We exhausted every idea. Tessa suggested finding old photos from before Bailey was famous and posting them, but that felt too calculated—like we were trying too hard. I floated getting some candid footage of Bailey, something raw and emotional like hercrying in her car, but anything we staged would get picked apart immediately. These fan accounts don’t miss anything.
And then, like the PR gods took pity on me, Bailey actually had something in her back pocket she’d completely forgotten about that could work perfectly.
Bailey was raised in the small town of Wooster, Ohio. She left at nineteen and moved to LA, where she worked as a server, getting some smaller roles before landing the part of Elora. No one knew who she was at the time, and the fans weren’t thrilled about that. They had already cast other high-level actresses for the part in their minds. But do you know whowasthrilled? The people of Wooster.
They were so excited to have one of their own become famous that the local news produced a feature story about Bailey. It’s absolutely what it sounds like: low budget, poorly recorded with a slightly awkward interviewer who kept calling her “our Bailey,” filmed in the gym of her high school with friends and family gathered behind her, waving and smiling at the camera. Her own personal small-town pep rally.
There’s nothing polished about it, nothing that screams A-list anything, and with a view count of just over three hundred, pretty much nobody has seen the feature. It’s perfect.
So how does the fan account come into play? Tessa will leak it to them under a fake name, with just the link and a quick note:Thought you might enjoy this.
“Done,” Tessa says, setting her phone down on my desk.
“Okay,” I say, finally taking a full breath. It’s late, the office is dark, and no one but Tessa and me are still here.
“This is going to work,” she says. But the quick nod of her head makes me think she’s also trying to convince herself.
“Let’s hope,” I say. “We just need it to be shared, and then the internet should do its thing.”
All we need is likes, shares, and reposts. I’m trusting my gut here, rather than following a formula. It could backfire. It could do nothing. Or . . . it could work.
But the hope is, this little video of a smiling Bailey and her proud small town will be just what we need to bring the focus back to what really matters. Not the breakup or the cheating. But Bailey.
Chapter 7
PR Tip #61:People can smell inauthenticity from a mile away. Especially when you’re trying to sell them something.
It works. The plan works.
Tessa sent the link Thursday evening, and by Friday morning, the fan account shared it. The video went viral within the hour. By Sunday night, the original post had half a million likes, with nearly three million views across various platforms.
By Monday, mainstream entertainment accounts were picking it up—even You Oughta Know reposted it, and the conversation shifted. People stopped dissecting the podcast and started sharing the video instead.
Did it bury River’s podcast interview? No, but I wasn’t expecting it to. What it did is remind people why they like Bailey. She comes from nothing, and she made it anyway. The video’s whole job was to remind people of that—and it did.
There’s been no retaliation from River. But I don’t think that will last long—not with freaking Luke Wilder in charge.
Now I’m sitting at Common Ground after work, in a corner table facing the door, waiting for my coffee date to arrive. There aren’t a lot of people here, since it’s only an hour until closing, so it’s eerily quiet, except for some chatting from employees in the back. The smell of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air.
It’s the guy I swiped right on last week while I was hiding in the bathroom. I had half a mind to cancel, since I did that swiping in a state of panic, but I figured, what the heck. Another step toward kiss number fifty.
Except he’s five minutes late. I have a hard-and-fast rule that fifteen minutes late is all I’ll allow. And that allotment is mostly because of California traffic, because no one is safe from that. I’m not some kind of drill sergeant, but when you’ve gone on as many dates as I have, you learn to use your time wisely.
“Claire?” a man who bears some resemblance to Bryce, with brown eyes and a lot less blond hair on his head than was advertised, asks.
I smile. “You must be Bryce,” I say.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” he says. “Parking was hard to find.”
Oh, right. That’s the other reason I give people fifteen minutes. Especially in this area of town where parking is limited to expensive garages or a spot on the street that’s nearly impossible to find.
He sits down across from me, placing a slim briefcase on the floor next to his chair and his phone face down on the table. He’s wearing a polo with a logo that says “ZenFuel” on it. I’m guessing he came here from work as well.
I took off the jacket of my navy-blue trouser suit because it was hot outside, but I still look too dressed up for this kitschy coffee shop with its mismatched but somehow stylish furniture and the colorful art on the wall.
“So,” he says, giving me a bright smile. It makes his eyes crinkle at the sides, which is kind of endearing.
“So,” I echo, returning the smile. “Should we grab a drink?” I point to the empty coffee bar behind us.
