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‘I need some backup, Meredith. The workload is much heavier than I ever expected, so I’d like a former colleague to come over and help us.’
Tess held her breath. Throughout her professional life, she had never been one to ask for help, instead preferring to soldier on and do everything herself, usually because she could do things better than everyone else. But the problem with that tactic was that if you told people everything was fine, they assumed you were in control and therefore no one noticed your Herculean efforts to fix everything single–handed. So far she’d not encountered a situation where things had grown so big and unmanageable that she’d not been able to handle them alone, but she didn’t want to play the odds. Meredith’s face barely registered any surprise at the request. Either Tess had been correct about her boss’s addiction to discreet cosmetic procedures, or she was unmoved by Tess’s plight.
‘Who is this colleague?’ asked Meredith blandly.
‘Her name is Jemma Davies. She is a paparazzo friend of mine, very good, very discreet.’
Meredith began to play with the sapphire around her neck. ‘Discreet is not a word I would normally associate with those people,’ she said disapprovingly. ‘Tess. You know the protection of my family means everything me, which is why I am paying you to protect them.’
The implication was clear: I am paying you a six–figure salary to crisis–manage the Asgills. I don’t want to pay anyone else, least of all someone who was effectively the enemy. Tess could almost see her point.
‘I understand that you might think that I should be able to handle everything,’ said Tess. ‘But there is an enormous amount of legwork involved in this job. In the past few weeks, I have had to deal with a potential crisis involving three of your four children. In an ideal world, I need to be there to advise and assist them all, but what with managing the press, doing research on potential problems, and dealing with sudden emergencies, I don’t have time. I can’t be everywhere at once, Meredith.’
Tess swallowed hard. At this rate she was going to talk herself out of a job.
‘But Tess, you do have the full use of our family lawyer and our corporate communications director. I could almost understand if you were asking for a simple assistant, but still don’t see why we need a paparazzo. Aren’t we trying to protect ourselves from them?’
‘Celebrities use paparazzi all the time for their own purposes,’ said Tess. ‘Many of those long–lens pictures you see in the gossip magazines are actually setups arranged by the celebs. Rather than have a rogue paparazzo take unflattering pictures of them, they will work with a friendly snapper to get the pictures that put them in the best light and give them an added career boost – and the papers are happy because the pictures are clear and well framed.’
‘But couldn’t we simply do a deal with a photographer for one of these setups?’
Tess shook her head. ‘People have to believe that these photos are real, and we can’t afford to have anyone leak the story. This photographer I’m proposing is extremely trustworthy. She is also very good at the other side of the job – keeping her ear to the ground with the papers and magazines, as well as other paps; finding out who knows what and feeding us the information back before it becomes damaging to the family.’
Meredith thought it through. ‘Brooke won’t like it,’ she said finally.
Tess smiled. ‘Brooke doesn’t have to know for the moment.’
Jemma had once told her that she usually liaised with a celebrity’s manager or PR; sometimes the star didn’t even know they were being followed, although all the while their manager would be feeding her information about the star’s location.
A crease appeared between Meredith’s brows. ‘This won’t have any implications with the Billingtons?’
‘Number one, we are protecting David and Brooke. Number two, David is every bit as media savvy as we are. Every positive piece of press for him is a step nearer to Congress. All I am talking about here is getting pictures of them visiting soup kitchens and libraries, strolling hand–in–hand through Central Park. We will portray them as two young people in love, not arrogant rich kids out of touch with the electorate. David might be popular, but he’s still a Republican. In a liberal city like New York, he needs all the help he can get.’
Meredith smiled thoughtfully. ‘You know, there are a lot of people out there who think Brooke can be iconic.’
‘Absolutely,’ agreed Tess. ‘But that doesn’t happen by accident, Meredith. Brooke is by nature rather low–key. We need to get pictures of her with the right people, going to the right parties.’
Tess thought back to her meeting with Brooke the day before. They had run through her weekly schedule and the only thing that Brooke had planned was the annual Costume Institute Gala. For a woman with potential to be an American icon, she was keeping a very low profile.
‘You know, I had a good feeling about you, Tess,’ smiled Meredith. ‘From the moment we met, in fact. You had a purposeful stride; you can tell a lot about someone by the way they walk.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Well, she will have to stay in the West Village apartment.’
‘Who?’ asked Tess quickly, her mind still thinking about her walk.
‘This paparazzo woman. Jemma?’
‘So she can come?’
‘Yes, of course. Speak to Leonard about remuneration and Patty about contracts. I want those watertight: we must own the copyright to any Brooke and David photographs she takes.’
Tess stood up and gathered her bag. ‘Thank you, Meredith,’ she said formally.
‘Not at all,’ said Meredith, gracefully guiding her towards the door. ‘And Tess? I’m glad we had this conversation.’
Me too, thought Tess, trying not to punch the air with excitement. Me too.
CHAPTER TWENTY
At seven fifteen in the morning, Brooke was already halfway through her run. She was a little earlier than usual, after being woken by David at 5 a.m., who had to get to the airport. She had crossed East Meadow, circled the running track by the reservoir, and was now heading down towards Strawberry Fields, her breath hard but steady. She felt good. Even before the announcement of her wedding, Brooke had liked to keep in shape and tried to keep up a regime of a run every other day. It was time to herself, time to block out the rest of the world and, with her low baseball cap, old jogging pants, and tinted yellow wraparound cyclist glasses, it was a time to be anonymous. It was not a best–dressed–list look by anyone’s measure, but it was enough to stop most people from recognizing her and, for that sole reason, it was one of her favourite looks in her closet.
