Press Release, page 2
“Sorry, Meg, I mean Cali Con. My parents used to go all the time. They always called it The Con.”
I hold up a finger. “Hold on. Did you say ‘booked’?”
My tone is harsh enough to make Gilly sit back in her chair. Jack’s features harden, a male of the species defending his mate.
I compose myself. “Go on.”
Gilly lays a hand on Jack’s arm, clearly sensing the protective waves jumping off his skin. “It’s the Pages to Screen panel on Friday morning.”
“Her award noms give my woman wicked clout,” says Jack, beaming at Gilly.
“And you didn’t think to check with me first?” I regret the snap in my voice. We’re not adversaries here. Same team. Same goals.
Then why is the burn in my chest getting hotter? The goddess of control sits at the edge of my desk, crossing her legs and throwing me an over-the-top-of-the-glasses look. The Chieftain’s Son’s presence at Cali Con is my domain. My plans for our show’s involvement at the event are flawless. Wrinkles, alterations, or hiccups of any kind take a swing at my perfection.
Jack’s blue eyes shift from crystal to storm-cloud gray. He and I got along brilliantly before Gilly showed up. Now, I’m afraid he sees me as the witch who insists on keeping his marriage secret while I force him to play kissy-face with his co-star, Niks Tellefson. It’s Jack’s dedication to the show, not any loyalty to me, driving him to act out the fauxmance with Niks. I wonder if Gilly and Jack have a voodoo doll of me at their place. That would explain my constant headaches.
“We’re checking with you now, Meg,” says Jack, his tone confirmation of the diminished warm fuzzies between us.
I’ve got to fix that. Not just for the sake of the show. I miss the easiness we used to enjoy with each other.
Gilly is so flustered, a stab of guilt pricks at me. For the love of God, she tears up, and I feel like a first-class shit.
“I’m really sorry, Meg,” says Gilly in a six-inch voice. “I thought you’d be happy the show increased its representation at the Con.”
I take a deep breath and wave my hands. “I am.” I manage a smile. “It’s grand. I’ll blast it out on social straight away so the fans will know where to find you.”
Gilly’s made every effort to warm to me. The barrier between us is my doing. Our showrunner, Bobby Provost, is close with Jack and Gilly. He’s also one of the few people on the show, besides Maureen, that I count as a real friend. I don’t want to damage our long-standing friendship by ruffling Jack’s feathers and making the new Mrs. O’Leary cry. In truth, I’m frustrated with myself for not scouring the Cali Con schedule for more potential exposure for anyone involved with the show.
My push was for Deidre LaRochelle, author of The Chieftain’s Son book series and permanent fixture here at The Clan, to represent in a big way at Cali Con. Deidre had slammed the door on that idea. I get it. Deidre’s been paying her appearance dues on the convention circuit for over a decade. She’s paid up.
I adjust my bruised ego over Gilly’s news and initiate damage control. “What do you golf nuts say? Give me a Mulligan. I truly appreciate Chieftain’s Son scoring another panel seat.” I use my pinkie to flick a mascara flake out of the corner of my eye. “I’m wound a bit tight with Cali Con so close.”
Gilly reaches across the desk and pats my hand. She doesn’t mean to condescend, but that’s how my nerves translate the contact. “You’re amazing, Meg. Cali Con is going to be killer.”
“Amen,” I say, rising from my seat. “Now, off with you both. I’m due”—I frown at the phone—“overdue for a call from L.A.”
Jack regains the friendly attitude I appreciate and waves a business card at me. “I hired the assistant you recommended.”
I recognize the card of Cam Stephens, the latest in a line of assistants I tried out who didn’t live up to my standards. After a bit of a struggle, we’d mutually agreed it was a bad fit. I truly believe Cam will do fine for Jack.
“Will Cam be joining us in California?”
“Naw. He’ll be coming on board when we get back.”
“Fine.” I smile at Gilly. “Your appearance news is brilliant, Gillian. I’ll update your schedule.”
Jack smiles as they slide out the door. “We promise to print it out, save it to our phones, and write it in Sharpie on our arms.”
It takes me a second to register his tease. There’s the good-natured Jack O’Leary impossible not to like. I should hire him as my life coach.
Arms wrapped around each other, Gilly and Jack glide down the hall. Before they’re out of sight, Gilly turns to drink in a long look at me. I expect agitation, but instead, softness unnervingly close to sympathy shows through the glass. There’s no call for me to be the object of such an expression.
The two lean their heads together and whisper. Whatever the exchange, it ends in a kiss not intended for an audience.
“Glass walls,” I hiss under my breath and look away from them. A flurry of emotions spins through my head, wedges on a wheel of fortune. Unwelcome and unexpected spikes of what I’m loathed to admit is jealousy hit me. What those two have, many would call enviable. I dig thumbs into my temples. I refuse to be envious of Jack O’Leary and Gillian Bettencourt O’Leary. It’s a bad investment of energy for me right now. I don’t have the time or desire to be on the hunt for what they have. I owe The Chieftain’s Son my all. It’s made a strong showing in its first season, and I’m charged to keep it at a gallop.
I sneak a glance in their direction. The last remnant of jealousy melts into a puddle of wistfulness. Even I admit there is genuine sweetness in their relationship. They are so easy with one another. It’s hard to believe it’s only been months since they first met. The two seem like an old couple who’ve already shared a lifetime of love and memories. I lay a hand to my cheek, surprised to find a bit of moisture at my fingertip. The half formed tear sends the skeptic in me on a mini break. How must it feel to be so sure of a partner?
I dismiss the unwelcome sliver of loneliness attempting to sneak into my psyche. There’s logic they fell hard for one another. They’re an equation of proximity plus the fusion of artistic personalities. The real question here is: how much has love diluted their own individual identities? Ah, there’s the peril of love. It takes two people and sloughs off enough of who they are to snug their puzzle piece into someone else’s. I never want to be stuck to another person to create a single shadow. “Me” has power. “We,” signifies a proportional loss of self.
The phone finally rings. I wake the agenda on my laptop as I check my hair. What am I doing? This isn’t a video chat. I could be in bathrobe and slippers. Dash would never know.
Snatching the receiver, I commence the meeting. “Meg McGrath.”
A sleepy California accent answers. “Mornin’, Meg. It’s Dashell.”
He speaks as if caller ID doesn’t exist. “Your mornin’, my evenin’.” Damn it. There was too much unintended edge to my tone. “You’re on speaker so I can type. Are you looking at the agenda doc?”
I hear Dash gulp whatever his liquid morning fuel might be. “Give me a sec to bring it up.”
While Dash retrieves the agenda, my computer pings with a message. My heart skitters when I click on the attachment. A gorgeous color graphic rendering of a towering wall of Southern Cal Stadium, the baseball complex across from the Diego Bay Events Center, home of Cali Con, graces my screen. Adorning the massive structure is a building wrap featuring the signature portrait of Jack and Niks as their characters from the show, Donal Cam and Nieve. Letters spelling out The Chieftain’s Son on the True Time Network shimmer in gold. It’s dazzling. It’s perfect. The jewel in my Cali Con crown.
“Dash, the final version of the building wrap for Southern Cal Stadium is in. It’s grand. I’m forwarding you the latest rendering with the changes we asked for.” I hear keys clicking at his end as I read the rest of the message. “According to schedule, it’ll be up less than two weeks before the convention starts.”
Dash’s hum of pleasure flows from the speaker. “It is a beaut’. Nice work, Meg.”
I glow with accomplishment.
“We’re placing the Star’s Shadow wrap next to yours. True Time’s two hottest shows, lording over the event,” says Dash.
Thank goodness we’re not on video chat, so I’m not forced to temper the bitterness tugging down the corners of my mouth. I worked blazing hard to secure that prime location. My cutthroat negotiations knocked a show from one of the three big U.S. networks off Southern Cal Stadium to make room for The Chieftain’s Son. Dash tosses off the building wrap placement for his bit of Sci-fi fluff, Star’s Shadow, like it happened with no more effort than ordering a sandwich with salt and vinegar crisps.
“Another update, Gillian Bettencourt is slated for an additional panel.” I share the addition, feeling my scorecard needs another tick even if her agent is the one who pulled off the booking. “Pages to Screen.”
“Fine, fine,” says Dash. “Add it to your Cali Con playbook.”
“Already done.” As if I need telling to keep the game plan up to date.
“About that playbook…” Dash clears his throat. “There’s a question I must put to you, Meghan. Is it enough?”
I bite my bottom lip to prevent going on the defensive. How can he be asking me this now, less than a month before go time? I’ve bled, securing panels, press events, party appearances, autograph sessions, hotels, security, transportation, media blitz, appearance fees, and fecking building wraps. What the hell can he mean?
My mind flashes on the possible comebacks my boss expects and settle on a good one. “Is it ever enough? I’ll continue to work full-tilt once I hit the ground in San Diego to make sure I grab up any additional opportunities for The Chieftain’s Son.”
“Let me be up front with you, Meghan.”
Well, crap. That’s two Meghans in one conversation. I am in the principal’s office and not for anything good.
“Please.”
“You’ve done quite the admirable job with The Chieftain’s Son. I know your probationary period with True Time is flashing red, so I owe you clarity about my end of things. I’ve got a full plate. It’s time I step away from my involvement in Chieftain’s Son so I can focus on upcoming projects and network expansion.”
Step away? I do my best not to choke on the adrenaline surging up my middle. Is this the happy news I’m to be trusted to captain the publicity and marketing for The Chieftain’s Son without requiring Dash to sign off on every bit of minutiae?
“We’re prepared to offer you the permanent number two position on the publicity/marketing team for the show.”
I did not hear him right. “Excuse me, did you say number two?”
“Yes, you’ll stay on board with The Chieftain’s Son, but I’ll put a more seasoned player to head up the department. Like I said, Meg, you’ve done a fine job with an untested show, but our baby hit the stratosphere. You’re still a newbie in the overall game, so I think it’s best to move forward with a number one who has a proven track record. Together, you two will keep the show’s climb meteoric.”
My hands shake. “This isn’t fair. I’ve been instrumental in the rise of The Chieftain’s Son. Ten award nominations in the U.S. and more if you add in Europe, Dash.”
“Star’s Shadow grabbed ten Crystal noms as well. If you’d beat them, I might be inclined to overlook the P.R. mess between your star and his alleged mystery woman that whipped fans into a social media uproar. I know you’ve been teasing an offscreen Jack O’Leary/Niks Tellefson pairing, but so far, the impact of your hints is a Band-Aid on a broken arm. Jack is our publicity brass ring. We’ve got to avoid the fallout and potential ratings drop if the public catches a whiff that your fabricated romance is a ploy to dupe them.”
My stomach curls in on itself. If Dash knew about Jack and Gilly’s marriage, he may fly over here to push me off the Cliffs of Moher. “I’ve got a game plan.”
“I’m sure you do, but there remains the question of your experience and expertise to pull it off. Placing a head of P.R./Marketing in Ireland that isn’t as green as your local countryside will head off a disaster.”
“I’ve been pulling it off.”
There are a few false starts on his end before he lets loose. The pulse on my throat bangs like it’s trying to split my skin.
“You didn’t pull off Jack’s offshoot project.”
“Hold on, Dash. Secrets of My Ireland is supposed to be a between-seasons filler to give the fans a steady dose of Jack. You greenlighted the concept and tentative production calendar for the space between seasons two and three. The Chieftain’s Son shooting schedule was too tight to fit it in between seasons one and two. We can’t burn out our biggest draw.”
“Timing isn’t the issue. Jack hasn’t signed a multi-season contract for Secrets. I know for a fact piles of movie scripts are landing on his doorstep. If he lands a sweeter between-seasons deal, we’re screwed with a one-off.”
Shit, I should’ve pushed Jack harder to sign on for more than a single go of the companion project. I counted on his loyalty to stay on for more. Dash is right. I’ve committed a classic rookie error. Jack will do what’s best for his career, not mine.
I squeeze my eyes shut, searching for a clear thought path. A single question for Dash rises above the static. “What can I do to prove to you the number one spot belongs to me? Give me a challenge, a goal. I guarantee I am as capable as your Hollywood pro.”
He’s silent for too long. Is he figuring out the cleanest way to fire me or taking my request seriously?
“Dash, it’s humiliating and unfair to be demoted to number two given where I’ve taken the show already. If you won’t consider keeping me in the lead position, I may have to bow out.”
Holy Mother. Did I just give one of the chief executives at the True Time Network an ultimatum? No denying I’m green, but I do believe I am capable and talented enough to foster an even steeper rise in The Chieftain’s Son popularity and ratings.
There’s an edge of panic in Dash’s voice I find gratifying. “Let’s back up a little here, Meghan. I need you to stay with the show.”
One more Meghan and I’ll scream.
“The plan is to marry your Chieftain’s Son expertise with a proven hand in the overall publicity playing field. I’m drafting a winning team.”
Now it’s my turn to be silent. Grunts and hums from the other end of the line give me hope. They need me. I’m important enough not to be shoved off Ireland’s sea cliffs.
“The offer wasn’t meant as an insult. I thought you’d appreciate a mentor.”
Is he kidding? Does he expect me to lap up a blatant demotion?
My throat tightens. I will not cry. My mother’s I’m not surprised expression vaults into my psyche. She believes my job on the show is a lark, a temporary fling. The script my parents wish I’d follow is to take a slight taste of a bigger world, then choose to live small. Settle in my home village and market local businesses, marry a man I’ve known since primary school, and be a loyal daughter. Their script, not mine. I want to be a Jack O’Leary, the kid from a small Irish town who succeeds in a big way. Accepting the life my family perceives for me is the definition of failure.
“I’ll be frank with you, Meg. It isn’t solely my call. Given Chieftain’s Son splash and potential for longevity, True Time wants a heavier hitter to take lead on the show. Personally, I feel I owe you the shot you’re asking for.”
A shot, a chance. I’ll take whatever he offers. My knee-jerk ultimatum gains traction. There’s some gratification the network doesn’t want to lose me altogether.
“Here’s what I can offer. First, fill every Chieftain’s Son panel, autograph session, and other events to bursting. I want lines of fans salivating at the chance to be in the same room as our people. I want to see Jack O’Leary’s and Niks Tellefson’s faces plastered all over the news coverage of Cali Con. Make The Chieftain’s Son San Diego’s hottest ticket.”
“Done.” Sounding confident is the first step to being confident.
“Next, I want a twenty percent increase in trial subscribers to the True Time streaming app credited to The Chieftain’s Son by Sunday night of The Con.”
Twenty fucking percent! Dash might as well have asked me to perform the labors of Hercules.
“And a signed contract from Jack O’Leary for three seasons minimum of Secrets of My Ireland. You pull all that off, and I’ll go to bat for you at True Time.”
“Anything else?” I say it as if he’s asked me to do something as simple as washing his electric car.
“All right then. I wish you luck, Meghan McGrath.” His tone is brittle. We both know his checklist is virtually impossible. We both know he’s dangling this sweetie so, in the end, I’ll accept the number two position under a fool from L.A. The click of Dash’s Hollywood phone is a mouse trap snapping on my future.
I let my head fall onto my hands. I’ve stepped in it now.
Chapter 2
Poolside
I do my grandest thinking underwater where survival equates to lung capacity. Every morning, thirty-five laps allow me to shed tension and the pressures taxing both my dreams and waking days.
Today, I consider staying under an option.
How the hell am I going to pull off Dash’s laundry list? The smart play is to call him back with an “I’ve seen the light” admission and accept the number two position. I’d still be on the show and in the game. I’ll acquiesce to whatever Hollywood wanker he banishes to Ireland to take over the number one P.R. spot and pretend the fool has something to teach me.
That call would be the death of my dreams and the first step on the road to marrying Deacon O’Connell or Owen Mulrooney, popping out ten kids, and stagnating in Cahersiveen for the rest of my life. My parents would light a thousand candles in triumph as I marched my row of children to their house for family dinner each Sunday after mass.
Ten kids, good God. It takes me thirty-five laps a day to maintain plump. After double digit pregnancies, I’d displace enough pool water to flood the deck.
