Spin Control (5 page)

"It's nothing."

"It doesn't sound like nothing." He attempted to tuck
the magazine away, but I hastily reached over and
snatched it out of his hand.

There Devin was, eyes half open, with his hand cupping a buttock of the April Playmate. I slid the magazine back to Michael.

"There's being a playboy, and then there's hanging
lecherously all over a Playmate" Michael shook his
head. "Creep"

For the next two hours, we urgently took notes on paper and on our laptops, attempting to put all our information together for a cohesive presentation. We agreed
not to make this a personal attack on Devin, which
went completely against my instinct.

"So, earlier today, you seemed pretty confident that
this was going to be a cakewalk. But I'm still curious to
know who you worked with in L.A." Please say Courtney Love. Please say Courtney Love.

"Ah, just the usuals. Derrik Train is a big one."

"Yeah, I don't much get into that whole scene, but he
does sound somewhat familiar."

"Derrik plays the main character on Long Beachyou know, a Dallas for the Gen-Xers? Anyway, he took
a joyride with a young woman who claimed to be a reporter for a college newspaper. He was driving pretty
fast, missed a curve, and wrapped the girl and the Mercedes around a telephone pole."

I gasped. "That's awful! What happened to the girl?"
And how did I miss this whole story when it happened?
That's why it's better to market products rather than
celebrities, I suppose. Or that may be what made
Michael such a great publicist-he made us all forget
that it ever occurred.

"Well, the good news is that they both walked away
without a scratch. The bad news was that the girl lied
about her age-she was a 14-year-old fan"

"And, of course, you had to swoop in and try to spin
Derrik's bad judgment?"

"Yeah, my boss really wanted me to play up that this
young teenage girl was a floozy and all but seduced
Derrik, but I just couldn't do that. I mean, she's just a
kid. Derrik should've known better."

"Wow, that's dicey," I said, shaking my head. "What
did you do?"

Michael shrugged. "I got on the phone with the
tabloids to tell them that it was one big misunderstanding. Derrik assumed she was older, he made a mistake,
nothing happened, Derrik was a perfect gentleman, police reports show there was no alcohol or drugs in his system, it was a dark road with a curve, he was actually
bringing the girl back home when he realized the mixup with the girl's age . . " Michael sighed through his
nose. "See why I needed to get out of L.A.?"

I cleared my throat. "Well, should we get back to
Devin? As far as I know, he hasn't done anything like
Derrik, but it sounds like we'll still be able to strongarm him tomorrow."

"Strong-arm him? Isn't that a wrestling move?"
Michael said wryly.

"Hey, I was raised in the Midwest. It's what I know."

"Guess I'm not surprised." He spoke with a hint of
condescension.

I opened my mouth to reply, but quickly shut it. What
did that mean, `Guess I'm not surprised'?

"Why so quiet?" he asked a little while later.

Yes, go ahead and insult me, and then wonder why
I'm not chatty. "I'm contemplating whether I should
use The Claw or The Hulk Hogan on you, that's all"

He set aside his laptop, clutching his gut from laughter. "You didn't think I was serious about the wrestling
comment, did you?"

"For starters, it's `rasslin,' not `wrestling."' I sheepishly joked back. "Sorry for getting a little saucy back
there. I just get a lot of `you know you're from Missouri
if' commentary out here, so I might be a little quick
with the sword."

"Might?" Michael winked.

I felt myself blush. I prayed he didn't see that.

I flipped the switch inside my office door, and the fluorescent lights hummed a moment and then blinked on.
There was no natural light coming in through my window at this time of day, in this dreary March. The pitiless clock on the wall boasted 6:45.

This was supposed to be my morning of victory, or
so Anna had told me. I was supposed to bound in to the
meeting bursting with health and style. Instead, I was
creeping into the office before the paperboys had even
finished their deliveries, my eyes still stinging from the
sleep I didn't get. Not that I hadn't tried after I'd sent
Michael home at about 2 A.M. I'd tossed. I'd turned.

I'd given up.

On top of the sleepless misery, I couldn't bear the
thought of watching cheesy early-morning television.
The only alternatives were staring absently at my
closet, waiting for a knock-Devin-dead outfit to throw itself at me, or coming to work two hours before everyone else in Manhattan. I chose both, only the latter of
which was successful. After pulling shirts from dresser
drawers and skirts from hangers for an hour, I begrudgingly decided on a sleeveless black cowl-neck sweater,
a brick-red skirt that hit just above the knee, and
strappy, wedged Mary Janes.

I sauntered to the office kitchen and grabbed a bottle
of water. What I really needed was an I.V. of java, but
getting within ten feet of coffee would guarantee that it
would become an unwelcome addition to my already
shaky outfit. Instead, I opted for a nice, cold bottle of
water-safe option.

Back at my desk, I stared at my notes, waiting for inspiration to hit. I supposed that I didn't need to worry
about it; after all, the plan Michael and I had set into
place was pretty straight-forward: Don't threaten
Devin, be his friend, give him a list of high-end events
to attend and people to be around, and so on.

I didn't much care for the idea of poring through all
these notes again, but still, my experience as a public
relations executive told me that preparation was essential. Anna always said I was blessed with the gift of
speaking off the cuff, but overconfidence in such an
ability could devour me. I imagined worst-case scenarios of blanking when Fox Underhill asked me about the
strategy for Devin or when Devin himself questioned
my involvement in the project. Shaking my head to
clear it of the negative visions, I grabbed my notes, circled my office, and began practicing how I would start
the meeting before handing it off to Michael.

"Well, well, well, this must be the famed Devin Underhill I've been hearing so much about." I extended
my hand for an imaginary handshake. "It's a pleasure
to place the man with the name-all those pictures in
the magazines really don't do you justice." I smacked
an open palm against my forehead, partly out of frustration, partly out of embarrassment for myself.

"Devin is never going to go for this." I said as I
turned back to the desk to scavenge my notes. "He will
blow my cover, we will lose the account, Gwen will fire
me, and I will be shuffling through the streets of New
York in a tattered overcoat, pushing a shopping cart
and talking to myself like the crazy person I am"

"You should charge admission for that routine."

I gasped and jumped back at the voice. There, leaning against the doorframe, was Michael, dressed in a
navy-blue jacket and a white Oxford shirt with one button undone.

"No tie."

"Good morning to you too" Michael looked down.
"Oh, should I have worn one?"

"No, I'm just going into shock because I've never
seen you without a tie, that's all."

"I see that your wit is always on, twenty-four-seven."

"What can I say? All that sleep I got last night just
jazzed me up" I picked up my folder with notes and
immediately dropped it on my desk. "Just so you know,
when this meeting is done, I'm leaving for a big, fattening, fancy lunch and I'm not coming back until tomorrow morning."

"That sounds pretty desperate"

"The situation is pretty desperate"

"I don't think so" He stepped closer to me. "I think
we've got a plan and a good approach. I think we'll do
fine. Either way, I'm tagging along with you to your
big, fattening, fancy lunch."

I gave a humorless laugh. "Trust me, as soon as
Devin figures out what we're talking about, he's going
to be ticked off and gone, pretty much in that order."

"I'm not so sure. I think he'll stay, if only to try to
make himself look good"

"Wait, wasn't I the one who dated him?"

"True, but I'm betting he's going to stay"

"You serious about that?"

He blinked. "Why? What do you have in mind?"

"I think Devin is going to storm out of the meeting
and I'm willing to make a bet on it. If he stays, I have to
buy your meal. If he goes, you are picking up my entire
bill. Overpriced hors d'oeuvres and all." I grinned confidently because there was no doubt in my mind how
this meeting would end. Whenever Devin didn't get his
way or didn't know how to handle an adverse situation,
he left the room. Toward the end of our relationship,
Devin and I had been discussing what movie to see.
Devin wanted an action flick; I wanted a comedy. When
I pointed out to him that the last three movies we had
watched had been action-oriented, Devin turned his
back on me, walked out of my apartment, and didn't
talk to me for three days.

"It's a deal," Michael said as he shook my hand
firmly. A soft hand, yet still masculine.

I broke from the handshake and smoothed my skirt. "Now if you'll excuse me, Michael, I have some notes
that I must blankly stare at" As I sat down at my desk, I
watched Michael leave my office. I could not wait to win
our bet so I could show him what girls from the Midwest
really do for grins: eat till we can't see-and watch the
boys pick up the tab. I giggled girlishly. This was going
to be fun. Michael? Fun? What an interesting concept.

"It's showtime." Gwen peered into my office as I applied powder to my face. "This isn't a beauty contest,
Brown. Devin and Fox are going to be here in five minutes, so pack up your girlie stuff and get in the main
conference room."

When I first started at Gwen's firm, I teared up each
time she barked orders like this one. But over the years,
I learned that Gwen's drill-sergeant demeanor was how
she channeled her stress. With that, I looked up from
my compact and saluted-okay, more like shielded
myself from her blinding yellow suit and matching
pumps. Gwen shook her head and walked toward the
meeting room.

An eerie, rather unnatural calm had set over me
about twenty minutes earlier. I gathered my materials
and walked briskly toward the conference room. There
sat Michael, Gwen, and Fox, but no Devin. I set my
handful of papers and folders on the cherry-wood table
and walked toward Fox. Gwen stood up to introduce us.
"Fox, this is Kate Brown. Kate, Fox Underhill."

I was reminded how Devin got his striking features.
Fox was about six-foot-three with silver hair contrasting tanned skin, presumably from all his travels. His blue eyes were a shade darker than his son's; they offered a sense of genuineness, but you could tell they
meant business.

I'd had a similar reaction to Fox the last-and
only-time I met him. Devin needed to stop at his father's downtown penthouse, and I had to practically beg
to come in with him. When I entered the apartment, I
maintained my awe as best I could. It was more impressive than Devin's Park Avenue abode, and I thought that
was a jaw-dropper. But there in Fox's home, I was experiencing a completely different lifestyle.

The living room alone, which was the only part of
Fox's home I saw, looked like a museum. The floors,
Devin later told me, were made of wood imported from
Africa. An eighteenth-century French writing table
with bronze legs stood in the foyer, while intricate
Turkish rugs blanketed the hardwood floors. Two mottled European vases with rich greens and blues on mahogany stands were placed on either side of Fox's
sleek, mocha-colored couch. Off to the side I caught a
glimpse of the den, which held an antique baby-grand
piano-another relic in this untouchable dwelling.

I walked toward the big picture windows, where a
stunning view of Manhattan's finest buildings glowed in
the setting autumn sun. Devin picked up his items from
his father's place and pulled me away from the majestic
scene. As we exited, Fox walked in wearing his tennis
whites-so apropos for this situation, I thought smugly.

"Hi, Dad," Devin said abruptly as he grabbed my
hand and pulled me to the door.

"Devin, aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?" Fox had a twinkle-perhaps one of
empathy-in his eyes.

"This is Kate Brown. We were just on our way out."

"Mr. Underhill, I've heard so much about you," I
lied. On the contrary, in fact. Devin rarely talked
about his father. Come to think of it, Devin and I
hadn't talked about much of anything. I'd wanted to
spend the evening with Fox, but when I turned to
Devin to make the suggestion, he shifted restlessly
from foot to foot.

"Well, I'd love to stay and chat, but Devin and I are
going to be late for a concert," I begrudgingly fibbed. "I
hope we can talk again soon" At least that part was
truthful.