“Née Scott Schulherr. Why did you change your name?”
“The focus group liked it better.”
She smiled along. “See that, Doug? First rule of PR. Always lie entertainingly. Help me up.”
Doug took her wrist and helped her out of bed. She grunted in pain, then glanced at me. “It’s not because I’m fat, Scott. I’ve had a bad back since I was a size six, and it’s only gotten worse. That’s why I don’t travel anymore. As you can see, I made an exception for this.”
“Understandably,” I said, stifling a yawn.
“Nothing understandable about it. I made it clear to Jeremy from the start. I don’t like his music. As a self-respecting woman who grew up on love and Motown, I’m offended by his music. But I also made it clear to C. DeLores Tucker and every other moral watchdog who dangled a check in front of me that I will not help their scapegoat crusade. I have two sons of my own and I take full responsibility for their upbringing. They know that if I ever hear them calling a woman a bitch, I will cloud up and rain all over them.”
Doug and I smiled. Maxina took my arm. She was at least sixteen inches shorter than me, but her potent stare made me want to shrink down to her vantage.
She gestured to the bathroom door. “I know you’ve been kept in the dark, Scott, so let me start illuminating. My client is in that bathroom. Your client is standing right here in front of you. Now you and I are going to be working on two very different projects, but you still report to me. Are we clear?”
“As seltzer.”
“Good. Now before you think I’m an egomaniac, I’ll also make it clear that you can say whatever you want to me. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me I’m crazy. Tell me I’m stupid. But when we’re around Jeremy and Simba, we speak in one voice. Mine. Clear?”
“Got it.” Simba?
She shot me a penetrating smirk. “Oh, you’re one of the sharp ones. You’re a raptor. Hayley Jane was right about you.”
“She’s a good woman.”
“Hasn’t steered me wrong yet. Now let’s get you up to speed.”
“Hold it,” said Doug. He grabbed his briefcase from the bed. “Before we go in there, I’d like you to sign some nondisclosure agreements.”
“Forget it,” Maxina told him. “You know damn well we can’t sue him over a secret operation. Just like he knows damn well that I have the power to cut the legs off his career if he ever double-crosses us. Why don’t we just all accept that and avoid a paper trail?”
My stomach sank. I had much to learn from Maxina, and much to fear. She was right. She had enough contacts and credibility in the media industry to make me persona non grata. On the plus side, she made a careful distinction between messing up and double-crossing them. She’d tolerate a little of the former and none of the latter.
“Come on,” she said. “While they’re still in hot water.”
________________
As soon as I stepped into the Roman-style bathroom, I was hit by ninety degrees of moist air, the heavy scent of bath oil, and the sight of a gorgeous young family in the giant tub. The three of them—man, woman, and infant—were almost surreal in their unblemished perfection, as if they were chiseled from onyx. Ordinarily, I would feel intrusive walking into such an intimate scene, but somehow seeing them naked was no less awkward than looking at art.
With a grand gesture, Maxina presented me. “Jeremy, Simba, this is Scott Singer. Put your trust in this man. He can spin straw into gold.”
“Let’s hope so,” said the woman, extending a wet hand. “I’m Simba Shange. The dutiful wife.”
She had the darkest skin of anyone I’d ever met, the color of walnut. Although her name and her features were both exotic, her dialect was as American as mine. I had no idea what her story was, but I could research her later. My immediate goal was to avoid ogling. When isolated from the family picture, she was a glistening feast for the eyes. Everything about
“The focus group liked it better.”
She smiled along. “See that, Doug? First rule of PR. Always lie entertainingly. Help me up.”
Doug took her wrist and helped her out of bed. She grunted in pain, then glanced at me. “It’s not because I’m fat, Scott. I’ve had a bad back since I was a size six, and it’s only gotten worse. That’s why I don’t travel anymore. As you can see, I made an exception for this.”
“Understandably,” I said, stifling a yawn.
“Nothing understandable about it. I made it clear to Jeremy from the start. I don’t like his music. As a self-respecting woman who grew up on love and Motown, I’m offended by his music. But I also made it clear to C. DeLores Tucker and every other moral watchdog who dangled a check in front of me that I will not help their scapegoat crusade. I have two sons of my own and I take full responsibility for their upbringing. They know that if I ever hear them calling a woman a bitch, I will cloud up and rain all over them.”
Doug and I smiled. Maxina took my arm. She was at least sixteen inches shorter than me, but her potent stare made me want to shrink down to her vantage.
She gestured to the bathroom door. “I know you’ve been kept in the dark, Scott, so let me start illuminating. My client is in that bathroom. Your client is standing right here in front of you. Now you and I are going to be working on two very different projects, but you still report to me. Are we clear?”
“As seltzer.”
“Good. Now before you think I’m an egomaniac, I’ll also make it clear that you can say whatever you want to me. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me I’m crazy. Tell me I’m stupid. But when we’re around Jeremy and Simba, we speak in one voice. Mine. Clear?”
“Got it.” Simba?
She shot me a penetrating smirk. “Oh, you’re one of the sharp ones. You’re a raptor. Hayley Jane was right about you.”
“She’s a good woman.”
“Hasn’t steered me wrong yet. Now let’s get you up to speed.”
“Hold it,” said Doug. He grabbed his briefcase from the bed. “Before we go in there, I’d like you to sign some nondisclosure agreements.”
“Forget it,” Maxina told him. “You know damn well we can’t sue him over a secret operation. Just like he knows damn well that I have the power to cut the legs off his career if he ever double-crosses us. Why don’t we just all accept that and avoid a paper trail?”
My stomach sank. I had much to learn from Maxina, and much to fear. She was right. She had enough contacts and credibility in the media industry to make me persona non grata. On the plus side, she made a careful distinction between messing up and double-crossing them. She’d tolerate a little of the former and none of the latter.
“Come on,” she said. “While they’re still in hot water.”
________________
As soon as I stepped into the Roman-style bathroom, I was hit by ninety degrees of moist air, the heavy scent of bath oil, and the sight of a gorgeous young family in the giant tub. The three of them—man, woman, and infant—were almost surreal in their unblemished perfection, as if they were chiseled from onyx. Ordinarily, I would feel intrusive walking into such an intimate scene, but somehow seeing them naked was no less awkward than looking at art.
With a grand gesture, Maxina presented me. “Jeremy, Simba, this is Scott Singer. Put your trust in this man. He can spin straw into gold.”
“Let’s hope so,” said the woman, extending a wet hand. “I’m Simba Shange. The dutiful wife.”
She had the darkest skin of anyone I’d ever met, the color of walnut. Although her name and her features were both exotic, her dialect was as American as mine. I had no idea what her story was, but I could research her later. My immediate goal was to avoid ogling. When isolated from the family picture, she was a glistening feast for the eyes. Everything about
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