I Know a Secret

Thirteen

The week after Christmas is not officially a holiday week, but it might as well be if you work in the PR biz as I do. No one is answering my phone calls or emails today. None of my usual newspaper contacts want to hear about the scandalous new memoir by the TV celebrity who just happens to be my god-awful client. This last week in December is a dead zone when it comes to selling books or pitching stories about books, but this happens to be the week that the memoir by Miss Victoria Avalon, reality-TV star, has been tossed into the marketplace. Of course, Miss Avalon did not really write her book, because she’s close to illiterate. A reliable ghostwriter was hired for the task, a woman named Beth who turns in clean if uninspired copy and always delivers on time. Beth hates Victoria, or so it’s rumored. As a book publicist, I’m privy to a lot of inside gossip, and this particular nugget is almost certainly true, because Victoria is eminently hateable. I hate her too. But I also admire her for her who-gives-a-fuck-what-you-think attitude, because that’s exactly the attitude you need to get ahead in the world. In that way, Victoria and I are alike. I really don’t give a fuck either; I just do a better job of hiding it.

In fact, I’m superb at hiding it.

And so I sit at my desk, a smile on my face, as I explain to Victoria over the phone why none of the hoped-for interviews we pitched to radio or TV have come through. This is because it’s only a few days after Christmas, I tell her, and everyone’s still too stuffed with turkey and booze to return my calls. Yes, Victoria, it’s an outrage. Yes, Victoria, everyone knows how big a name you are. (Your tits appeared in Esquire! You were married to a New England Patriots tight end for a grand total of eight months!) Victoria thinks it’s my fault the publicity isn’t rolling in the door for her, my fault that those stacks and stacks of her (actually Beth’s) book aren’t moving in Barnes & Noble.

I keep smiling even when she starts to yell at me. It’s important to smile even while on the phone, because people can hear the smile in your voice. It’s also important because my boss, Mark, is watching me from his desk, and I can’t let him see that our client is going ballistic and will probably fire Booksmart Media as her publicity firm. I’m smiling as she calls me a stupid little Barbie. I’m even smiling as she slams down the phone.

Mark says, “Is she upset?”

“Yes. She expected to be on the bestseller list.”

He snorts. “They all expect that. You handled her well.”

I don’t know if he’s flattering me or if he means it. We both know that Victoria Avalon is never going to be on any bestseller list. And we both know that I’ll be blamed for it.

I need to get her some press coverage for her stupid book, ASAP. I turn to my computer to see if Victoria’s name has turned up anywhere in any media. Even a gossip column will do. I wake up the screen and the Boston Globe home page lights up. That’s when I spot the latest news — not about Victoria, who I suddenly don’t give a fuck about. No, this is a front-page story about the dead young man found on the pier at Jeffries Point a few nights ago. On TV yesterday, they reported that the victim was shot with arrows. The police now know the man’s name.

“Maybe we should pitch her book to Arthur again,” says Mark. “I think he just needs a nudge. Her memoir is tangentially related to football, and I can see it showing up in his sports column.”

I look up at Mark. “What?”

“Victoria was married to that football guy. It’s an angle for a sports columnist, don’t you think?”

“I’m sorry.” I grab my purse and jump out of my chair. “I need to run out for a while.”

“Okay. Nothing seems to be happening today anyway. But if you get a chance to review that press packet we’re sending out for Alison Reeve’s book—”

I don’t hear the rest of what he says, because I am already running out the door.