Public Relations

by Katie Heaney, Arianna Rebolini

Genres: Coming of Age; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

"Cinderella for the modern age." --Kirkus

Young PR star Rose Reed is thrown into the big leagues when her boss leaves town the day of the firm's meeting with Archie Fox, a young, hot, internationally famous British singer-songwriter. The meeting is going badly until Rose suggests a staged romance with up-and-coming, young indie star Raya. He'll do it, but only if Rose becomes his publicist.

As the faux-mance between Archie and Raya begins to rehabilitate Archie's faltering career, Rose finds his herself having unexpected, inconvenient and definitely unprofessional feelings for the crooner. But do late night texts and impromptu burrito binges mean he feels the same? In the end, Rose will have to decide whether to let her fantasy crush go, or to risk her reputation to be with the charming, handsome, scoundrel-y but sweet pop star she's grown to love.

With a razor-sharp voice full of wry humor, Public Relations is a fun-filled glimpse behind the curtain of the PR machines that create our favorite celebrities.

Release date: May 9, 2017

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 320

Sample

JOANNA IS GOING TO KILL ME.

I was already fifteen minutes late getting off the R train, and despite a masterful sprint through Union Square—dodging old men playing chess, and shoppers comparing artisan cheeses at the farmers market, all while wearing a black shift dress and heeled sandals that smacked loudly against the street with each step—I still didn’t walk through the door of Weaver-Girard Public Relations until 9:13. Joanna (the Girard of Weaver-Girard, and the head of the firm’s music division) likes me to be in the office, her coffee in hand (black, no milk and obviously no sugar) by 8:55. As I came to a screeching stop outside her massive, glass-windowed office, a spray of hot coffee leapt from the cup onto the back of my hand. “Shit,” I hissed, wiping my hand on my dress. When I looked up, ready to receive the scolding of a lifetime, I finally realized that Joanna’s office was dark, and she was nowhere to be seen.

“Where have you been?”

Harper, my best friend, cubicle mate, and ally in perpetual fear of Joanna, was at my side, taking the now-soggy cup from my hand and throwing it into the garbage bin next to reception.

“Hey,” I said. “I could have had that.”

“Oh my God, you’re right,” she said. “I don’t know what I was thinking, I just panicked.”

“What’s going on?” I asked. “Where’s Joanna?”

“She flew to Dubai,” she whispered. “Left an hour ago. Trevor sent for her.”

“Oh my God,” I said. Trevor James was Weaver-Girard’s biggest client, on both sides. He was twenty-seven years old, had three platinum rap albums and an always-intricate blond undercut, and was a complete and total drama queen. He was the only client big enough to have Joanna herself on call, and the only one for whom she’d do just about anything. Even, apparently, flying to Dubai last-minute on the morning of the firm’s first meeting with its second-biggest client, who’d broken up with his previous publicity team after a major dip in sales. “What about Archie Fox?” I asked.

“Have you not been checking your email?” hissed Harper. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I was underground!”

Instead of giving me an explanation, Harper rolled her eyes and walked off in the direction of our desks. Because Harper was about seven feet tall, I practically had to jog to keep up.

“She’s sending you in,” said Harper, once we were safe within the (relative) privacy of our cube.

“What do you mean, ‘sending me in’?” Surely she wouldn’t ask me to take coffee orders in the Archie Fox meeting. That’s supposed to be the administrative assistant’s job, I thought, tightening my jaw in annoyance. It was bad enough I had to bring hers every day. I might have been, at twenty-six, one of the younger people on staff, but I certainly wasn’t green. I’d been promoted to media relations associate more quickly than anyone in company history, or so I’d been told.

“To the meeting,” said Harper, the duh implied. “In her place.”

“What?” I was sure I’d heard her wrong. “Like. On her behalf?”

“Yeah,” said Harper. “Read your email for once.”

She folded her hands on top of her desk and raised her eyebrows at me, clearly planning to watch me while I logged into my account. Even though I’d been warned, my heart still started racing when I opened my inbox and saw four separate emails from Joanna at the top. Each of the subject lines began with URGENT.

I opened the most recent first, and read aloud:

Seriously, Rose, I almost hope you actually are dead, because at least then I’d know I hadn’t been completely insane when I promoted you last month, and it’s not that you’re suddenly and inexplicably UNREACHABLE, but that you’ve been run over by a bus.

I looked back at Harper, who was doing a very bad job pretending not to laugh.

I continued to read:

If you ARE still alive, and want any hope of redeeming yourself for falling so maddeningly silent these past sixty minutes, you will go to my 10:00 a.m. As you have, no doubt, already heard, we’re working on putting together a rebrand package for Archie Fox. Weaver, Daniels, and Fitz will all be there, so your job is more or less to be the music person in the room. Do not mistake me—this does not mean that you should speak. Don’t look at anyone more than necessary, and especially not Archie. Take detailed notes, and email them to me immediately afterward. You are ONLY there to keep them accountable. Do you understand? Please, for the love of God, email me before 10:00 to tell me you understand.

Joanna.

I got to the end of the email and shook my head, feeling both terrified and incredibly flattered that Joanna Girard had referred to me as a “music person.” I looked back over to Harper.

“You are so lucky,” she said.

“How do you figure?” I asked, but of course I knew what she meant. Joanna was terrifying, and the other three were even worse. I was about to be in way, way over my head.

But I was also about to meet Archie Fox—effortlessly charming, famously flirty, boyishly handsome Archie Fox, international pop star and the number one crush of, oh, about a billion or two women worldwide. I typed up a quick reply to Joanna’s email (I’m sorry for my delayed response. I understand, and I’ll be there.), and before I could back out of the whole thing altogether, I pressed SEND.

What I knew about Archie Fox before walking into the meeting was as follows: He was twenty-four years old, British, and blew up about five years ago when an amateur video of one of his open-mike-night performances got a million views on YouTube within thirty-six hours. Unlike many YouTube sensations, however, he actually had the goods to support a career, and before the world even had time to process what was happening, his dimpled smile and shaggy hair were everywhere. Not that I could complain about that; he had one or two songs that I really liked—maybe not the kind of tracks I’d ever put on a party playlist (not if I was trying to impress people with my eclectic tastes, anyway), but the kind of thing I’d happily sing along to in the car. He seemed charming in person, speaking in a slow, deep drawl—though there was less of that now that he was ducking out of interviews, avoiding paparazzi, and blowing off red carpets. And that was kind of the problem.

“Okay, wait, remind me where he is in the tour right now,” I said.

Harper sized me up with her arms crossed, and then reached over to unravel the black velvet ribbon she had just wrapped around my neck.

“He just finished up in Europe. Oh my God, you didn’t see that Vine from his last night in Madrid? With the hip thrust?” She tossed her head back in feigned ecstasy. “It probably killed about ten thousand girls in that stadium.”

“No, somehow I missed that one,” I said while she held her leather jacket up against my chest. “I need you to stop transferring your entire outfit onto me before you’re naked, okay?”

“Listen, don’t blame me when Archie’s like, Oy, right, I’d quite fancy the brunette if it weren’t for that totally shapeless dress, mate.”

“Did he just become a pirate? Is that what the meeting is about?”

“Shut up.” She shoved me, laughing. “Just put on the jacket. It’ll look cool.”

“I don’t need to look cool, Harp. Fancying me isn’t exactly the goal here.” I put the jacket back in her hand. “Wait—what’s the name of that song of his that everyone likes, off the last album?” While I was obviously familiar with Archie Fox’s debut—there couldn’t be many people left worldwide who weren’t—I wasn’t exactly a fangirl.

“You think he’s gonna quiz you?”

“You never know.”

“You’re not even supposed to talk!”

I looked at my watch—9:47. I ran back to my computer and quickly scanned the other emails from Joanna. When I found the song, I choked on a laugh.

“‘Kiss Me, Kill Me,’” I told Harper, miming a knife to the chest.

“Be nice!” she shouted to me as I dashed down the hall.

MY JOURNEY TO PR WAS indirect, slightly arbitrary, and catalyzed almost entirely by Joanna, though I’d never told her as much. I grew up in the Bay Area, certain I’d be a music journalist, I guess because no one thought to warn me the industry was dead. In the defense of my parents, teachers, childhood friends—anyone whose proximity to me meant listening to my tales of future rock journalism stardom, really—the industry was putting up a decent fight back then. People were still reading (and writing about) Joel Selvin’s column in the Chronicle, and you could find copies of music monthlies and biweeklies (real, tangible zines!) stacked at coffeehouses and record shops. I passed summer afternoons cycling through my parents’ records (Jackson 5, Blondie, and Hall & Oates were on heavy rotation) and, as soon as I started getting one, I spent my allowance on my own growing collection, sourced mostly from Amoeba. (My first: Fiona Apple’s When the Pawn…, whose lyrics sailed way over my nine-year-old head, but which nevertheless stirred in me a confused but steadfast and righteous sense of angst.)

While most of my classmates were figuring out how to pronounce Hermione, I was asking the Internet what seminal meant, or when shoegaze started. When they began cryptically blogging on their LiveJournals about secret crushes, I was mimicking all of my favorite critics at heartofglass777.xanga.com. When I started dating Dave, my first (and, honestly, only real) boyfriend, at the end of ninth grade, we spent our first of six summers together dragging each other to any and every gig that would let under-eighteen kids in, as well as any basement show that didn’t pretend to care. How lucky am I? I’d think as we got closer to graduation, whenever my classmates and friends agonized over what the rest of their lives would be, and how they were going to get there. I knew exactly where I was going.

Here’s what the plan looked like: NYU, with a double major in music and journalism. First year dorm (Hayden Hall, ideally) to get the full college experience, until sophomore year, when Dave—who would be studying comparative literature at the New School—and I could get a sweet little studio in Greenwich Village. Or Soho. Honestly (I’d tell anyone who’d listen), I would happily live anywhere that would place us within walking distance of the Bowery. I’d get internships at any and every music publication: Village Voice, to start, then maybe Spin or something super indie like Paper, until I was ready for my holy grail, Rolling Stone. There I would prove myself so capable, and so precocious, that I’d be offered a position in my final semester. This would, of course, lead to bestselling anthologies of critical essays, not that I was getting ahead of myself or anything. And in any free time throughout these years, Dave and I would gallivant around every musical landmark in the big city and drink it all up, having already sucked our home scene dry.

Only about a quarter of the plan came to fruition, and that’s probably me being generous. I did get into NYU (early decision) and arrived at Weinstein Hall with two suitcases, no fewer than thirty magazine cutouts and CD covers to plaster over the prison-like cinder-block walls, and a canned answer ready for anyone who asked: Rose Reed from California, already declared, journalism major with a concentration in music. Of course, the last part hardly mattered. I hadn’t yet learned that unless a person was pre-med or pre-law, first-year curricula were pretty much indistinguishable among the students. Still, my conviction seemed important. Yes, I’d sit through the generic natural science class and statistics for beginners, but at least I knew what was coming after they were out of the way. I had the rest of my years blocked out in my head, and even went so far as to introduce myself to the professors I wanted to recognize me. I studied hard my freshman year; I did well. I made a few friends. I developed a friendship-esque concord with my roommate, which I took as pretty lucky, considering the horror stories of passive aggression (or outright aggression) I’d heard from other incoming freshmen. Life didn’t seem all that different from how it’d been in years prior; it was just unfolding in front of a different backdrop. I went to shows, I trawled through discount bins at record stores, and I did most of my socializing with Dave and his friends.

The first crack to weaken my plan came in the form of a sparse email from Pitchfork, which arrived in my inbox in mid-March of my freshman year. The letter informed me that despite my “obvious talents,” I hadn’t been accepted into their summer fellowship program, but I was urged to please try again next year. Soon after came similarly phrased rejections from Spin, the Village Voice, New York Magazine, and Rolling Stone. Each time, Dave arrived at my door with a pick-me-up in hand—flowers the first time around, then the boxed set of the third season (the best) of The X-Files, and then, eventually, just cartons of ice cream. He patted me on the back, assuring me this wasn’t the end of the world, while I wished I hadn’t broadcasted every aspect of my plan so widely. After the fourth rejection, he gingerly asked if I was pursuing other options, adopting that tone people use when they’ve decided your dream is a bust, but they’re trying to gauge whether or not you’ve figured that out yourself. Our favorite coffee shop was hiring baristas for the summer, he reminded me, and didn’t I make a mean cup of coffee? And, honestly, he said, he’d always thought waiting tables seemed kind of fun. All of this was easy for him to consider, because for him it was a distant hypothetical—he’d gotten his dream job on the first try, an editorial internship at Macmillan.

For my part, I wasn’t keen on giving up quite yet. By late April, I was back into the job listings, scouring the Internet for any outlets or publications that still had summer positions open. I applied for anything that would land me in the same room as working writers—internships or fellowships in social media, marketing, communications, copywriting, something called “social storytelling”—which, to be honest, I was hoping to get just so I could find out what the position entailed. Finally I was offered a position as an editorial intern at The Dish, a gossipy pop-culture site with a sizable following. It was technically unpaid but came with a stipend, and the man who would be my boss assured me it wasn’t like other internships where I’d ended up ordering lunches and doing grunt work. I’d be learning. I’d fact-check, take notes, and sit in on brainstorms. I wasn’t on the music team per se, but nightlife was within my purview—and what did people do in cities at night if not see live shows? I fantasized about casually dropping details regarding the concerts I was planning to attend that summer in the vicinity of some editor I hadn’t yet met, who would of course immediately suggest I write up a review. It was as if the offer wiped my mind clear of the rejections that led to it. I was thrilled.

About three weeks after my first day on the job, the thrill had worn off. My boss was true to his word, and I did work closely with writers, but it turned out I didn’t like many of them. I was certain the feeling was mutual. Most were in their early twenties—usually no more than five years older than me—but this didn’t stop them from posturing as old pros, seasoned cultural critics already disillusioned by the entire entertainment industry.

In simpler words, they were snobs, but not even in the way I would have expected. They didn’t lord their extensive knowledge of music or movies over me, but they did gawk whenever I revealed I hadn’t read whichever essay they were talking about that day. Their version of one-upping seemed to consist entirely of name-dropping and gaining Twitter followers. There was a lot of whining. Still, I developed valuable skills. I got comfortable sending professional emails. I learned how to convert news items into flashy and succinct articles people would actually read. I was introduced to the wonders of Gchat. But the most meaningful aspect of my time at The Dish was my access to the occasional interview whenever actors or singers were brought into the office. One interview in particular—with a singer named Michaela Jones—changed everything.

Michaela had fronted a pop-punk band in the early 2000s, disappeared for some time, and recently returned, newly reborn as a folksy solo artist. I was obsessed with her. I knew Anthony, the guy who was spearheading the interview; he wrote pithy album reviews that ran down a sidebar on the music page, and we’d bonded over our shared tastes. He was my closest thing to a work friend, and I was nearing the end of my time there anyway, so I figured, Well, why not? I sidled over to his desk while he was eating lunch (this would be another lasting lesson—no one who wants to get anywhere in New York takes lunch breaks) and asked if he was looking for any assistance regarding the interview—maybe some brainstorming or research, or even, if it would be helpful, someone else in the room?

Anthony obliged, and two days later I was standing at the door of our photo studio, eyeing the office entrance. Michaela arrived with a small entourage in tow, but one woman in particular piqued my interest. I guessed she was the publicist, mainly because of the way she walked across the office—confident gait, eyes never leaving her phone. She was tall and lean, in a sheer white button-up with sleeves rolled to the elbow and flowing high-waisted pants that made her legs look about a mile long. She wore her hair natural, cropped close to her head, and her face was bare save for bright-red lips. Michaela introduced herself to Anthony, our photographer, and me, and gazed around the room while the publicist’s thumbs danced wildly over her phone. It was clear she was running the show. She finally dropped the phone in her purse and offered her hand. She introduced herself as Joanna Girard, thanked us all for inviting Michaela, and then ran through a short list of topics her client wouldn’t be discussing.

“No being cute,” she said. “When I say she won’t discuss it, I mean she will not discuss it.” She flashed a shining smile and retreated to the back wall, where she stayed, eyes glued again to her phone, for most of the interview.

Anthony led the conversation, focusing often on Michaela’s love and social life, frequently flirting with the verboten topics. I got some questions in about her plans to do more songwriting, and what it was like to tour without a band. When Anthony decided to push his luck and bring up Michaela’s rumored affair with another (married) singer, it was as if he’d pulled the fire alarm. Within seconds Joanna had gathered up her and Michaela’s bags, and then ushered her out the door, ignoring Anthony’s trailing apologies and pleas for their return. Joanna didn’t even look back. It was incredible. The room felt electric, and I knew: That was the kind of impact I wanted to have.

Now, seven years later, I channeled that energy as I walked toward the conference room where I knew the Three-Headed Dog (which was what Harper and I sometimes called Ryan Weaver, Sam Daniels, and Keiran Fitz—because they were always together, and equally slimy) was waiting for me. I’d expected to get there comfortably before Archie Fox & Team, because Archie Fox was a rock star, and rock stars get places late. I’d counted on greeting the guys, settling into my chair, and then having a few moments for additional, covert research on my phone. But when I opened the door, the first person I saw wasn’t Ryan, Sam, or Keiran.

It was Archie Fox.

At the sound of my entrance, the room fell silent, and everyone, including Archie, who was seated at the far corner opposite me, and a woman in her forties, whom I presumed to be Archie’s manager, looked up. I allowed myself to hold Archie’s eye but only for a second for fear I might seem like a wannabe fangirl instead of a professional. It was enough time to confirm three things: One, that he looked extremely tired; two, that he was significantly broader, and slightly older-looking, than I’d imagined him to be; and three, that he was really very cute. This last part made me particularly annoyed—at him, for having the nerve, and at myself, for being just as susceptible to his face as everyone else.

“Are you planning to sit?” asked Ryan. Sam and Keiran exchanged looks, and I felt my face flush as I scrambled to pull a chair out from the table.

“As I was saying,” said Ryan, “we’re grateful to you both for making the time to meet with us. Archie, I know you’re mid-tour, so—”

“Sorry, what’s your name?” asked Archie.

I was busy setting up my laptop to take notes, so it took me a moment of collective silence to realize that Archie had been talking to me. I looked up.

“Oh,” said Ryan, “that’s—she’s just—she’s just here on Joanna’s behalf. Joanna sends her apologies, of course, we—”

“Rose,” I said. I was blushing again, but Archie was still looking at me, and even though I had been told not to speak I figured I was allowed to answer direct questions. This one, at least.

“Rose,” Archie repeated. “I’m Archie.”

“I know,” I said, sounding a bit more irritated than I had intended. I was surprised to see a slight twitch around his mouth. He leaned back into his chair, folding his arms across his chest, so that the thin arrow that stretched across his tattoo-covered right forearm formed a perfect parallel with the conference table.

“Right,” interjected Ryan. “So, as I was saying, thrilled to have you here. We’ve got a few excellent outreach ideas that will really get the momentum going ahead of the album release. I think you’re really going to love them. Keiran, you want to start?”

“Absolutely,” said Keiran, directing that shit-eating grin of his toward Archie before taking a folder from a small stack that sat on the table next to him. Because he worked primarily under Ryan, Keiran usually worked with actors, but I’d always had the feeling he wanted to switch to music, and now I was sure of it. “Mission 5 has shown serious interest in having you as a spokesmodel, which we think is a great fit.” Like a slow-motion car wreck, I watched Keiran open the folder to reveal a series of mock-up print ads featuring Archie Fox’s face Photoshopped onto the bodies of models wearing Mission 5’s trademark bro-tastic beachwear.

“I don’t know…” Archie began, pausing for what felt like a full minute before closing his mouth again.

“I don’t think we’re interested in the spokesmodel approach,” said his manager, smiling tightly. Under the table, I did a quick Google search for Archie Fox manager. Maria Bird. Right, I thought, remembering hearing Joanna speak in half-frustrated, half-admiring tones about the blunt, no-nonsense Maria.

“It’s great visibility,” said Keiran, grinning again as the vein in his forehead that showed up when he was challenged by anyone appeared. “Mission 5 has great recognition for the thirteen-to-seventeen demo.”

Thirteen-to-seventeen-year-old boys, I thought. And no one, of any gender, over the age of sixteen thought Mission 5 was cool. I didn’t care what Keiran’s market research said. He was wrong, and I knew it, but I bit my tongue. Joanna had told me to be silent.

“Let’s hear the next one,” said Archie, with a curt nod.

“Of course,” said Keiran. “Modeling’s not your thing. Got it.”

“You sure have the hair for it, though!” said Sam. At that, I probably winced visibly.

“Ah, well, thanks, mate,” said Archie. Then, before I had time to look away, he looked right at me—just for a second, without moving his head, and so fast I could have convinced myself I was crazy. I looked back at my notepad.

“All right,” said Keiran, shuffling through the folders. “Sam? Do you…?”

“Have you considered vlogging?” asked Sam.

Much to my horror, I snorted. I immediately tried to play it off as a cough, but one glance in Archie’s direction confirmed that he, at least, did not buy it.

“Vlogging?” he asked with, to his credit, an almost-believable look of consideration. This apparently was invitation enough for Sam to dive right in.

“Video blogging. It’s the most direct and efficient route to your audience,” he said, passing a one-sheet around the table. “Mikey Trick, for example, started a weekly video-diary-style show three months ago—single camera, low production cost—and since then, his subscribers have nearly tripled.”

“His YouTube subscribers, you mean,” said Archie with one eyebrow raised. Keiran and Sam exchanged nervous glances, but Ryan apparently got the point.

“Which, of course, isn’t exactly where you need more of a following.”

“Right,” Sam said. “Your YouTubers love you. I’ve seen the videos of the, like, ten-year-old girls going fucking nuts screaming and crying. Insane!” He laughed, a series of truncated honks, and leaned in toward Archie clearly hoping to bond. But Archie only replied with a close-lipped smile. “Ah, but, um—” Sam cleared his throat. “—that doesn’t mean there aren’t more kids out there who could fall in love with you, too!” Kids? I couldn’t believe the tone Sam was taking. If Archie’s fans had been teenage boys rather than girls, he (and Keiran, for that matter) would have taken this assignment more seriously. I was sure of it.

“You could also go multiplatform,” Keiran said, jumping in. “Bring in some guests—maybe those Vine guys who are always doing those hilarious animal impressions? Then they show clips on their Vines, they get more views, more Vine traction for you.”

“Okay, okay, everyone hold on,” said Archie, hands raised and laughing. “Please, just—no one say ‘Vine’ again.”

I’d never seen Sam and Keiran look so nervous. I didn’t hate it.

“It’s just that audience expansion on… a new platform like that… it could be good, don’t you think?” Ryan said. He glanced at Maria, who did not look up from her phone.

“And I appreciate that, but unfortunately I’m not a talk-show host, nor do I care to share with the world my ‘video diaries.’” On this, Archie made mocking air quotes, and I had to swallow hard to keep from snickering. He turned his glance toward me. “Rose, right? Tell me—do you have your phone with you?”

I felt blood rush to my ears. “Well, yes, um. We all do…” If I was going down for that, I was taking Ryan, Sam, and Keiran with me.

“Don’t worry, I’m not some monster who requires his team leave their electronic devices at the door.”

His team. I got goose bumps, even if it was just a figure of speech, I felt like I was finally getting a seat at the big kids’ table. I would’ve savored the moment if his questioning expression hadn’t immediately p. . .