Page 98 of The Cruiser
“Well,” he says, ever hopeful, “if it makes you feel any better, seeing photos of you naked is almost enough to turn me straight.”
“I really should be strangling you right now,”I say, as lovingly as I can.
“Don’t kill me just yet. An idea popped into my head, and this might be late-night, five-cocktails-deep-spit-balling, but maybe we approach the mango industry. They won’t know what hit them, this sudden demand. We can take credit. Maybe get a new client?”
Just when I think there isn’t further to sink. I shut my eyes against the horror of a reputation shot to pieces. “Can you really tell it’s mango?”
TQ sighs. “Damn those zoom lenses.”
* * *
The transit at JKF starts uneventfully.
In the slow-moving customs line that tests my patience, two bratty children pelt M&Ms at the wiener dog sniffing around bags for contraband fruit while their clueless father surfs on his phone. The airport policeman taking the dog for a stroll shoots me a loaded look as if I'm the negligent mother. If he wants a fist fight, I’m ready. I paced the aisles non-stop on the Atlantic cross, my brain is this close to exploding, and I’m one snippy comment away from an emotional meltdown. I can't wrap my head around the duplicity of Morgan. Is he the cat-loving, brilliant designer who turns me into mush? Or is he a calculating sleazebag who forgets the basics of humanity while searching for new conquests?
I need a session with June and Flynn to help me dissect this. Before leaving Nice, I sent them a group text and brought them up to speed. I should check my phone and respond to their inevitable shock—last they heard I was going out on Morgan’s yacht——but I’m too scared to turn it on.
After the air train drops me at Terminal 7, I grab dinner and pick a dark corner to sit in. I stab half-heartedly at my wilted chicken Caesar salad and wash down the rubbery chicken with a pinot noir so nasty it could peel paint off the walls. It's like the universe reminding me I'm not in Morgan's curated world anymore.
Yeah, thanks. I get it.
Time to forget.
But as the TV mounted above me sputters to life and CNN starts to blare, all hopes of forgetting come to a screeching halt. One of my least favorite newscasters seems to be staring right at me as she finishes a piece on Middle East politics and unloads the heavy artillery.
The internet is lighting up today with news of Vandana Hillman, one of North America’s most respected public relations figures. Risqué photos of Hillman and a mystery lover surfaced out of Europe, and we caution viewers the images are explicit and may be offensive.
Of course, they show the close-ups.
Hillman is married to Derek Slaughter, and both are connected to Hollywood enfant terrible director, Stryker Talone. Talone’s latest movie, Tangled Roots, recently wrapped filming in South Africa. Rumors of infighting and creative differences plagued the set, with tensions running high between Talone and Slaughter, his first assistant director. Deadline, one of Hollywood's breaking news sites, revealed earlier that Slaughter has been removed from Talone’s upcoming superhero movie. And last night, Slaughter was photographed at a West Hollywood gay bar with a man who allegedly worked with him on Tangled Roots. Given Talone’s outspokenness over the LGBTQ community, Hollywood is buzzing with the news…
The half-digested chicken starts to spin counterclockwise in my stomach.
Welcome to the PR apocalypse.
I might never turn my phone back on.
* * *
On the final descent into LAX five hours later, I watch the endless stream of cars on the 405, moving slowly like blood through clogged veins. I’m restless in my seat, imagining luggage in hand, wheeling toward the exit. When I step outside, will it feel like home? Or will I feel lost and rootless? A passenger traveling through someone else’s life?
It’s hard to believe so much can change in a week.
The 747 touches down and around me, phones light up, everyone keen to see what they’ve missed. I’m half-drunk and dehydrated from too much champagne. I bought a New York Yankees ballcap at JFK, jammed all my hair inside, and flew to LA with it low on my eyebrows, sunglasses on. I know how to avoid being recognized. This girl has never worn a ballcap in her life. As the usual announcements come on—welcome to Los Angeles, stay in your seat until we reach the gate—I find the courage to power on my phone. Waiting for the system to connect, I overhear two flight attendants chatting in their jump seats. Dinner reservations and an overnight layover. Then,
“Did you see those photos on Pop Sugar? The ones with the super-hot Euro guy on the yacht?”
“Holy shit, I know! His dick…”
“She must be dying.”
Their comments chip away at all my cross-country positive self-talk. And the fireworks going off on my phone nix whatever’s left. I can’t keep up with the flurry of incoming messages and emails.
Reporters wanting comments. Clients asking me to reach out.
My mother is near total collapse.
Twenty texts and counting.
