The Hooker and the Hermit

I liked face-to-face interaction, wanted to be able to see, smell, and gauge people in the flesh. Screens to me were just flat black mirrors. They wiped out all of the most vital and exciting things about a person, giving you a bland, one-dimensional representation instead.

I made the concession of emailing Lucy because of the time difference when I was traveling. If I was somewhere like Australia, we were on opposite ends of the globe, and it was nearly impossible to find a decent hour that suited us both to talk over the phone.

Which brings us to the present and why I was looking at a highly offensive message from The Socialmedialite that had made its way to my inbox. I’d been under the assumption that the virtual pimp-slap I’d given her would be my triumphant last word. (Virtual pimp-slaps were allowed in my book; real-life ones, not so much.)

Within the space of two short paragraphs, she’d managed to squeeze in a cacophony of insults. I was yet again a hobbit/leprechaun, I stuffed my jocks with a tube sock, I drove a fast car to compensate for a small dick, and I was a fitting tribute to the short-fused, temperamental Irish stereotype.

Almost of their own accord, my hands were moving over the keyboard, clicking on “reply,” and furiously venting the anger I felt inside. Somehow I was channeling all of my hatred toward the media at this one faceless person. I didn’t think I’d ever typed so fast in my life. I’d written a long, meandering tirade of a paragraph when I looked back at it, immediately highlighted the entire thing, and then hit “delete.”

I wasn’t going to let this blogger know she was getting to me. I was going to be just as cutting as she was without conveying the fact that I gave a shit. Of course, strangely, I did give a shit, a whole lot of a shit. It wasn’t just my legendary quick temper, either, but I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of knowing that.

So I took a deep breath, composed myself, and started from scratch.

March 11

Dear Socialmedialite,

It’s obvious that you live in a fantasy world for the following reasons:

1.) You believe in hobbits and leprechauns.

2.) You call your vagina a pot of gold.

3.) You think I’d ever be interested in your pot of gold.

4.) You believe a tube sock looks like a cock.

Ronan Fitzpatrick

P.S. Your xenophobia truly knows no bounds. Stereotypes are bullshit, but I guess it makes sense that you’d spout them, being the peddler of excrement that you are.

I sat back, flexed my hands, and hit “send,” feeling a rush of satisfaction as I wondered how she would react to my response. Trying not to delve too much into the notion that I might actually like fighting with this person, I quickly shot a message off to Lucy. I included a few things I thought she would potentially be interested in, mostly how I hated having to work with this PR company, but that there was a pretty girl named Annie who they were going to pair me up with, so it wasn’t a complete loss. Ever since Brona, Lucy had been trying to encourage me to get back into the dating scene, so I mentioned Annie purely to keep her happy. Thus far I’d had a couple of sordid one-night stands, and, as I said, that’s all I was after.

A brief memory of the soft, silky feel of Annie’s skin against my knuckles struck me, and it was a welcome distraction. The recollection was so visceral in its simplicity that I felt myself harden.

It had officially been too long since my last shag.

As I made my way into the gym and pulled my iPod from my pocket, I wondered how long it would take to lure Annie into shedding her clothes. They disguised her well, but I’d noticed the subtle curve of her waist and breasts. She would be exquisite when I got her bare, such a contrast to the plain, dowdy way in which I’m sure she thought most people perceived her. And despite the fact that it frustrated me, there was something about her timidity that appealed to me on a very base level. I could just imagine how easily she’d…submit.

My thoughts were making me way too excited for 8:00 a.m. I briefly considered a long shower instead of a workout, but I struggled onward. Perhaps hitting the treadmill extra hard would work off some of the sexual frustration. Firing up my iPod, I selected my favorite workout playlist and started at a slow jog. “The Final Countdown” came on, putting me instantly in the zone.

Mullets and questionably tight pants aside, the best music in the world was ’80s rock, and I had no qualms about admitting it. I didn’t want music that was maudlin and depressing—I wanted music that put me in a good mood and made the world look a little bit brighter.

Two hours later I was showered, dressed, and on my way to my second meeting at Davidson & Croft. Joan had scheduled it with me yesterday, assuring me that Annie would be there. And yeah, I had kind of made it a requirement for my participation and attendance. I mean, the only reason I was doing this was because I wanted to get to know her. If I could clean up my rep while getting into Annie’s curvaceous knickers, then I’d be one happy, sexually sated camper.

Much to my irritation, when I arrived at the offices, I was ushered into a small conference room with Rachel and Ian, and there was no Annie in sight.

“Where’s Annie?” I said, folding my arms and leveling my stare at Rachel. She seemed to be more open to chatting than the stern-faced Ian.

Rachel shuffled her papers. She looked a little nervous. “Oh, she might be in later. Annie doesn’t always work at the office.”

I leaned forward, eager for more information. “Where else does she work?”

“From home. Aside from Joan, none of us really know her that well, but from what I’ve heard, she’s a bit of a hermit. The brilliant ones are always a little odd, you know.”

“Brilliant ones?”

“Well, yeah, Annie can singlehandedly turn your public image around. Remember that Oscar winner who nearly ran over an eighty-year-old lady when he was drunk?”

“Eh, no….”

Rachel grinned. “Exactly. Annie buries the bad and either exalts or manufactures the good, placing accomplishments on a bright, shining pedestal—with a spotlight no one can ignore. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve been in this business for a long time.”

I briefly wondered if Annie thought it was ethical to cover up stuff like that or if she just did it because it was her job. Something about her made me think that, unlike the privileged and distinguished background I was reported to have, Annie was a lot like me. Coming from nothing but trying to build a solid place in the world, willing to do things she didn’t necessarily agree with in order to survive. I bear the name Fitzpatrick, but I have never been accepted by my father’s family. They didn’t approve when my dad married my mother, a girl of no means and no social standing. So, when I was just a kid and he died in a car crash, they basically disowned me and Lucy.

I kept my voice disinterested, conversational, and pushed Rachel for more information. “Where’d she learn to do that?”

“She graduated top of her class at Wharton.” Rachel’s grin widened, like she was proud of Annie’s accomplishments.

“Wharton? Isn’t that Ivy League in the States? Like those twats from Cambridge and Oxford?” I knew I sounded unimpressed. I was disappointed at the thought that Annie was a blue blood.

Rachel shrugged, though she looked amused, like she was trying not to laugh. “Something like that.”

I scowled. “So, she’s a bit of a snob, then? Comes from a rich family?”

She vigorously shook her head. “God, no. Not at all. I think she grew up in Scranton.” Rachel wrinkled her nose as though the word “Scranton” tasted like piss. “She just likes to keep to herself, and like I said, she’s completely brilliant at what she does. She had her pick of firms around the world trying to win her over, but she chose us. That’s why Joan allows her eccentricities. We all know we’re lucky to have her.”

I stared at Rachel, thinking about all of this.

Growing up, we had very little. Ma had to work hard to put me through Belvedere, the same school Dad had attended, and I’d always be grateful to her for that. I wondered who had worked hard to help Annie go to Wharton.

“So, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” Ian began, all business, “Rachel and I have put together the preliminary proposal, and I’d like to run through it with you if that’s all right?”

“Sure, go ahead,” I replied, shrugging, and that was my cue to zone out.

Ian seemed to be slowly losing his temper as I continually clicked a pen while he spoke. He could get as angry as he wanted. Joan had promised me Annie would be here today. So I was feeling a little bit conned with the whole “no Annie” situation.

“We’d like you to attend a few high-profile film premieres and awards ceremonies over the coming weeks. Having you photographed on the red carpet will get you featured in magazines and on websites, put you on the radar, so to speak,” said Ian before glancing down at the papers in front of him and continuing under his breath, “so we should look into vetting potential dates for you.”

“Oh,” Rachel said excitedly, “I’m on good terms with Taylor Swift’s people. Perhaps I could get you an intro.” She glanced at Ian. “Is she single right now?”

Ian shrugged. On the inside, I was pissed at the idea of being set up like that; on the outside, I took the piss.