Spin Control (4 page)

Unidentified guest. That pretty much summed up
our whole relationship. The picture had appeared in
the magazine two months after our breakup. Needless
to say, I spent another two months scrutinizing the
photo daily.

The only saving grace was that it was actually a presentable picture-good thing, too, or else I would have
had to move to Saskatchewan. My wavy chestnut hair
barely touched my shoulders, which I'd shown off in a
black halter top gown. When Anna first saw the picture,
she immediately called me at work. "What a babe you
are. You look better than any starlet he could have
brought to one of these gala events. Who did your
makeup?" Anna, of course, had done my makeup for
my first-and last major outing with Devin. She had
pulled out the photo shoot lights and everything. Rather
intimidating, really, trying not to sweat off the layers of
caked-on goo. "I mean, I knew I did a good job on you,
but you surpassed my wildest dreams" I'll admit, I'd
known she was overcompensating since at that point the
breakup was still fairly fresh, but I took what I could get.

I looked at the photo now, shifting my attention to
Devin. Hot, there was no two ways about it. His jetblack hair provided the perfect contrast to his crystalblue eyes. They gave me flutters every time I saw him.
And at six feet five, he'd made me feel petitesomething my five-foot, nine-inch frame never allowed
around most men. And those broad shoulders. Yum.

I cut off that line of thought with a sigh. Where was
the justice? Blessed with a fortune, blessed with perfect
genes ... I looked at the photo one last time. Maybe I
wasn't Devin's typical girlfriend, but at that moment, in
that picture, I had believed that we were the perfect fit.

I dropped the picture when my door buzzer sounded.
Michael had arrived for our evening appointment. Tripping over the Devin-related magazines and Internet
printouts scattered on the floor, I sauntered toward the
door. I flipped the deadbolt, turned the handle, and
found a box brimming with magazines practically in
my lap.

"Sorry," Michael said, clutching at it. "I was just
leaning it against the door jamb"

"Whoa, you're certainly ahead of me on the research," I commented.

"Do you know how many magazines Gwen has in the
storage room? Everything that's been in print on the
East Coast since 1972, I swear. I grabbed everything I
could from '95 through now." Michael grunted as he
threw the box on the floor next to my research materials. He was still wearing his work clothes.

It was awkward having a man in my house after all
these years, even if he was just a platonic coworker. Before Michael arrived, I hid all personal items-even the
innocuous stuff, like my toothbrush.

I watched him scan my loft-the hardwood flooring,
the shadows of the walls, and angles of the ceiling. It
might not have been ultra-modern like the condo he
likely lived in, but he seemed genuinely impressed.

That is, until he opened his mouth.

"Wow! What's Gwen paying you to live in a loft
like this?"

Not only stodgy, but tacky. I bristled. "Probably not
as much as you, considering that she talked about you
every day for the two weeks before you started at the
office. She loved the fact that she was getting one of the
hottest publicists from L.A."

"One of the hottest publicists, huh? That's flattering.
She speaks highly of you, too."

"Well, I work hard," I said with a nonchalant shrug.
"I do pretty well, but I choose to have a great place
rather than great furniture." Michael and I simultaneously looked at the two main pieces in my living
room-a red-and-gold loveseat I'd found at an estate
sale on a road trip to the Pennsylvania countryside, and
a used purple-velvet couch an old neighbor abandoned
in her apartment. "Some day I hope to have the trendy
New Yorker lifestyle, but for now, this is home"

"Trendy New Yorker? I think you're well on your
way" Could that be flirting? I wondered, but immediately reneged that thought. He wouldn't know what
flirting was if a woman brazenly threw herself at him.

"Can I get you something to drink?" I said, trying to
disrupt the disturbing mental image I had just created.
"I have water and soda. Pretty basic."

"I'll have some water thanks" Michael followed me
into the kitchen and leaned against the counter. "So, do
you find it odd that Gwen seems really wrapped up in
this Underhill account? I don't want to sound arrogant,
but I've had much more challenging subjects. I mean,
he's a dim playboy."

I thrust the bottle of water at Michael. No need to be
reminded of my poor choice in dating Devin. I shifted
to my business persona. "I did some more research on
Hotel Bella itself, and yes, it is losing profits. And in recent surveys, guests have indicated their displeasure
with the franchise's image. But how "Father Fox" connected this demise to Devin is beyond me"

"The best guess I have is that Hotel Bella has positioned itself with high-end, posh accommodations offered by a well-to-do but still down-to-earth family,"
Michael said dryly. "And now that you have the heir to
this regarded business running rampant all over the
city, people are starting to get turned off. Or at least
that is what we say tomorrow. It's impossible to connect something as objective as statistics to something
as subjective as behavior."

I suppressed a big, fat eye-roll at his stuffy language.
"Did you get that out of a brochure?"

Michael cleared his throat. "Okay, let me refocus:
Why does Gwen care so much?"

Michael was right. Gwen did seem overzealous
about the whole thing. "For starters, she wasn't shy
about how much dough she's gonna bring in from the
Underhills. But I can't help but wonder if she might not
have a crush on Fox. Here he is, a good-looking, widowed, wealthy man whom she referred to as an `old
friend' earlier today. All I know is that I don't care what
the reason is because-" I stopped myself. Gwen had
promised me a partnership, but I couldn't assume she
had done the same for Michael. But apparently she had.

"Oh, you mean becoming a partner? Yeah, she told me that she offered it to you and asked if I'd be interested in joining the club."

I felt slighted. Why would Gwen want that yawner to
run her company? Was she just doing a little doubletalk trick with us? Why would a publicist use that trick
against her own? But now was not the time to jump to
conclusions. Surely Gwen wouldn't manipulate me like
that. And the last thing I wanted was for Michael to
think I was obsessing over the situation.

"Well, if we do become partners," I grinned, "the
first order of business is to take down that `Hang in
There, Baby' poster. You know, the one with the cat
dangling from the scratching post?"

Michael laughed. "Yeah, I think she stole that one
from my third-grade classroom"

I put my hand up. "Wait. Where's my computer? I've
got to write a press release"

"Huh?"

"I think that's the first time I've ever heard you
laugh. This is news."

"I laugh," he objected.

"I don't think so"

"Of course I do"

"Nope"

"That's because you don't joke in New York. Everybody's always so busy being aloof and urban and
ironic. Everybody thinks they're in a Woody Allen
movie."

"So, if Woody Allen is our director, who's the director for the L.A. crowd?"

His eyes crinkled with humor. "Ah, everybody's the director of their own movie there" Huh, Anna was
pretty observant the first time she met him. His eyes
were hazel, and I had noticed for the first time the little
dark flecks near the middle.

I swallowed. "We really should get started on this."
Yes, and get out of the kitchen into the nice, open living room. "How about you start going through all
those magazines while I whip up some strong coffee
for myself?"

I returned to the kitchen and dug for my espresso
maker. "Hey," Michael yelled from the living room. "Is
this a first edition of Catcher in the Rye?"

I peeked my head around the corner. "Yup. I got it as
a gift from my mom. I was obsessed with that book in
high school. Could really relate to that teen-angst
thing."

He carefully flipped through the delicate pages.
"Hmm, and I thought only guys could relate to Holden
Caufield." We shared a look, one of those that's a beat
longer than it should be. I turned back to my cupboards, plowing through the plates and bowls obstructing my way to my coffee maker.

"Wow, your hair's really long in this picture,"
Michael said from the doorway.

I jumped and knocked my head on the cabinet. When
I came out and saw him holding the photo from New
York magazine, all I wanted to do was crawl back in.
How had he gone from J.D. Salinger to Kate Brown
history in one minute?

Michael stared at the photo, looking horribly con fused, or maybe lost. I tried to explain. "Yeah, I got it
cut right after that picture was taken and my friend
Anna said I looked like Halle Berry but I really thought
I looked more like the love child of Rod Stewart and
Elton John after he got his weave, so I cried for two
days. Anyway, you probably don't care since guys usually don't give a crap about bad haircuts but I am glad
that it's grown out a bit and I think this length is still
considered short but not as short as it was that fateful
day when no one stopped me from getting my hair
chopped" I stopped.

Michael grinned slightly as he watched my cheeks
redden. "Okay, do you want to breathe and tell me the
real story?"

"It was two years ago, we only went out for six
months, and please don't tell Gwen because she'll fire
me for withholding this information from her."

"So you dated Devin Underhill," he said thoughtfully. "Hunh."

"What's with the `hunh' ?" I bridled.

"He just doesn't seem to be your type"

My type? What did Michael know about my type? Of
course, it could just have been guy-speak for "You don't
seem like his type" Instead, I gave Michael the answer I
thought he was looking for. "Everybody's got a past, and
that's mine," I said. So it was a movie line, but I wasn't
above using whatever tools came to hand. Besides, it was
New York and ironic. "Look, I was younger and didn't
have my priorities straight. Now I do, and can we please
just forget about it?" My voice was headed dangerously close to squeaky. "I assure you, Michael, it's in the past
and it's not going to interfere with this project. I am all
about professionalism, and I ask the same of you"

"How did it end?"

Oh, that was the capper. He wanted me to trot out my
romantic failures for him? Not in this lifetime. "It's not
important," I said coolly. "Trust me. I want nothing
more to do with him, romantically, anyway. Unfortunately, he has become my ticket to succeeding at
Gwen's firm, or so she alleges, and I am doing my best
to forget that we ever dated"

"How did it end?" he repeated, idly curious.

"How do you think it ended?" I snapped, wondering
why I was on the hot seat in my own home. "He lost interest. We were just a mismatch from the start. You
know, forcing something to be there that shouldn't have
gone past the second date?" I quickly turned to my
espresso maker, never more interested in making some
high-caf brew as I was at that moment.

Michael followed me to the kitchen. "So, do you
think-"

"I don't want to be rude, but I really don't want to
discuss it anymore. Can we just go back to the living
room and start our pitch for tomorrow morning?"

Michael ran a hand through his brown hair, which
surprised me because I didn't think he'd want to mess it
up. "So you were working at Burton Relations when
you were seeing Devin, right? Isn't he going to suspect
something when Daddy brings him to our office?"

I briefly panicked; Gwen would have me on a one way train to Philly by sundown tomorrow. But then I remembered who we were talking about.

"Trust me, he won't remember where I work. Heck,
I'll be surprised if he even remembers my name."
That's exactly what I needed, a reminder of Devin's
selfishness to keep me motivated to stay on the account.

With a sense of empowerment, I breezed past
Michael, sat down on the floor of my den, and plowed
through the magazines with the efficiency of a factory
worker. Michael followed my lead.

The articles definitely came under the heading of too
much information, featuring the gaudy details of his recent romantic encounters.

"Gotta hand it to the guy, he gets around," Michael
said mildly.

"Would I sound naive if I said that he wasn't like this
when we were dating?" I shook my head in bewilderment. "So he liked to look at the ladies, but that was
about it. He enjoyed his drinks, sure, but he was never
sloppy around me, at least."

Michael was concentrating on his laptop and didn't
reply.

I exhaled a relieved sigh when I knew that Michael
wasn't paying attention. This was the Michael I knew,
not the guy who kept asking me what happened with
Devin, and looking like he actually cared. I grabbed another magazine and halfheartedly flipped through it.
Okay, maybe I was flipping through my memories more
than the magazine in front of me, but it was all data.

As though he'd heard my thought, Michael raised his head. "I don't suppose you know anything from your
time with Devin that will help us, do you? I mean, we
have to think of a way to straighten him out"

I thought of the end of our relationship, dates cancelled not by Devin but by his assistant, proclamations
that he would be settling if he stayed with me, and, of
course, Devin's infamous ways of "shielding" me from
the public. It was all too humiliating to share with anyone but Anna-and certainly not Michael. I feared
mockery. "Let me think about it," I evaded.

"Ugh" Michael sounded genuinely disgusted.

"What?"