Feeling a tad out of sorts today….
<3 The Socialmedialite
***
I was uncomfortable.
And that was putting it mildly.
I tried to cross my legs, but the sky-blue silk skirt—which fell just above my knees—felt too short; I opted for crossing them at the ankle instead. I also tugged, I hoped surreptitiously, at the V-neck of my long-sleeved, cream-colored shirt because it showed cleavage. It showed my cleavage. My cleavage was showing. As well, the shirt was formfitting and plainly exhibited the shape of my stomach, back, shoulders, and chest.
It was a nightmare.
I wanted to run to my office, grab my Snuggie (which is basically a blanket with armholes), and cover myself up.
Unfortunately, Joan was sitting across from me, watching me like a hawk. I was a mouse, and she was a peregrine falcon. Resistance was futile. I’d arrived at the building and found her in my office at 7:15 a.m., five garment bags full of clothes lying on my couch. She was drinking a cappuccino from my machine and smiling at me like she’d just won something.
“I know you’re busy, so I had one of the shoppers buy you a new wardrobe,” she’d said, holding up an outfit. “Change into this one now.”
When I opened my mouth to object, she added, “Looking professional is no more than I would ask of any of my employees.”
Objectively, I knew the clothes the shopper had handpicked were lovely. They were stylish, well made, very expensive, and undoubtedly professional looking. It’s just they weren’t brown or navy or gray. They weren’t baggy. They fit, and they fit too well, like they’d been made to highlight my curves and…assets. I looked pretty in them, like a girl. Like a feminine girl. And, adding to my horror, there were shoes! Little kitten heels and spiky stilettos and everything in between, one pair for each outfit.
People had stared at me when I walked down the hall. I could feel their eyes following me, though I kept mine on the hallway carpet. I distinctly overheard one of the associates from Printed Media say, “Is she new? Who is that?”
When I walked into the conference room, all conversation stopped. My team gaped. Rachel gasped. Ian stared. And Joan smiled. I felt like a sideshow act at the circus, the kind where people stare and point.
Again, it was a nightmare.
I shuffled and thumbed through my stack of papers. I turned to Gerta, attempting to ignore her stunned perusal, and asked whether she’d made enough copies for the team. I purposefully sat near the door just in case I needed to make a quick escape. Worst-case scenario, I could pretend I had gastrointestinal distress.
I was still forming my escape plan and trying to fight my blush of intense discomfort when Mr. Fitzpatrick arrived.
He was five minutes early.
“Bollocks, bitches, and Battlestar Galactica,” I mumbled.
I have a bad habit of mumbling curse words when I’m aggravated; honestly, I think I might have a mild case of Tourette’s. To soften the string of foul language and make me feel like less of a freak, I try to throw in a pop culture reference at the end. It usually works, but not today.
I closed my eyes briefly, gathered a slow, steadying breath through my nose, and tried to wrestle the spike of adrenaline into submission. People moved around me, crossing to the door and shaking his hand, introducing themselves. I stood slowly, my jaw clenching so tightly I thought I might crack a tooth, and turned.
But I couldn’t quite bring myself to lift my eyes to his. So I waited, using my hair as a curtain, dipping my chin to my chest, and pretending to read the papers I’d brought and knew by heart. I waited until everyone was introduced and had reclaimed their spots around the conference room. I waited and listened as Joan invited Mr. Fitzpatrick to take the seat next to mine.
I waited until he drawled, “We keep having this breakdown in communication, Joan. I was under the impression that the entire team would be here.”
I lifted my chin just as Joan’s eyes flickered to mine, a pleased smile on her face. She began, “I think, Mr. Fitzpatrick—”
But I interrupted her with, “I believe everyone is here.”
Ronan glanced at me and did a completely ridiculous, cartoonish double-take complete with wide eyes, agape mouth, raised eyebrows, and three blinks. His confusion didn’t last long, maybe two full seconds, before his eyes traveled down and then up, quickly appraising my body like I might be an apparition and magically disappear. When his eyes met mine again, they were pleased and half-lidded. A lazy smile claimed his lips and did terrible things to my state of mind.
His gaze scorched me; my body ignited in a flash until I was sweating between my thighs, under my arms, on my stomach, and down my back. I was burning up.
I was officially a lunatic.
Pressing my lips together and averting my eyes, I motioned to his chair—the one next to mine—and cleared my throat. “Please, Mr. Fitzpatrick, won’t you sit down?”
“Yes,” he said a little too hastily, with a touch too much enthusiasm.
I basically fell into my seat, my knees no longer cooperating, but covered the clumsy bit of discomposure by scooting myself closer to the table and straightening the stack of papers in front of me unnecessarily. I did my best to ignore the way my shirt was sticking to my abdomen, never mind the fact that Ronan—I mean, Mr. Fitzpatrick—was still blatantly staring at me. I could see him in my peripheral vision.
As a countermeasure, I released my sheet of hair from where I’d tucked it behind my ear, essentially blocking my face from view. If I had to sit through this meeting—and maybe a hundred more like it—dressed in these damn clothes, then I deserved a coping strategy. Hiding behind my hair would have to be it.
“Yes, well—let’s get started.” Joan sat on the other side of Mr. Fitzpatrick, her voice cutting through the chatter. “Ian, can you take us through progress to date?”
I still felt Mr. Fitzpatrick’s eyes on me, but mercifully Joan had decided to start with Ian’s status update rather than my part. I barely heard Ian. It didn’t really matter; I’d already read his memo, so I knew the team was vetting actresses, models, society types, and athletes in their search for suitable women to act as his “red herring” dates.
Part of me was glad. I would pale in comparison to those women, and Ronan’s attention would surely focus elsewhere.
Another part of me couldn’t think about Ronan attending a red carpet event, a supermodel draped on his arm, without wanting to stab something. I think I was a little infatuated with him after talking to his teammates.
After Ian, Rachel was next. She covered tangible media—so both print and television—and took the team through planned magazine spreads in Sports Illustrated, Men’s Health, GQ, and Playboy.
“I’ll say no thanks to the Playboy idea,” Ronan scoffed then continued humorously, “at least until after I’ve had my tits done.”
I tried not to smile. Rachel chirped a laugh, and Ian narrowed his eyes.
“Mr. Fitzpatrick, our aim is to make as many people aware of you as possible, and Playboy has a very large audience.”
Ronan folded his arms and stared at him coldly. “I thought we were supposed to be improving my image, you know, clean me up.”
“Yes, of course. But we’re not out to make you an altar boy, either.”
“I hope not. All the altar boys I knew are now heroin addicts.”
“Annie….” Joan paused, waited for me to meet her eye, and then said, “Help us out here.”
I nodded once and slipped Ronan one of my packets, withdrawing my fingers before he could make contact. If he touched me, my mind would blank, and I’d be even more of a spectacle. I placed my hands on my lap; they were shaking.
This was the part of the presentation Joan or Rachel usually did. I prepped the materials, and one of them would deliver the spiel. But not this time. No, no, no…not this time.
I cleared my throat and glanced quickly around the table. All eyes were on me. My heart beat faster, drumming uncomfortably in my chest. Everyone gathered had already read the proposal and signed off on the details of the mission statement, the ideal image sketch, and the social media campaign. They all knew it was my work. Nevertheless, it didn’t make speaking in front of a crowd any easier.
“I, uh….” I blew out a shaky breath, willed my mind to focus and cooperate, but it was no use. I could feel the panic rising, choking me like flood waters. I swallowed, the paper in front of me blurring.
Suddenly, Joan’s voice cut through my downward spiral, firm and steady. “Well, look at the time. I’m sorry, Mr. Fitzpatrick, but the team has another meeting. It looks like we’ll have to leave you and Ms. Catrel alone to discuss the specifics of the ideal image sketch. I hope you don’t mind?”
“No….” He answered almost absentmindedly at first, his voice sounding preoccupied, and then he responded in his normal tone, “No, not at all. I completely understand. I’m sure Ms. Catrel and I can take it from here.”
I came back to myself as the sounds of chairs being vacated and people leaving the room provided a backdrop to my breathing exercises. My clothes were sticking to me. I was sure my upper lip and forehead had broken out in sweat. I was hot and sticky and uncomfortable, but at least I wouldn’t have to give my presentation in front of the entire team.