leaving us for—Well, you know.”

“Drew & Associates?”

She nodded and my blood began to boil. Drew & Associates was run by the one and only Sebastian Drew. He was one of the biggest “trust-fund entrepreneurs” and assholes in this city. He was also, unfortunately, my ex-boyfriend.

I picked up my phone and dialed his number, demanding his secretary put me straight through to him.

“He’ll be with you in two minutes, Miss Lauren.” She, at least, had the decency to sound sympathetic each time I called. It almost made me forget that she’d betrayed me by leaving my firm to join his.

Almost ...

“Were those all the updates for today, Tina?” I placed my hand over the receiver.

“Actually, no.” She stood up and handed me a pink post-it. “We’ve been getting random calls all week from a guy who claims he needs representation, but he won’t give us any information about himself.”

I raised my eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“He called and said, ‘I need a publicist. I highly suggest you accommodate me.’ I told him I’d call him back, but I couldn’t because he wouldn’t give me his phone number. So, he called again a couple days later and before I could say a word, he said, ‘I’m doing your small firm a favor by even considering you for this. You need to accommodate me’.” She rolled her eyes.

“At first, I thought it was Mr. Drew playing a prank on us since the guy continuously refused to fill out our pre-screening questionnaire, so I told him we charged two hundred and fifty thousand dollars a month per client.”

“Let me guess. That was when he finally came out and admitted he was hired by Drew to harass us?”

“No ...” She pointed to her pink post-it. “He paid it. For a whole year.”

“What?” I gasped, as I read over her scrawled note.

Anonymous, unsigned client deposited three million dollars into our account this morning ...

I didn’t get a chance to completely process my thoughts before Drew’s familiar voice came over the line.

“Good morning, Penelope!” he said. “How may I help you on this lovely day?”

“For starters, you can stop poaching my goddamn clients.”

“Whoa. Whoa. Whoa! Such colorful language.” He laughed. “It’s a bit too early for that, don’t you think?” There was a smile in his voice and I wished I could reach through the line to swipe it right off his face.

“You don’t need any more clients and you certainly don’t need mine, Drew,” I said. “You’re only doing this to get back at me.”

“That’s not true at all. I’m hurt that you would even think that about me.”

“Then stop doing this.” I tried to keep my voice firm, to keep my true emotions from showing. “Stop going out of your way to lure my clients to your company six months after they’ve already signed with me.”

“I really think you need to rethink your baseless accusations, sweetheart.”

“I’m not your sweetheart anymore.”

“Oh, that’s right. You rejected me in front of three hundred people at our engagement party.”

“Because you cheated on me.” I still couldn’t believe he wasn’t over this. That he refused to own up to the true reason behind our break-up from years ago. “You. Cheated. On. Me.”

“I cheated one time, Penelope. One time.”

I gritted my teeth and grabbed a stress ball from my drawer. There was no point in going down this road of conversation with him right now. It never ended well for either of us.

“Now, perhaps you don’t remember the promises we made to each other at one point in time,” he said. “But I do. We were supposed to be Drew & Lauren Associates and we were going to run this city together.”

“Those promises were made null and void the moment you let your college intern wrap her mouth around your cock.” I shook my head at the memory. “And for the record, you were caught once. You slept with her far more than one time.”

“This is a classic case of ‘he said, she said.’ As a fellow publicist, you know the true details are clearly fuzzy after all this time.” He let out a light laugh and I almost screamed. “Nonetheless, I’m not doing this to get back at you. I’m doing this so you can finally put your pride to the side and join me. And maybe, just maybe, when you come to your senses, perhaps you can forgive me and we can pick up right where we left off. We can be Drew and Lauren Associates forever. What do you say?”

I hung up.

There was no way in hell I’d go back to him, let alone join his firm. I opened my inbox, ready to get to the bottom of the random, three-million-dollar deposit, and noticed there were two new emails from my best friend, Sean.

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Subject: Please Get Rid of Your Goddamn Roommate ...

I’ve asked this before, but I’ll ask it again: Why can’t you just put Sarah out?

Surely you can find someone else in this city who can afford to split your overpriced rent. Someone who doesn’t insist on imposing her ridiculous germaphobe issues on me each time I come over, and someone who isn’t currently accusing me of leaving “micro crumbs” on your kitchen counter.

Thanks in advance.

Sean

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Subject: Seventy Sad Months and Counting ...

This is your monthly reminder that you haven’t slept with anyone since Drew, and that’s why you’re stressed out and obsessed with your work all the time.

If you weren’t like a sister to me, I’d sleep with you myself, but for the umpteenth time: You need to get laid. BADLY.

Please do it this month so I won’t have to email you about this next month. (It’s getting really sad.) I can suggest some clubs and pay my sister to help you dress if you like ...

Sean

PS—I’m not kidding about your roommate. GET. RID. OF. HER. NOW.

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I laughed and minimized his email, opening the firm’s bank ledger in a new tab instead. The three million dollars was confirmed, and the bank was requesting an immediate meeting to file tax paperwork.

The name on the deposit was simply, “R.D. LLC” and a myriad of companies with those initials popped up on my screen when I hit search. There was no actual “RD LLC” by itself and no business in this city was currently operating under that name. 

I called Tina’s desk.

“Yes, Miss Lauren?” she answered on the first ring.

“Tina, has this mystery client ever sent us an email that we can possibly track?”

“No, he’s only called and the number he calls from goes straight to a hotel,” she said. “I’ve checked. He usually calls us at noon every day, though.”

I glanced at the clock. It was only ten.

“What exactly did he say the last time he called?”

“Um, well, after I told him about our fake fee, he said he’d call for a meeting with the director Monday. Are we really going to charge him two hundred and fifty thousand dollars a month?”

“Depends on who he really is and all he might require from us,” I said. “If he’s that high profile, we might have to hire more staff and get more resources to get things done, you know? Let me know when he calls again.”

“Will do.”

I hung up and tried to think of who the hell in this city could afford to drop three million without much thought. Anyone who would bother going to a small firm instead of one of the big three: Embassy, Welch, or Avenue.

Or hell, even Drew’s firm ...

As I was scrolling through another page of RD LLC listings, a new email from Drew appeared on my screen.

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Subject: Maybe you’re right ...

I’m going to poach every client of yours until you come to your damn senses, Penelope. You know you can’t run a firm on your own for too much longer, especially without me.

I’ll be here whenever you’re no longer solvent, whenever you realize that your clients will always go with me over you. (But they can get both of us whenever you’re ready.)

Forgive me and join me before I change my mind, sweetheart,

Drew.

PS—Reply to me. You know you want to :-)

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Ugh!

I deleted his email and pulled up Sean’s last message for a reply instead.

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Subject: Re: Seventy Sad Months and Counting ...

I’ll end my streak this weekend. You and your sister will really help me?

—Penelope

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Subject: Re: Re: Seventy Sad Months and Counting ...

Absolutely 