Damage Control: A Novel Read online

  I’d have to remember that.

  Flowing white natural fibers that suggest innocence. It’s biblical. It’s the Resurrection.

  It’s a powerful media image.

  Trent introduced the man on the couch as his manager, then led me to a chair made of steel tubes and leather.

  He asked what I’d like to drink, then walked over to the bar. A man of the people—he still made his own drinks.

  “I want you to know that she’s a lying little tramp,” Trent said from behind the bar.

  The manager stirred with alarm. “Trent doesn’t mean that.”

  “Furthermore,” said Trent, “NBC doesn’t care about my side of the story. There’s talk they want to write me out of the show completely. And I’ve got a family to feed.”

  In the distance, a lone sailboat slid across the horizon. On the sun-splashed deck just beyond the living room, two seagulls fought over a crab, screaming as they tore the flesh apart with sharp, curved beaks.

  I crossed my legs and tried to get comfortable on the narrow sling seat. The chair seemed designed for buttless people.

  “We’ve checked with the lawyers,” I said. “The contract’s airtight and they can’t do anything without just cause.”

  “ ‘Just cause’? Give me a break!”

  Trent slammed down a bucket of ice and the manager and I both jumped.

  “Can we all take a deep breath?” the manager suggested.

  “It’s rigged, Irv, can’t you see? I’m the womanizer who invades their living rooms each Thursday night. The cad who slept with his wife’s kid sister in last season’s finale. The other day a woman on the street called me a cradle-snatching slimeball. For something that happened on TV! This town’s got no idea what’s real and what’s scripted, and who can blame them when even the reality shows are faked.”

  I let Trent finish. Then I said, “Mr. Holloway, even if you played an avenging angel on a TV show full of demons, you’d be up against the wall right now as a result of your au pair’s allegations.”

  I paused to let this sink in, then made my voice soft and reassuring.

  “That’s why you hired us. To guide you through the labyrinth and convey your story to the media and the public. Blair represents the world’s top actors, athletes, rock stars, politicians, and CEOs. Our clients come back time and again because we deliver.”

  “With the fees you charge, I certainly hope so,” Irv the manager grumbled.

  My pulse was up from the Adderall. The cologne came on subtly, hints of lemon, bergamot, and verbena. I inhaled deeply.

  Trent emerged from the bar carrying a tray of drinks and I resumed studying him.

  It gave me a thrilling, almost masculine sense of power to stare at the famous face.

  I’ve got a license to stare.

  Because in my business, image is crucial.

  Any client who comes off as aloof, insincere, scared, or flippant loses in the court of public opinion long before the case ever goes to trial.

  So my eyes raked over him, cold and dispassionate. And I saw no deceit in Trent’s face, just outrage.

  But then, innocence in itself is no guarantee that things will go smoothly.

  Sometimes it’s quite the opposite.

  That’s why it’s important to “manage” the crisis.

  There are two sides to every story, and our job is to make sure the client’s version gets told.

  We’re the number that movie stars have on speed dial when they get caught buying heroin or transvestite hookers on the wrong end of Sunset. We step in when gay male escorts allege affairs with married politicians, and corporate titans get charged with fraud. We tell clients whom to talk to, when to go to rehab, what emotions to show (remorse, sorrow, sincerity, guilt, humility). We’re burrowers too, unearthing new facts and pointing out discrepancies. Sometimes we can only limit the damage and orchestrate a public confession, preferably on a national talk show with flowing waterworks. But even infamy has its uses.

  Everybody messes up, and most people deserve a second chance.

  It’s the American way.

  And if there’s one thing I learned early in life, it’s how to clean up messes.

  The only difference was that now I got paid.

  “Mineral water with lime,” Trent said, handing me a glass and giving me that pensive, searching look that set women of all ages aquiver.

  He seemed unaware of his magnetism, and I could detect nothing lecherous in his demeanor. But unless he was a total dog, there wouldn’t be. Trent Holloway’s most important role right then was to seduce me into believing he was a gentleman.

  We made small talk until we heard the front door open, then close. Moments later, a woman wearing drawstring pants and a tank top appeared. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, which made her cheekbones pop exquisitely. She beelined over to the drinks, grabbed the one with a sprig of mint, and threw herself onto the sofa.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said breezily. “I nearly rear-ended a jeep on PCH.” She took a long pull of her drink. “That’s what I get for being high on yoga.”

  I nodded sympathetically, as if that always happened to me too.

  “This is my wife, Boots,” Trent said. “She’s an actor and she writes bestselling parenting books.”

  I said I was pleased to meet Boots. I was especially pleased at the sixteen minutes of billable time at $750 an hour I’d just racked up waiting for Trent’s wife to show up.

  It was their money.

  I asked if we might begin, and everyone nodded grimly.

  “Good,” I said. “Mr. Holloway, we’d like to get you on a late-night talk show this week. We think that’s preferable to Good Morning America, given your demographic. And HuffPo may be interested in a first-person essay. We can write the initial draft, if that’s more comfortable. Laying out the facts. Expressing your shock at the betrayal. Your determination to seek justice for yourself and your family.”

  “Sounds good,” the manager said.

  “I’m on board,” said Trent.

  “We do feel betrayed,” Boots said. “Marie was like family. She had her own bedroom, car, iPhone. We took her to Aspen for Christmas. She had to stay on the bunny slopes with the kids, but come on, it was a free vacation! For her to accuse Trent of this . . .”

  Boots trailed off, unable to speak the words sexual harassment.

  “And the children”—she lowered her voice—“are devastated. We haven’t told them, they’re too young. Poor lambs!”

  Boots got up and threw open a door so I could witness the devastation of the lambs firsthand.

  In the family room, a toddler boy and a tween girl sprawled in front of a giant flat-screen TV watching cartoons while a Latina in a white uniform poured veggie chips into a bowl. Xavier was sitting on the floor, looking miserable as he assembled a Hot Wheels track. Despite the sunny summer day, the curtains were closed, the room sunk in bluish shadow.

  “Dad?” the boy said, without taking his eyes off the screen. “When can we go jump through the waves?”

  A commercial came on and both kids turned hopefully to Trent.

  “Anytime. Carmen or Xavier will take you.”

  “Can you or Mom come too?” the boy said.

  Trent grimaced and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’ve got a script to learn. And there’s probably paparazzi camped out on the dunes.”

  He raised an inquisitive eyebrow at his wife.

  “Don’t look at me,” Boots said. “I’ve got a spa treatment in exactly one hour. Ekaterina’s booked months in advance.”

  “We’re kind of busy here, kids,” said Trent.

  “That’s what you said yesterday,” the girl said solemnly. “But it’ll be dark soon and then Carmen will say it’s dinnertime.”

  “Where’s Marie?” asked the boy, bouncing on the sofa. “Why did she go away?”

  “Is she going to be our new au pair?” the girl asked, examining me with a practiced eye. “She’s prettier than M
arie.”

  “I don’t want her, I want Marie,” wailed the boy, shoving his thumb into his mouth.

  Boots leaned over and squeezed my hand.

  “See,” she whispered. “She’s a home wrecker as well as a liar. That letter!” She shuddered. “TMZ put the worst bits online. I’m ashamed to show my face at their school.”

  Boots’s breath was slightly astringent, sweet, and medicinal. Her glass was empty.

  Trent’s manager stirred and said, “Her lawyers want $1.5 million or they file suit. This is a bald-faced attempt to extort money from the Holloways after Boots confronted the nanny about some missing jewelry.”

  Trent nodded vigorously. “Maybe she thought we’d pay to shut her up and settle this thing, but she picked the wrong family. Our lawyer has advised us to countersue for libel.”

  Of course he did. It’s a windfall for him at $700 an hour.

  “You might want to discuss that with Mr. Blair,” I said. “Marie’s lawyers could retaliate by requesting copies of every text message and e-mail you sent to her and to each other since she was hired. Those filings are public and the celebrity sites will be all over it.”

  Boots gasped. “But that’s an invasion of our privacy. Can’t we ask a judge to seal the records?”

  “You can, but he might say no. Either way, it’s bound to leak, along with the deposition videotapes.”

  I watched their beautiful golden faces turn to ash.

  “I know we’re short on time, so let’s continue,” I said briskly. The Adderall had kicked in. I was so focused I could have balanced on the head of a pin. “At Blair we like to be out in front, setting the agenda rather than reacting defensively. So I’ll need a few things. A list of the jewelry, its total value, and when you noticed it missing. Photos if you’ve got them, so we can check pawnshops. Also the tape from your nanny cam, as far back as it goes. Security cameras too. Phone records, since you pay her bill. Mileage on the car. We’ll want to run histories of any computers she had access to. How about boyfriends? Did she date?”

  “I have no idea,” Boots said. “But we had ground rules. She couldn’t have men over.”

  “The nanny cam may tell us whether she violated that. Plus whether she drank on the job. Did drugs. Dressed provocatively, behaved seductively around your husband, spanked the kids, lost her temper. Have you played the tapes back?”

  The Holloways looked embarrassed. “There were so many and . . .”

  I smiled reassuringly. “Never mind, that’s what we’re here for. I’d like to talk to the children too, if that’s okay. Adults assume kids are too young to understand, but you’d be surprised at what they pick up. And you’ve got smart cookies there. They’ll tell us what goes on when you’re not around.”

  Something flashed in Trent’s eyes and I wondered if the kids had seen Marie emerging from the master bedroom when Mommy was off on book tour.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be delicate. And I’m good with kids. You’re welcome to sit in.”

  “Do you have children, Maggie?” Boots asked. “I’d love to give you an autographed copy of my latest book.”

  I hesitated, because this was a sore spot. “Not yet.”

  Boots was visibly crushed that we couldn’t bond over children. She really, really wanted to give me that book.

  “But I’d love a copy, if you have one to spare. I’ll share it with my . . . sister. She’s got two kids.”

  Boots said it would be her pleasure and we moved on.

  I told them I’d need Marie’s full name, address, and social security number to check court files, plus any references she provided.

  “You think she has a criminal record?” Trent asked in a tight voice.

  “I hope not. But there are sociopaths out there who think people like you make easy targets because you’re in the public eye, have money, want to shield your family. You’d be surprised how often—”

  My phone began to vibrate. I glanced down. It was the office and coded urgent.

  “That’s Mr. Blair on the line,” I lied smoothly. “I’m very sorry but I’ve got to take it. If you would please excuse me . . .”

  At their dovelike murmurs of acquiescence, I crossed the living room and stepped onto the blond wood deck cantilevered over the sand. The seagulls had gone, leaving behind a single shard of translucent orange shell. For a moment, I stood at the continent’s edge, breathing in the briny Pacific as the wind whipped my hair. Then I punched in the phone.

  “Maggie Silver.”

  “We’ve got a new VIP case,” said my boss, “and I need you back doubleplusfast.”

  My serenity dissolved. “I thought the Holloways were VIP.”

  “Then this is VVVIP.”

  “What should I tell them?”

  “Use your vast diplomatic skills.”

  “Should I call you from the car?”

  “We’ll talk at the office, my lovely bird-of-paradise.”

  And he was gone.

  Blair has a list of code words that everyone has to memorize when they come aboard. I’d always thought it silly, some James Bond routine. Now I grasped the wisdom of being able to discuss sensitive matters in public—or on notoriously insecure cell phones.

  Bird-of-paradise meant someone was dead.

  2

  I walked back into the Holloway house and announced a change of plans: Mr. Blair wanted me to go down to the Santa Monica Courthouse immediately to check whether the au pair had a criminal record.

  Impressed with the speed of the investigation, and unaware that the courthouse closed at five p.m., the Holloways promised to pull together everything I’d requested and we said good-bye.

  Bird-of-paradise, I thought, taking PCH’s curves like a ballroom dance, Lucinda Williams crooning on the stereo. The day was palm-frond balmy here at the beach, the air caressing as blue velvet, the breakers punching the sand as the shoreline stretched to moneyed infinity. Something shimmered on the edge of my consciousness.

  But I wouldn’t let it come.

  I concentrated on the brown hillside instead of the bonny blue sea. Soon I was passing the canyon with the secret waterfall. It was so secret and magical that it didn’t exist most years. Even when a heavy rain brought it to life, it was gone within days.

  There were many secret waterfalls in L.A. if you knew how to look. Anabelle used to say that on a full moon, you could cross through the water into other realms. We always wanted to try, but there was a drought the years we knew each other. And then our friendship grew as parched and brittle as autumn leaves blasted by the Santa Ana winds. When the rains finally came, it was too late.

  The car clock read four forty-five. I’d never make it home for dinner. Pulling on my hands-free, I called home.

  “I’m making burgers,” my mother said by way of hello. “It’s Nancy Silverton’s recipe; the butcher says there’s been a run on the thirteen percent fat ground sirloin since the article ran in the paper.”

  My mother, who was never home when I was growing up, who never cooked anything more elaborate than a frozen pizza, had in her retirement become a gourmet chef.

  It rankled. I knew I shouldn’t let it bother me but it did, because it was twenty years too late. I needed those meals as a kid. Hell, I needed her as a kid, but she was always working. Dad too, but he died when I was fifteen.

  I made decent money now, enough that my ex-husband, Steve, and I were able to buy a hillside bungalow in Cypress Park northeast of downtown. The name makes it sound grand, but the cypresses aren’t the tall romantic ones in Italy or Greece. They’re small and scrubby and grayish green and their numbers dwindle as they fight a losing battle against erosion, drought, and chain saw–happy homeowners.

  But I was determined to hang on to the place. We’d bought at the height of the market, so my mortgage was upside down. Once, I’d envisioned which room would become the nursery and where the swing set would go. But we worked long hours and Steve’s sales job often took him out of town. On the rare evening
s we spent together, he’d retreat into the “nursery” to play video games after dinner, leaving me feeling very much alone in my marriage. When I finally brought up divorce, he agreed without protest. It was only when he moved directly into the home of a female colleague that I learned about the affair.

  It’s blackly humorous, isn’t it? The crisis consultant who can’t control the damage in her own life? It’s not like I don’t try. After the divorce, I added a bedroom and was about to advertise for a roommate when Mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. At the same time, her landlord sold the crappy building where she lived and the new owner evicted everyone.

  So Mom became my roommate, which continues to astound and at times horrify me. It worked out okay during the chemo, since I helped care for her. Now that she was fine, I’d hinted that she look for her own place, but Mom wasn’t interested. Our roles had reversed, now I was the one who worked late and nagged her to exercise and eat right.

  “Save me a burger,” I said, my mouth watering. “I just got a new case and you know how that goes.”

  “Sure thing,” said Mom. “But I don’t know about the truffle-oil potatoes. Earlyn is coming for dinner and she likes her starches.”

  Earlyn Spector was the lady next door. She and my mom played gin rummy together. My mom complained about me, and Earlyn complained about the war she waged against the squirrels. It really heated up each summer because the squirrels snuck into her yard and ate the figs and apricots off her trees. I’d been woken up more weekend mornings than I cared to remember by Earlyn banging a wooden spoon against a metal pot in her backyard to scare them away. The squirrels retreated to the safety of higher branches, but they were not cowed.

  “I had a doctor’s appointment today,” my mother said with studied casualness. “They found a lump under my arm.”

  “Oh?” A wave of anxiety washed over me.

  “They think it’s only an enlarged lymph node, but they have to do some tests.”

  “You should have told me. I’d have gone with you.”

  “You have to make a good impression with this new job.”