The Hooker and the Hermit

I had her number now, and I had every intention of using it.

Chapter Five

The Creeper Selfie: When one takes a selfie with the express purpose of including some person or action in the background. Usually only part of the photographer’s face is present in the photo—usually the eyes, but sometimes half of a face—in order to display shock, excitement, or disgust.

Best for: Chaotic situations, when others are focused on the action the photographer is trying to document. Also, airplanes.

Do not use: In restaurants or near mirrors.

*Annie*

I followed the email exchange between my administrative assistant (Gerta) and Ronan Fitzpatrick on Wednesday morning for about two hours. It spanned a sum total of thirty emails before I finally stepped in to end the debacle.

Poor Gerta. All she was trying to do was set up a meeting with him for this week, and he turned it into a debate on James Joyce, under-age rugby, and whether Clongowes Wood College in Clane, Co. Kildare, was ultimately responsible for Ulysses. I made a mental note to give her a raise. Gerta deserved it. She really was a saint.

It appeared Mr. Fitzpatrick was not exaggerating when he’d said that he wanted to contact me directly. I didn’t know what to do about his persistence because I didn’t think anyone had ever been so determined to get in touch with me.

In the end, I sighed heavily, opened a window in Infographicsgenerator.net, and drafted my email to Mr. Fitzpatrick.

When communicating with clients, I use infographics almost exclusively. I find that most of our clients—as they are extremely busy and lack patience—do not respond well to text emails (i.e., emails containing only words); they prefer the shortcut of pictures. A graphic representation of my thoughts and/or the information I need to communicate allows the client to absorb the information faster and remember it for a longer period of time.

Infographics as a Means to Effectively Transfer Knowledge Reducing the Bias of Consumer Interpretation was the title of my Master of Science thesis at Wharton. The idea came to me when my master’s thesis professor mentioned that my emails and written correspondence often came across as terse and condescending.

The great thing about the pictures within infographics is that they’re always positive images. The images are not open to tone, inflection, or word-choice interpretation because they’re intrinsically happy. I don’t have to worry about people understanding the multisyllabic syntax. Not to mention the little illustrated people are always smiling, even when I’m not.

Think of it like sending someone a smiley-face emoticon instead of typing the words “You make me happy.”

Or sending a thumbs-up emoticon instead of “I agree.” Or “I like that.” Or “Good job.”

Since graduate school, I’ve found text-less emails to be invaluable as both a timesaver and as a means to ensure all business correspondence remains positive and strictly professional. It works for me. It works for my clients. It works for my co-workers. Everyone wins.

The only person I interact with at work who disallows my infographics is Joan. I assume it’s because she’s a bit old-fashioned in her consumption of data. Eventually, however, she’ll have to make the switch. As a society, we’re moving away from the written word. We want the shortcut. We don’t want to have to think about the meaning of words—ours or someone else’s—and how they affect us or those around us. We want to feel good.

I quickly assembled the graphic I needed—basically, a clock with a question mark, a picture of a calendar, and a series of food choices—and opted for a green, orange, and white color scheme. I felt that the subtle inclusion of the Irish flag’s colors would make Mr. Fitzpatrick feel good which might encourage his cooperation.

I saved the file and then forwarded it to Mr. Fitzpatrick.

Inexplicably, my heart thudded in my chest, and I pressed my palm against my ribs. I also found I had a lump in my throat when I hit “send.” This acute anxiety was likely attributable to the fact that the last time I saw Ronan, he was touching me, telling me he liked me, and suggesting we engage in unprofessional behavior.

And I kind of really, really liked it.

Ronan—that is, Mr. Fitzpatrick—had the uncanny ability to get under my skin and steal into my thoughts. I hadn’t stopped thinking about him since rushing out of the elevator less than twenty-four hours ago. Granted, I’d been thinking about him quite a lot since The Socialmedialite had received his first angry email.

Since our first in-person encounter and our initial virtual email exchange, I’d done a significant amount of research on him. Usually I would leave this type of task to a junior staff member and review a summary report. But not this time. This time, I wanted to make the calls myself.

I contacted his university, where he’d studied physiotherapy, and spoke with his major professor, and then I requested a transcript. I’d also chatted with his agent, coach, the team’s offensive coordinator, two of his teammates, his physical trainer, and his nutritionist back in Ireland.

They all had similar thoughts regarding my Mr. Fitzpatrick.

First, he had a temper, but not like it had been portrayed in the media. They’d all credited his short fuse to passion—for his mother and sister and the people he cared about—and not mindless or childish temper tantrums (like the media suggested).

Second, Ronan was dedicated and honorable, if a tad overly serious and a bit of a wet blanket. This description of him—provided by his teammates and confirmed by his university coach—made me laugh, mostly because it was so completely unexpected and at odds with the flirtatious man who’d cornered me in the elevator.

It seemed Mr. Fitzpatrick took his physical health and competition readiness to the level of near obsession. When the rest of the team gathered after a match to drink at a nearby pub, Ronan was always the designated driver. His nickname was Mother Fitzpatrick.

Third, everyone in Ireland—according to my contacts—knew the reason Ronan had lost it on the field and pummeled his teammate, and her name was Brona O’Shea. There was a YouTube video of the fight that had garnered millions of views. Even though he was the one doing the damage—and boy, did he know how to throw a punch—I felt bad for Ronan as I watched it. There was a sort of pain in his eyes that struck a chord with me. When I spoke to his nutritionist (Jenna McCarthy) about Ronan and Brona, she made it sound like they were the popular celeb golden couple, and all of Ireland followed their every move. As well, no one in the whole of Ireland (all five million people) understood why Ronan Fitzpatrick put up with Brona O’Shea.

“Why, I was just talking to my husband about it last night,” Jenna had said, sounding far too invested in Ronan’s relationship status. “I said I hoped Ronan doesn’t take her back this time. She’s a snake, an absolute snake, and she’s holding him back.”

“This time? Have they split before?” I’d pushed, telling myself I needed to understand the history of Ronan’s relationship with Brona in order to craft a comprehensive image profile for our social media team.

“Ah, yes, but it hasn’t been quite so public before. This time she crossed a line. Instead of dallying about with some rock star, this time she slept with his teammate, his flanker—Sean Cassidy.”

“She—” My mouth moved, but I struggled to find words. I was shocked. “Ms. O’Shea cheated on Mr. Fitzpatrick?” I made a mental note to Google image search Sean Cassidy. In fact, I did it surreptitiously as I spoke to Jenna. He was hot in a blond, pretty boy sort of way.

“Of course! What do you think we’re talking about? She’s a woman of easy virtue, that Brona. Ask anyone. Ronan’s the most loyal person I know, oh!” Jenna made a sad sound, and I heard her sigh before she continued, “I think Brona having it away with his flanker was the last straw. He put up with her changing the way she looked, helped her with her joke of a music career, and all of her other garbage. If you ask me, the man deserves a medal.”

“So….” I’d paused, mulling this information over before asking, “So Mr. Fitzpatrick isn’t responsible for Ms. O’Shea’s altered appearance?”

“Eh? What’s that? You mean her plastic surgeries and the fake tits and the rest of it? No, no. Those were all her doing.”

“What about his family? What do they think about his relationship with Brona O’Shea and her behavior?” I’d asked this question to everyone, and they all gave me more or less the same answer.

“Oh, the high and mighty Fitzpatricks? They won’t even talk to Ronan, never have. His ma raised him and his sister by herself. The Fitzpatricks won’t even acknowledge him. He’s better off without them, in my opinion. They’re the posh society types. They think everything they do is brilliant and everything he does is shite. But he won’t speak a harsh word against them. He’s too good for them, if you ask me.”

Going to the source certainly had given me a lot to think about, such as the unfair assumptions I’d made.

I knew better than anyone that information found on the Internet was suspect at best, and I reprimanded myself for believing—even for a short time—the rumor magazines’ depiction of Ronan. It certainly did explain his anger and overreaction to my article on New York’s Finest last Saturday and his emails to The Socialmedialite; he’d been exploited by money-hungry gossipmongers. He hated the media.