“You can’t do this job and believe in the good of extremely privileged people,” she said drily.
Carmen’s cynicism was on her. I never liked indulging it.
“I’ve spoken to a few people whoswearshe’s nice. No one had any drama to report from set or after.”
Carmen clicked her tongue.
“Which story do you think is going to go viral? Some nobodies swearing that Odetta Olson is a nice person or Older Famous Woman Pulls Younger Famous Woman’s Hair in Front of The Whole Fucking World?”
“She didn’treallydo it.”
I’d watched the videos dozens of times now. Ithadto have been an optical illusion. Fiona Pills must have been reacting to something unrelated at the same time Odetta Olson moved her hand. The jury of publicopinion had spoken, but I needed to believe that women at the top couldn’t bethisnasty.
Carmen let out a pained sigh. “I need to think. I don’t want to play dirty. It’s not how I do business. But if this account goes away, I’ll have to make changes to the team.”
Her gaze rested on me for a second too long before she looked away. Changes to the team? What wasthatsupposed to mean?
“What can I do?” I sounded desperate, because I was.
“Find a way to stop this hellish torrent of shit press right now?” She shook her head. “We’ll talk later.”
With that, I was dismissed.
But that didn’t mean I was done.
Officially, my job description consisted of the menial tasks that befell your average junior publicist. I kept contact spreadsheets up-to-date for media and for clients. I created schedules for events, and I made sure our guests got all the information they needed, the dress code, the menu, all the little details that matter. I gave our clients lists of sample questions before press conferences. I welcomed them at their car, escorted them to the venue. I held clutches and sunglasses during photo calls.
Now, as I walked back to my hotel—I wouldn’t charge a car to the company card, given the state of things—I felt powerless. Useless even. If my promotion depended on this publicity campaign, then I should take the lead. I should be the one to come up with ideas to fix this mess.
It was late afternoon, and the bar was packed. Until now, I’d spent little time in the hotel’s common areas. The color scheme was aggressively bright, and the unframed art hanging on the walls had to be from Ikea, at best.
I was itching to get back to my room, blast on some music, and silently scream lyrics into the mirror. But I couldn’t let it all out if Ben was up there, so I made my way to the bar instead, wondering when was the lasttime I had a drink alone in public. Never, probably.
The line to order was five people deep. The guy right before me turned around.
“I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes and it hasn’t moved one bit,” he said. “I hope you’re not in a hurry.”
His shirt was creased and he sported three-day-old stubble.
“Ugh,” I said, already rethinking my plan.
He sighed. “What does it say about this place that we’re so desperate to get a drink in the middle of the afternoon?”
“You mean Cannes? I’m pretty sure everyone is out drinking from breakfast.”
“There’s a difference between drinking for fun and trying to drown your sorrows, like the rest of us.”
He made a vague gesture at the whole space. I scanned the room, seeing everyone in a new light. This was where all the nobodies had been parked away. The overwhelmed and underpaid twenty-somethings, hair barely brushed and eyes droopy with sleep. This place was swarming with the little people who made the whole shebang happen from behind the scenes.
“What are you here for?” I asked.
“I’m an assistant for a production company. I interned here last year and I’m doing exactly the same thing, just getting paid a slightly less offensively low salary.”
“That’s good, I guess?”
“Yesterday I spent an hour trying to calm down a C-list actor who was hell-bent on getting his driver fired. There was a tiny delay in the schedule, and the guy, the actor, was furious. I had to explain to him that he couldn’t walk to the red carpet or book his own car.”
“Cannes and all the rules!” I said, trying to sound light.
