Page 106 of When We Were Enemies
“I interned at the UNICEF headquarters. It’s a great organization, but I wanted to go somewhere more grassroots. My roommate told me about an opportunity with the Peace Corps in Togo working in public health, so I applied.”
“Africa?” I ask, impressed. This young woman has her head on straight. She’s the kind of employee I’ve been looking for since opening RROCK a little over a year ago.
“Yes. Africa. Togo is a beautiful country, and I spent two years there. But when I left, I felt like there was more I could do to help, andthat’s when I heard about RROCK. You’re new—totally ground floor in the nonprofit world. But that’s what I’m into—building something new. Like, literally and figuratively. In Togo, we had to rebuild our house and help our neighbors and friends do the same when a brush fire came through and turned the town into dust. That’s just one town. I’m totally passionate ...”
I take notes as she shares her experience. Ciara and Oscar ask her some additional questions. In all actuality, this applicant has more real-world experience than I do even as president of the Refugee Resettlement Organization and Community Kitchen. But I rely on individuals far more educated and experienced than myself. I provide expertise from running Toffee Co. and a good amount of funding from my sale of the company and the residuals from the documentary.
“Thank you for your time, Monique. We’ll be reaching out before the end of the week with our final decision,” Ciara says, bringing the interview to a close. We take turns shaking hands and exchanging niceties as we walk her to the door.
“Oh, Ms.Branson, I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but I’m a huge fan,” Monique says as she’s about to leave. Her professional mask slips and reveals a much younger side that the old PR Elise would label “in touch with the eighteen-to-twenty-four demographic.” A little young to be a fan of my grandmother, or even my father or mother, so I assume she must be referring to one of my siblings.
“Thanks, Monique. I’ll pass it on,” I say, without asking for specification. Now that I’m out of the entertainment industry and fewer people know of my background, these kinds of comments bother me less. I never actually “pass it on” like I promise, but I don’t think that matters as much as receiving the compliment graciously, a familial proxy.
“Pass it on?” she asks, her manicured eyebrow raised.
“To my family. I’ll pass it on.”
“Oh no. I’m talking about you. I’m a fan of yours. I’ve seenBombshelllike ten times. It’s why I applied at RROCK. I didn’t knowanything about Vivian Snow or even those POW camps. Then the part about the refugees and the big revelation at the end ...”
“Well, thank you. I appreciate it,” I say, hoping to bring the conversation to a natural end, surprised and a little destabilized by having the documentary brought up in my professional arena.
I’ve never seen the final cut of the four-part film. I asked Marla, my former VP, to watch it for me, and she gave me a CliffsNotes version, but I can’t go back to that six-week period of my life that gutted me so entirely that I had to start over from scratch.
But I know enough from Marla’s twenty-page summary to understand the narrative. The story wasn’t about my wedding because it never happened. Mac cut the majority of the wedding prep and Pre-Cana with Hunter but kept the scenes with me and Patrick and used the friendship as a framing device for the first few episodes. He then used the paparazzi pictures and ensuing breakup as an effective cliff-hanger at the end of the third episode leading up to the results of the DNA test. That was the last scene I appeared in, a month after leaving Edinburgh. I was eager to know the results, and the only way I’d find out ahead of the rest of the viewing public was if I let Mac film the big reveal.
Perched on the edge of her velvet settee, I sat there in my mother’s penthouse, considering who my grandfather might be. I’d pondered Antonio Trombello often and wondered if my grandmother had somehow fallen for the same kind of forbidden fruit that I’d been tempted with.
With the cameras rolling, my mother did her best “loving mother” impression, even though we hadn’t spoken in four weeks. Chris and Lawrence were there too. Chris had refused to be in the same room with my mom for years but was suddenly desperate to be by her side. Jim was still on location, so he couldn’t attend the big moment, but he also didn’t need the publicity as much as my other brothers. One boy on each side, holding their mother’s shoulders for support. And me bymyself, spinning the ring on my right hand, counting the seconds till we finally knew the truth.
Using a fancy golden letter opener, my mother opened the sealed envelope in one swoosh. The DNA had been provided from the Highward family, which was just about all my long-lost New York cousin who had no idea of our familial connection until our visit was able to supply. All the samples were processed in a prestigious facility, and it was finally the moment of truth. She took her own sweet time sliding out the paper and unfolding it dramatically.
“He’s my dad,” she said, teary-eyed. But it wasn’t clear whom she was speaking about, so Mac made her try again.
“Tom Highward is my dad.” We all reacted again with hugs and relief, yes even me. As far as we know, this great scandal was nothing more than my sweet grandmother covering for her deadbeat, AWOL husband. The Highwards seemed to know even less than we do about Tom, contributing only a few pictures from his childhood and stories told by his sister, Moira Highward, before she passed. Some “bombshell” that turned out to be.
On our way out of the boardroom, Monique gasps and points to my right hand like she’s a kid at Disneyland who has spotted Mickey Mouse.
“Is that the ring? The one your grandma passed down?”
The three-carat stone sparkles up at me. Even with its pristine luster, it’s easy to forget about since I rarely take it off.
“It is,” I say, covering the antique piece of jewelry with my bare left hand.
“I love that you wear it even after ... everything. Boss move,” Monique says.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling nothing like a “boss”—not in the way Monique means it at least. People read far too deeply into the ring. Some people say I wear it for revenge; others say I wear it because Ican’t let go—that I’m not over Hunter or even Dean. Of course, it has to be all about a guy.
What the internet gossips fail to understand is that I left Hunter after the shady stuff with the documentary, not the other way around. The more popular narrative is that Hunter dumped my ass after the story broke about the priest scandal, but there’s little need for a public correction. Mac could’ve cleared it up easily if he’d included the entirety of the hidden camera confrontation, but instead, it ended up on the proverbial cutting-room floor.
The story went away quickly, flaring up only briefly whenBombshellwent through its publicity cycle and again when awards season hit. But none of it hurt Hunter’s image; in fact, it seems to have been a net positive. He married a wealthy entrepreneur/reality show star within a year of our breakup. From what I hear, they have a baby on the way.
I knew I was over him when I could see a picture of the pair in my newsfeed and not unfollow that particular media outlet. I don’t believe Hunter did what he did because he wasn’t in love with me. I think it was more likely because his view of love was so altered by his upbringing that he didn’t know how to have a real relationship outside of the media spotlight. And it turned out that I wasn’t interested in that kind of relationship.
My marriage to Dean may have worked—we were young enough and naive enough to give ourselves over to love wholeheartedly. But who knows? Maybe that was a broken heart waiting to happen too. In a way, I’m glad I’ll never know.
“I’m not even kissing up to try and get a job. It’s the truth—you guys deserved those Emmys.” Monique continues with her compliments, and though I know she means well, it’s getting a bit awkward. “And Mac Dorman’s acceptance speech? I see clips on TikTok all the time.”
“Well, thanks, Monique,” I say, smiling at her reference to all the things I’ve actively avoided. “You should hear from us soon. Oscar will show you out,” I add quickly, ready to escape.
