“Look, I’m sympathetic. You’re not the first client to fall on hard times. But I’m not a charity. You get it, right? It’s not personal; it’s business.”
No, she did not just give me the business equivalent of the breakup lineIt’s not you, it’s me, did she? “Kiki,” I say with renewed vigor, “don’t believe everything you read. It’s all one big misunderstanding.”
“Really?” Her voice falters slightly. Kiki never falters.
“Really,” I say confidently. Even though I don’t know exactly how we’re going to be cleared, I am relying on the assurance of my dad, who is, if nothing else, confident to the core. “We have an appeal in a few days, and our lawyer says if all goes well, everything will go back to normal in as early as two weeks.”
“Two weeks?” she repeats skeptically. “Then why don’t you call me when the appeal is finalized, and we can resume where we left off?”
“But you know as well as I do, a day out of the media is like years. If I wait it out, I’ll be vilified to the point of no return. Or worse, I’ll be forgotten about entirely.” I shiver as I say this; a film of cold sweat lines my forehead. “Isn’t there anything I can do now?”
“As much as I’d like to help, I don’t run on credit. Maybe you could start a GoFundMe?”
Virtual panhandling?As bad as things are at the moment, I am not at the point where I need to start begging for support, financial or otherwise.
“The funds are there,” I reassure her. “Or at least they will be there after we win the appeal.”
“Then as soon as your payment clears, I can start booking you for events. There are a couple gigs I could line up for you. One is for unwanted animals. I’m sure they’re desperate enough to have anyone come. Will you be in LA anytime soon?”
As appealing as that sounds (honestly she may as well have described it as a charity event for me, not the sad, unwanted animals), I realize I don’t have many options.
“Look, Elena,” she says, probably sensing my defeat. “This isn’t my first time strategizing a comeback. Many of my clients have successfully revived themselves from financial ruin. And two weeks isn’t going to do irreparable damage.”
I don’t love her phrasing.Financial ruinhas such a negative connotation. But I’ll admit she’s got me curious. “How?”
“Look at Martha after her incarceration. Kim K. after her sex tape. And Woody Allen after, well, all the times he got canceled. Every one of them was able to come back and rebrand themselves to become bigger than they were pre-fall. Netflix documentaries. Celebrity collaborations. Hosting gigs. If it worked for them, it can certainly work for you.”
“I’m listening,” I say. This new plan to rejuvenate my brand into a better one is an idea I can get behind.
“Use this time to think of content you can use to rebrand yourself. A charity, a noble cause—anything that gets you back in the good graces of the public.”
“What do you mean? I don’t create my own content; you know that. The press does that for me. They’re everywhere I go.”
“That was before It’s Ok! became the bad guy. Any connection to the Madoff 2.0 Scandal is considered social leprosy. No one wants to be associated with the scandal, and that includes It’s Ok! From now on, the media is not your friend.”
“No, you have that wrong. People like me for me,” I say adamantly. “Sure, I initially got media attention because of It’s Ok!, but people stuck around for me. I’m endearing, and charming, and—have you seen me?My lifestyle is aspirational, and I work hard to uphold that image.” Although it may seem contrary to vignettes you see online or in the media, turning ridicule into a monetizable catchphrase, paid partnerships with products that sell themselves, cross-promoting product placement at paid events—that takes work!
“Still, your name is synonymous with your family’s business. You need to distance yourself from the company,” Kiki says. “My advice? Don’t do anything desperate to try to make yourself relevant. No onelikes a clingy ex-girlfriend, and there’s real power in making yourself obscure. Eat, pray, love your way through this time. People love that stuff. And when this all blows over and you’re ready to come back in a couple weeks, we’ll find some way to drum up the anticipation for your reappearance.”
“Okay, I can do that,” I say, thinking out loud.
“Great,” she deadpans. “That one’s on the house.”
“Thanks, Kiki.” I feel instant relief from hearing her plan, which reminds me of why I hired her in the first place. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“I don’t either,” she says without a hint of irony. She hangs up without saying bye. I would have read into the way she abruptly ended the call if I wasn’t so sure Kiki said what she meant and meant what she said. Besides, she’s given me a lot to think about. As long as people think I’m spending my time eat-pray-loving and not living in squalor, maybe I can ride this out and still end up on top. And, bonus, this town might be the thing I need to come up with an angle to separate me from our family’s name, which is synonymous with the fashion industry, since I can’t imagine there being anything remotely fashionable here. Best of all, if it works the way Kiki said it would, I’ll be back to making the steady income I need to move out on my own as soon as this nightmare is over.
Chapter 12
Kiki must really be a miracle worker, because everything around me is starting to look better, not just my outlook. The mattresses in the room make it cozier, the bathroom is much improved, and the musty odor is gone. It actually smells pleasant.
No, wait. That’s not my imagination. Next to the brochure of the observatory is a plate of food left for me on the kitchen counter. At least my mom didn’t completely forget about me. It reminds me of Carolina’s meals, which were presented to me on a marble tray under a glass dome. But, like, the poor man’s version. I pare my expectations for whatever is left for me on the plate. Stale bread, a piece of cheese, maybe even an apple. Underneath a film of plastic wrap, however, I’m surprised to find something more palatable. Eggs Benedict?
It isn’t until I peel the plastic wrap off that I notice the eggs Benedict look different from the ones I’m used to. Instead of an English muffin, the poached eggs slathered in hollandaise sauce are sitting on top of rice that has been shaped into a mound with a chopped-up layer of something in the middle. When I take my first bite, the flavors burst in my mouth. The mystery layer is sautéed chives, and the rice has been fried so that it’s crunchy on the outside and chewy on the inside. At least we don’t have to eat like we’reprisoners, even though our accommodations may suggest otherwise. When did Mom learn to cook like this? What am I saying? When did she learn to cook,period?
Mom is not someone who works with her hands. Every year, Brenthaven organizes a community service day where we go to the inner city and paint over graffitied walls or plant flowers in underfunded communities. Parents are always encouraged to come and do the work with us, but Mom always declines. Instead she writes a check, which is the extent of hands-on that she gets. I guess if Mom is making an effort, I should take her suggestion to get to know the place better more seriously. And who knows? Maybe I will like it here.
I get ready to go to the convenience store, where I intend to pay Callie back with cash our parents left us, but there’s something else I have to do first. Yesterday’s outing was unsettling. I’m not used to being in a place where I’m not the life of the party. So, fueled mostly by curiosity and a little bit of denial, I’ve come up with a plan to remedy that.
