Page 89 of When We Were Enemies
“Well, what do you think?” Marla asks eventually.
“I think we need to find out who the source is,” I say, scanning through the rest of the article that’s filled with claims not only about my “relationship” with Patrick but also my grandmother’s relationship with an Italian prisoner in the POW camp in 1943.
The prisoner’s name is familiar—Antonio Trombello.
Oh my God—the guy from the pictures and the one who bought Grandpa’s burial plot. It’s extremely specific information that could only come from someone working on this film.
“I agree. I’ll reach out to Terry, but you know he’s pretty tight-lipped about these things.”
“I know, which usually is good for us ...,” I say, recognizing the irony.
“Messaging strategy?” she asks, going through the crisis checklist.
“No statement. Not yet. So far, it looks like it’s just trash mags that have anything. Retweets by a few Snow/Branson fans. I’d like to know the media impressions if Farrah could run that. And have Helen add some alerts for my name, Hunter’s name, Father Patrick Kelly—you know what—just everyone named in that article. I don’t want to be surprised again.”
“Agreed,” Marla says, typing as I speak. “Your mom? Hunter? Should I call them, or do you want to?”
Hunter. My fiancé whom I’m supposedly cheating on with a priest. Oh my God. Hunter, who this very minute is probably getting ready for his flight, who is supposed to spend the next four days here. Hunter, who has enough staff to keep on top of every single media hit mentioning his name.
“I’ll call them. Please tell everyone to insulate Hunter and my mom from this as much as possible, okay?”
“Will do.” Marla pauses, and it sounds like she’s waiting for a statement or some words of wisdom from me.
“Just so you know, it’s not true,” I say, wanting to maintain my dignity with my staff. I may have feelings for Father Patrick, and I may have let things go a little too far, but he’s not my lover in any way, shape, or form.
“Okay,” she says with doubt in her voice.
I get it—it’s not our job to determine if our client is telling the truth. It’s our job to create a positive image and then help protect that image in moments of crisis. But I wish I knew she believed me. I need someone to believe me.
“Reach out when you know more. I’ll go talk to my mom and have someone get in touch with Father Patrick to give him a heads-up and fill him in on some best practices.”
“Perfect plan. I’ll brief the team while you call Hunter.” When I hear her say his name, intense anxiety crushes my lungs. I feel like I can’t take in even the smallest amount of oxygen. “Good luck,” she adds, the phrase turning up at the end like it might be a question.
I hang up without a goodbye, still struggling to breathe. What can I possibly say to him?
Hey, Hunter. I know the papers say I’m screwing the local priest, but don’t worry—that picture isn’t what it looks like.
What if he doesn’t believe me?
Well, whether he’ll believe me or not, I have to call him. I rush to the bathroom, nauseated. I fill a plastic cup with water from the tap and chug it, fill it again and chug until I can take a breath. Then I pace around the room, each buzz from my device amping up my anxiety until I can’t take it anymore. I dive onto the bed, pick up the phone, and call Hunter’s number.
Oh God, I might vomit.
I roll onto my back, my waterlogged stomach bloated and near bursting.
The call goes straight to voice mail. I hang up and call again with the same result. One more time. Nothing. I switch to text.
ELISE:Can’t wait to see you soon! Call me as soon as you get this. Crazy tabloid shit going on today. I’ll tell you everything when you call.
Send.
The blue message turns green; then a red warning appears next to it.
This message is undeliverable.
I send another test text, just to make sure. Same result.
He’s either turned off his phone, which is likely if his is blowing up as much as mine, or ... he’s blocked me. No. That’s too childish. Hunter isn’t the kind of man to hear a rumor about his girlfriend and block her without a discussion. That’s teenage melodrama stuff. Not millionaire businessman stuff.
