5. Ellis

CHAPTER 5

ELLIS

I think if I really tried, I could spit my gum out into the trash from here. I'd have to get the angle right, and I would need some heavy momentum to get it over the table. But I think, with a big enough force, I could get it to stick on the far wall.

This is a sure sign that the meeting is going badly. My mind is wandering again.

Then again, it's not like any of these people are doing anything to impress me. I'm trapped here in this stupid room with these stupid people, resigned to thinking stupid thoughts about gum. Next I'll be throwing pencils at the ceiling to see if they stick.

It's not even like they're telling me anything I don't already know. I've read and reread the report about the app at least a thousand times now, and all I'm hearing them say is that all the figures that I thought were bad are actually worse than that.

Because not only did we lose sales on Beautiful Baby, but Beautiful Fitness has started taking a hit too. Things are spiraling out of control.

If we have to write Beautiful Baby off, so be it. But Beautiful Fitness is literally what my life is built on. My ship can't be sinking like this. I can lose a couple of yachts from the battalion, and it might hurt, but my mothership isn't going down.

I think I'm mixing my metaphors now. Do they call a group of boats a battalion? Or are they a fleet? Motherships are just for space, right? Or did that come from the sea too?

"Mr. Whitlock?" asks Peterson, interrupting my thoughts. He's a young man with one of those first names that sounds like it should be a last name, and a confusingly impenetrable expression to match.

"What?" I snap, staring furiously at him. Maybe if I'm furious enough, everyone will leave me alone.

Don't they realize how embarrassing all this is? Maybe they should try being notorious and then failing so badly you cause your entire — whatever a group of ships is called to not only sink, but to fall apart catastrophically on the way down.

Peterson smiles uncomfortably. "Um, we were wondering if you had any ideas, sir?"

"Well, what about?"

"Beautiful Baby, sir?"

I groan loudly, shaking my head so everyone can feel the weight of disapproval. "Isn't that what we've spent the entire last half hour talking about? Haven't you come up with a solution for that yet?"

He nods nervously, like they've drawn straws and he's got the short one. "We have got some ideas," he says. "But we would like your input. If you've got any, that is."

I raise both eyebrows. Did he really think I wouldn't see through that dig? "No," I say slowly, frowning hard at everyone so they know exactly how unhappy I am. "I don't have any… input."

"Okay," says Priscilla, reining control back in. I can always rely on her. She's the one really steering this ship, at the end of the day. I'm the figurehead and, indeed, the wallet, but she's the captain. "Well, then, it looks like the only idea we've really got that might work is the reality show."

"I'm not doing a reality show," I pout. I can't believe they're still thinking about that. Imagine it! Me! On TV, prancing about like one of those fools who wants to be famous.

I'm already far too well-known, thank you.

That's when Wilma, my head of partnerships, speaks up. "Mr. Whitlock, you may have heard already, but one of the major streaming sites is planning to make a new show centered around business entrepreneurs such as yourself, and their families."

"Why would anyone care about that?" I say, still sulking.

"You'd be surprised. The average person cares about rich people more than they should. People just love to watch people more successful than them on television. It helps them dream about something that they can never have."

She's getting carried away with all that smiling. I make sure to meet it with a steely frown. "Okay, but why should I do this?"

Wilma doesn't shy away from my mood. Instead, she just keeps going. "We believe we can really use this as a tool to help promote Beautiful Baby. If we can update your image and prove to the world that not only are you wildly successful and perhaps a little grumpier than you ought to be, but that you are also a loving family man, we really believe this could help with sales."

I scoff, incredulous that this is what they're bringing to me. "So, not only do you want me to prance around on television, but you want me to do that and pretend to fall in love? You want me to get a real wife and a real child ASAP and pretend to actually like them?"

The nerve of these people. It's insane that they would think I could possibly be interested in doing anything like this.

My entire schtick is me being grumpy and moody and rich. I lean right into it. But for people to see a softer side of me and decide I'm into being all touchy-feely? Ugh. Being grumpy is easier. At least it doesn't take any effort.

The meeting room falls silent, everyone shuffling awkwardly in their seats as they wait for someone else to say something.

Priscilla turns to me, sensing my outrage level getting too high for anyone's comfort. "You could say no, of course, but we don't need you to actually get married. All we need is an actor who will be willing to pretend to be in a relationship with you for a couple of weeks while we film. This really would not drastically affect your life, after all. You're already a well-known public figure. All this would do is bolster your popularity. Just three weeks of your life; that's all you'd have to dedicate to this."

"You make it sounds so appealing," I sniff. I fold my arms and sink back in my chair, eyeing everyone with suspicion. "You've all made this decision already, haven't you?"

Slowly but surely, they all prove themselves as traitors, nodding one by one.

This is utterly ludicrous. Where am I possibly going to find a wife? Not only a wife, but a woman with a baby who would even consider doing this.

And then I think about that ridiculous flustered woman from the interviews. There's no way she would ever be a good PA for me, but she was attractive, and she does have all the things I need make this work. She looks good, she wants a job, and most importantly of all, she has a small child.

Nothing about this is ideal, but as I think about it, I'm starting to see ways that it could work.

"Promise me that this isn't going to just make me look stupid. Promise me that you really think this is the best option for everyone," I say, glaring down every single one of my so-called advisors.

They all nod again, and I decide to admit defeat.

"Yes," says Priscilla. She's the only one who ever dares stand up to me. "We really think this is going to do Beautiful Baby a world of good."

"Swear to me that this is going to work — and I'll do it," I say, staring her straight in the eye.

"I swear this is going to work," she repeats without hesitation.

"All right, then. Time to find a wife."

Priscilla pushes over a stack of files towards me. "Headshots from a local casting agency. It seems like a good place to start."

"No," I say. "Find that woman we interviewed for the PA position. The one with the baby and the phone. You know the one I mean. What was her name?"

"You mean the one whose daycare called?" asks Priscilla, her face crumpling in doubt.

"Yes. I want her."

She flicks through the files and finds the one, but before she hands it to me, she asks me, as if asking a child, "Are you sure?"

"I won't do this with anyone else."

I know I'm sounding petulant, and I have absolutely no reason to believe that this woman is even going to want anything to do with me. But I figure that a big paycheck never hurt anyone, and I can think of few people who would decline the amount I'm going to offer.

Priscilla hands me the file, and I flick to the phone number. Carefully, I type it in, then hesitate for a second. It's just three weeks. I can manage three weeks with a woman who hates me. It's for a good reason.

I hit call.