The big celebrities tended to show up late and would navigate the carpet strategically, either approaching outlets for their prearranged interviews or deciding on the spot to say yes to an interested journalist knowing that whatever questions they asked hadn’t been previously vetted.
Last year, Poppy had attended the ESPYS as Cash’s plus-one—his girlfriend at the time, Ashley, was away shooting a campaign for The North Face in the Italian Alps. The World Music Awards wouldn’t be her first red carpet rodeo, but it would be her first time attending one of this magnitude and as Cash’s publicist.
The night needed to go off without a hitch.
Only, the dance she’d expected suddenly had totally different steps.
In the roughly forty-eight hours sincePeoplemagazine had posted an article linking Cash and Lyric and speculating that he might attend the WMAs, Poppy had received a whopping 132 emails and 49 phone calls. Her inbox and voicemail were flooded with media requests and offers from practically every major fashion house that made menswear to dress Cash for the show.
Lyric had already texted Cash a photo of the stunning canary-yellow satin gown she’d be wearing so they wouldn’t clash on the carpet. Despite his fondness for luxury labels, when he could, he’drather use his platform to bring attention—and business—to queer-owned fashion brands. Poppy was already in contact with one of Cash’s favorite labels, trying to finagle expedited alterations.
That left the media requests. Poppy opened her text thread with Rosaline, reread the perfunctory back-and-forth conversation they’d had discussing the logistics, including the private jet company Lyric used, Rosaline knowing it would be next to impossible to book a commercial flight that left Portland after Cash’s practice and would arrive in Los Angeles in time for the awards. She lingered on the brief text Rosaline had sent early Monday morning thanking Poppy for an excellent night.
If she had taken a screenshot of that text for posterity, that would remain between her and the private, locked folder she’d saved it in.
She tapped at the screen and started to type.
Poppy (11:44 p.m.):Is Lyric doing press on the carpet?
Poppy (11:44 p.m.):My email inbox is flooded with media requests for Cash.
Poppy (11:44 p.m.):I know he’s attending as Lyric’s plus-one, so I don’t want to arrange or turn down anything without discussing it with you first.
She didn’t want to step on Rosaline’s toes or for them to get their wires crossed.
Poppy (11:45 p.m.):United front, you know?
Poppy (11:46 p.m.):Are we instituting a moratorium on relationship questions if we do the press line?
Poppy (11:46 p.m.):I can’t decide if it would be silly not to address the elephant in the room or if it would be overkill. Show don’t tell...??
Rosaline (11:54 p.m.):Poppy, are you planning on writing me the next great American novel in 140-character increments?
She cringed.
Poppy (11:55 p.m.):Maybe just the next great American novelette.??
Poppy (11:55 p.m.):Sorry. I’m a little over-caffeinated.
Littlebeing the understatement of the century.
Rosaline (11:56 p.m.):It’s nearly midnight. Stop drinking coffee and go to bed.
Poppy pouted at her phone.
Poppy (11:56 p.m.):Rude.
Poppy (11:56 p.m.):I asked you a question??
Rosaline (11:57 p.m.):I believe you asked me three.
She scrolled back up and counted.
Poppy (11:58 p.m.):One was obviously rhetorical??
In the ten minutes it took Rosaline to respond, Poppy finished her iced chocolate macadamia nut breve from Dutch Bros. Her third of the day. Ill-advised? Most definitely. Delicious? No doubt. But her emails weren’t going to reply themselves, and if she couldn’t sleep after, there was probably some show with eighty-seven seasons on Hulu for her to watch.
Rosaline (12:08 a.m.):Lyric will be skipping the press line. I did promise a brief exclusive to Rolling Stone under the condition all questions be about her album. I trust they know better than to pull any funny business.
