“Look. Fireworks by the Eiffel Tower,” Michael said. The couple stood up and walked to the balcony. Michael put his arm around Christy’s shoulders.
“Beautiful,” Christy said.
“Just like you. My beautiful wife who has not let me down or embarrassed me in any way. The truth is, I’m jumping for joy. I want to take care of you. I want you to lean on me. I adore you, ma chérie.”
“Me, too,” Christy said, kissing Michael softly.
Michael looked up and spoke to the waiter who had arrived with the second course. “Servez-nous, garçon, s’il vous plait.” They sat down again and the waiter refilled their wineglasses.
“To our new life together,” Michael toasted.
“To our new life.” They clinked their glasses and took a sip.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. You’ve got a meeting with Jerome Fudderman on Wednesday, if you want it,” Michael said.
“No way! That’s like having an appointment with the Wizard of Oz.”
“Yup.”
“He agreed to represent me?” Christy asked.
“Not yet. First, you have to convince him you’re worth representing. But you can do it.”
“Wow.” Christy couldn’t believe that she had an appointment with the spin doctor to the stars. “But if I’m going to stay home and be your sex slave, how would I use him?”
“Think of Jerome as a very special shrink who can guide you toward your next chapter,” Michael said. “His specialty is helping public failures overcome their bad press and move forward with new lives. Isn’t that what you need?”
“I guess,” Christy said, trying to ignore the fact that her husband had called her a failure without even noticing it. “Have you spoken to anyone who’s worked with him?”
“Only George Wells. He told me that if they give you a meeting with Fudderman himself, you’re halfway there. He’s going to ask you to tell him your life story. Don’t hold back. He has to know everything. He’ll decide if you’re worth saving.”
“Okay. I’m flattered that he’d agree to see me.”
“You’re as powerful as any of his other clients were before they self-destructed. I’m not surprised at all that he’d see you.”
Christy flinched as he said “self-destructed.” Somehow she had hoped that Michael hadn’t seen it that way. At least he thought she was powerful.
“So you really think I can turn the damage around?”
“Of course you can,” Michael said. “Everyone can. That’s the beautiful thing about America.”
“All right, I’m in. Now hurry up and finish your coq au vin. Let’s take a walk along the Seine. I love this city.”
Mr. Second Chance
Christy sat in one of the giltwood armchairs across from Jerome Fudderman’s ornate antique desk in his palatial Fifty-seventh Street office. Surrounded by his French chandeliers, nineteenth-century Russian carpets, and satin wall coverings, she felt like a lowly commoner awaiting an audience with her king. Most of the wall space was covered with elaborately framed oil paintings, each with its own light. Pictures of Jerome standing with his infamous clients covered the entire south wall. There he stood with some of the greatest public failures of all time—the wall of the fallen. Many had successfully rebranded themselves; others had not.
“Helloo, helloo, I’m Jerome Fudderman. You must be Christy Hayes.” Jerome stormed into the room like a tornado, his note-taking assistant at his heels. A tall, bald, barrel-chested man with heavy jowls and pudgy hands, Jerome seemed like your average grandfather, only with a Savile Row suit and handmade tassel loafers.
Mr. Second Chance wasted no time. “So, Christy Hayes, the latest of the mighty to be chewed up and spit out. Tell Uncle Jerry everything. Why I should bother to save that lovely ass of yours.”
Christy hesitated. She wasn’t sure her ass was worth saving. She had no idea what she wanted. Hiding sounded good.
Jerome interrupted her thoughts. “Just start from the beginning. Tell me your story, dear.”
Christy sat up straight. “Well, I became a runner when I was twelve.”
“No, not that beginning. I have your history here. Tell me about the last year, year and a half. You’ve fallen hard, and I need to know what happened.”
“Oh, sure. About a year and a half ago, I met the man of my dreams, Michael Drummond. You’ve probably heard of him.”
“Everyone knows Michael Drummond, dear.”
“Right. Well, we met, fell in love, and were married not long after. Our life was perfect. Perfect! I continued to run Baby G while he managed his companies. We were like two kids in a candy store, and the world was the candy store. We did whatever we wanted, with just one rule: we always did it together. It took us so long to find each other, we didn’t want to be apart if we could help it.”
“So, you ignored your company while you were busy playing nookie with your new husband, heh-heh-heh?” Jerome had one of those annoying perverted laughs.
“No. I was an excellent CEO. Very attentive. Our sales were up eight percent last year. Our stock was down, but that was because my partner, who wanted my job, was busy planting negative stories in the press about me. Anyway, several months ago, my housekeeper died. She was the grandmother of an eleven-year-old girl, who I, um, kind of inherited. I’ve filed for adoption. In six months, it’ll be final, and Renata will be my daughter.”
“So you ignored your business while you were busy playing mommy to your new little girl, heh-heh-heh?”
“You could say that, yes. While I was getting her settled, Katherine Kilborn, my COO, was secretly trying to steal my job. Ultimately, I lost the battle for CEO. They offered me the chairmanship, but I said no. I couldn’t work with Katherine anymore.”
“What reason did they give to the press as to why you left?”
“They said I wanted to spend more time with my family. But there was speculation that I didn’t leave of my own accord. There were some mean-spirited
