Suzanne Forster - The Private Concierge

She began to dictate: “Priscilla Brandt wigged out today and attacked a homeless man on her property. I did some short-term damage control by canceling her interview with the morning-show anchor. Long-term, the woman needs anger management, medical intervention and possibly a straitjacket.”

Lane smiled at the thought. She spent so much time stroking egos and smoothing feathers that it actually felt good to say what she really thought. Also libelous, probably. Certainly, contract-breaching.

She jabbed the Replay button to record over the item. “Monday, October 7. Priscilla Brandt had a confrontation with a homeless man on her property….”

Lane’s voice lapsed into a monotone as she went through the rest of the day’s events. When she got to the to-do list, she used verbal commands to delete the things she’d done and add several new items. At the top of her list was the itinerary for her Dallas trip later this week. Next was a reminder to check in with clients who weren’t in crisis. She owed Jerry Blair at TopCo a call to go over some ideas for his daughter’s sweet sixteen. He’d finally hired the party planner she’d recommended, but she wanted him to know she was thinking about him and his concerns. She was also tempted to ask him for some advice. And maybe a good lawyer.

Lane had become so engrossed in her thoughts she didn’t notice that someone had taken advantage of the office’s open-door policy. The last of her staff had left an hour ago, and no one who didn’t work in the building could get past the security downstairs. She’d thought she was alone. But she couldn’t have been more wrong. A man stood at the doorway behind her, listening to her every word. He didn’t work in the building, and he’d easily evaded the building’s security. He was about to invade hers.

Priscilla Brandt marched from one end of her living room to the other, yanking open the curtains as she went. It was dark and she couldn’t see what manner of monsters lurked outside, hiding in the bushes, but they could see in. So, let them, she’d decided. Let the paparazzi spy on her. Let the police arrest her. She was not going to be trapped in a boarded-up house like a cornered animal. She was not going to hide or cower or pretend to be repentant.

All right, she was glad she hadn’t killed him, but that was all.

She tugged at the last column of drapes, which didn’t want to open. The whole house was computerized, including the window treatments, which were programmed to open and close morning and evening, as well as adjust for daylight saving time. They could also be controlled by remote, but given her mood, yanking was mandatory. She would have yanked the devil’s dick if she’d been able to get her hands on it.

Someone had caught her on tape this morning dealing with that stubborn mule of a homeless man, and then sold the footage to a muckraking gossip Web site. From there, the networks had picked it up, and all day long Priscilla had been forced to watch hideous clips of herself abusing a defenseless, unconscious person.

That made her the monster, of course. She’d been advised by her publicity people to call an attorney, avoid the press and say nothing, but that wasn’t her style. And she’d had to talk to the police. They’d shown up on her doorstep, ready to cart her down to the station to question her. It was only because she’d hyperventilated and had to breathe into a bag that they’d agreed to talk to her in her home.

There was no one she could call. Her parents would have added to the embarrassment. They were free spirits who lived in a ramshackle double-wide on a scrubby patch near the California-Oregon border that technically put them in Oregon and saved them a buttload in state taxes. They didn’t wear shoes and were the impetus for most of the Do Nots in her book. She’d had no time to make friends since she got to L.A., or do anything but focus on her career. Her road to success was the express lane, total and all-consuming.

So, she’d brazened it out alone, telling the police it was self-defense and the man had been harassing her for days, part of which was true. He had been harassing her, and she was defending her dream, damn it, even if this was a different guy. She’d even admitted to giving him money, explaining that she lived alone and was terrified of him.

Thank God, he’d gone away this morning. He’d regained consciousness well before the police arrived, hustled off her property and disappeared. Despite a thorough search of the neighborhood, they hadn’t been able to find him, and no charges had been pressed against her. That was the only bit of luck she’d had.

Priscilla continued yanking curtains, and when she had them all opened, the living room resembled an amphitheater with the audience hidden in the darkness beyond the windows. She poured herself a glass of an excellent French cab, swirled it and held it to her nose, taking in the hints of cherry and licorice. She advised people on how to choose wines. Mostly she was faking it, and any wine expert would have known, but the public didn’t. She’d been elevated to the level of expert on many things, which could be the problem.

She coughed as the wine went down wrong. Maybe it was too much pressure for a pimply-faced kid who’d grown up in a border town and ate fast food with plastic forks. Maybe that’s why she was cracking up, insulting people—and now, assaulting them.

Her Darwin phone rang, and she could tell by the ring tone that it was Lane Chandler, but she’d been fielding calls and advice all day, including from Lane, who’d joined the chorus in advising her to speak with an attorney. Apparently TPC even provided legal consults for its top-tier clients. But Priscilla didn’t trust attorneys. She didn’t even have an assistant, which made life hellishly busy, but she harbored deep fears of being exposed as a fraud and a hick.

Besides, Priscilla Brandt had done just fine on her own.

She left the wineglass on the bar and walked to the window, defiant, hands on her hips. Indignant tears welled. Let them look at her, the assholes. They were lucky she wasn’t naked, wielding a bullhorn and staging a protest for privacy rights. They could try to destroy her, but she would never let it happen. She would even find some way to turn this debacle around and exploit it for the good of her career. But she wasn’t about to do anything as ridiculous as going to rehab or donating time to a homeless shelter. Let the retarded, boozed-up movie starlets do rehab. She was an author.

Possibly she would turn this into a chapter of her next book. Not a catastrophe after all, but a life lesson. Don’t let the turkeys get you down. Shoot them and eat them with prune stuffing for Thanksgiving dinner.

Her phone rang again, startling her. She’d left it on the bar, but she wasn’t taking one more call tonight unless it was from Skip McGinnis, the kid who would be executive producing her talk show, provided he ever got his head out of his ass. If he was looking for excuses to drop the ball, he certainly had one after today’s hot mess. She’d been calling him all afternoon, but kept getting his voice mail with that lying message about how important her call was to him. All she wanted was a chance to explain in her own words.

She rushed to the bar, but the phone’s display said the call was from an unknown caller, probably the press. Damn McGinnis. This was humiliating. Every call that wasn’t him felt like another rejection, and they were piling up. She should have let her manager call him. Let her collect the rejections.

She toyed with the phone, wondering what to do. The last couple of messages she’d left him might have been a bit snappish. She probably shouldn’t have threatened to go over his head and have him fired if he didn’t call back, but he couldn’t have taken that seriously. Surely. Maybe she would try again, something humorous. To make up for the surliness.