It was nearly a year ago when a much less glamorous-looking Rosie—zero highlights, no tight clothes, sans makeup—received an anonymous tip about Gerson PR. According to her source, Gerson was working to cover up legitimate sexual harassment claims that had been leveled against several of their A-list clients.
The source wouldn’t reveal their name, only that they were a former employee. They also wouldn’t name who the clients were, or who at the agency was spearheading the cover-up, only that everyone involved was important. But that was okay—Rosie was a big girl; she could do her own research. And after a year of covering dry-as-dirt municipal issues for theLos Angeles Times, the tip had lit a fire in her. She’d rushed a pitch to her editor.
Who’d promptly rejected it.
According to her editor, no one was interested in sexual harassment stories anymore. #MeToo had come and gone, and the appetite for holding men’s feet to the fire was waning, if not over. Look at the country’s politics, she’d said. Look at the collective exhaustion over callouts and exposés. If Rosie wanted to be the next Ronan Farrow, she’d have to find a juicier subject to sink her teeth into than the systemic exploitation of women.
Rosie had politely disagreed, which had led to her editor politely firing her.
But if anything, facing that rejection had made Rosie all the more determined to tackle the story. After all, Nellie Bly hadn’t chosen toblow the lid off mental health asylums in 1887 because it was fashionable. She’d done it because she’d witnessed injustice and needed other human beings to see it.
At twenty-four, Rosie might have been young, but she knew there was such a thing as right and wrong, and whether or not a journalist reported on an issue shouldn’t be determined by trending topics or if the culturati wanted to dissect it at their dinner parties. Journalists were supposed to lead the conversation, not follow it. She had just enough optimism left to believe that if she uncovered something real—realharm—she could make people care. The afternoon she got the news that Gerson had accepted her as an entry-level assistant, she’d bought herself a cheap bottle of champagne and raised a glass to Nellie.
And then six months of undercover work had flown by, and she’d found nothing.
PR was a field dominated by women. And not just any women: In large part, the employees at Gerson were one and the same. White, “bronde,” and under forty. They even dressed and talked alike, with their Rent the Runway skirt suits and TikTok slang, so it was hard for Rosie to tell them apart in the first few months.
But the fact that this story wasn’t going to be yet another article about men covering up other men’s bad behavior, but rather about thewomenwho sold out their own, was fine—great, actually. How’s that for novelty,Los Angeles Times? She’d even started imagining the headline: “The Handmaidens of Hollywood: PR’s Patriarchy Problem.” Or something like that—she never got to choose her own headlines, anyway.
“Come on, Neil,” said Consuela Rivas, the youngest, slickest, and best-dressed of the partners. She leaned back in her supple leather chair. “You’ve been attending these meetings for eight years. Surely you’re used to premedicating by now. I assumed that’s why you stumbled into your chair, old man.”
The monthly standing meeting between the partners to discuss the most pressing issues facing the agency was confidential, no one allowed inside other than a few lowly assistants to do their bidding. When Rosie had discovered the existence of these meetings, she’d done everything in her power to get the assignment. If the powersthat be at Gerson were colluding to cover up client indiscretions, surely this was where they discussed it. This had to be her ticket in—finally.
“Enough ball busting.” Jessica Michaels was the most intimidating of the partners, broad-shouldered and silver-haired. “We’re here to talk about Gabriel Knox’s presidential run, and whether we’re going to help him with the optics. This could be a big payoff for us, but we’d have to thread a very fine needle.”
Rosie nearly poured Neil’s whiskey on the table. Gabriel Knox was the founder of Knox Aeronautics, a cutting-edge drone manufacturer with big Defense Department contracts, who’d successfully transitioned into politics and was now a house representative for California. Knox was straight out of the Gavin Newsom school—on the younger side, handsome, good at speaking boldly and plainly. Except, unlike Newsom, Knox’s politics hovered around the center-right, which was unusual for California. The combination had won him a lot of attention, but Rosie still hadn’t imagined the man already had presidential ambitions. If she wasn’t laser-focused on her investigation, she might consider jeopardizing her cover just to scoop the news.
“Careful with that decanter, honey,” Neil said. “I hear you have a tendency to pour one out in a person’s lap.” His rheumy eyes held mischief as he patted his lap. “Why don’t you sit here to make sure it stays safe?”
“Neil, for Christ’s sake,” said Consuela, covering her eyes. “You’re a Neanderthal.”
Oh, this waswonderful. Good old-fashioned sexual harassment, like a cherry on top of her story sundae. “If you insist,” Rosie said, sitting exactly where he’d patted. She could see the other assistant’s eyes flash wide with alarm on the other side of the room and had to suppress a victorious smile. A witness and everything. Bless you, feminist Jesus.
“Rosa, please remove yourself from Mr. Gerson’s lap.” Jessica’s tone brooked no argument. Rosie got up and fled to the back of the room without bothering to correct her about her name. “Neil, if you’re done being a liability, I’d like to get back to Knox.”
“The way I see it,” said the fourth and final partner, a middle-agedwoman named Anisha Subramanian, “Knox is smart to see the benefits an LA-based firm brings over DC. We know presidential elections are essentially popularity contests. The DC firms can get him oppo research and the usual press, sure, but they can’t get him on game shows, in Superbowl ads, or get A-list talent at his rallies. My question is, what is he willing he do for us in exchange for backing him? And I’m not talking about money.”
Jessica nodded thoughtfully. “We’ve wanted those union regulations gone for a long time.”
Rosie forced herself to breathe. They were talking about helping get a man elected in exchange for political handouts. It wasn’t what she’d come here to expose, but it was certainly something. And to think the other assistant stood in the corner staring off at the skyline, bored.
“Give me a break, we’re already up to our balls in the Gabriel Knox business,” said Neil, swishing his scotch. “Back in the old days, Anisha, before your time, we did regular cleanup for the man. There’s trust established. I don’t see the downside.”
Cleanup? Rosie almost bounced on her feet.Nowthey were getting somewhere. She prayed silently that Neil would say more, but Jessica cleared her throat and glared.
“Anyway.” Jessica swept a not-too-subtle glance at Rosie, and she pretended to look as bored as the other assistant. “Connie, you haven’t weighed in yet. What do you think?”
Consuela leaned in and steepled her hands. She wore thick, sculptural rings that clanked against the table. “I think thedownside, Neil, is what happens if word gets out that we’re helping a conservative take the highest office? The man isn’t exactly friendly to women or queer people. Or immigrants. Or the working class, God rest their souls.”
“I’m so sick of these labels,” Neil scoffed. “What happened to just being people?”
“Your disgust notwithstanding,” Consuela said, “we’re in the optics business. And the optics of helping Knox aren’t great, especially here in LA. What happens if that group—you know the one, those women who cut men’s throats in the middle of the night—what if they get ahold of this and come after us?”
Rosie abandoned all pretense of boredom and physically leaned in.
“What group?” Anisha asked. Rosie could’ve kissed her.
Jessica chuckled. “You haven’t heard of this? It’s the latest rumor getting our assistants’ panties in a twist. Apparently, Scout Sage is running some sort of… hot girl murder club. I think that’s what they call it.”
