She paused, maybe waiting for me to express my understanding of her inferred explanation, but I was lost. I typically had minimal contact with clients. My reports and presentations were usually handled by Rachel, the VP of Projects, or by Joan directly. I didn’t see why this guy was any more of a VIP or deserving of my undivided attention than the rest of our A-list.

Realizing my lack of comprehension, she took a deep breath. “Annie, the rugby people, specifically the RLIF, are ready to throw money at us for taking him on. They’re convinced he’s the one who will pull the sport into the limelight—specifically, bring interest and appetite to the USA—and they want us to cultivate him. Now do you get it?”

Feeling stubborn, I frowned. “Of course I understand why you want the client, and I’m happy to help lead the social media group cleaning up his image, but—with all due respect, Joan—I don’t understand why you would suggest that Mr. Fitzpatrick and I pair up, as you put it.”

Joan leaned forward, resting her slight weight on her elbows. She was typically four inches shorter than my five-foot-five, but from her scarlet perch, she appeared to hover from a substantial and menacing height. I wondered briefly if her feet touched the ground or if she’d used a stool to ascend to that impressive altitude.

“We need his cooperation.” She said these words slowly, her eyes moving over my gray sweater and brown skirt and then back to my eyes. “Before seeing you, Ronan Fitzpatrick wasn’t going to give us two minutes, let alone the months we need to set his image on the right path. But the moment I mention pairing the two of you, he’s smiling. He’s suggesting another visit to the office—he’s asking when we can get started.”

I swallowed, a growing dread unfurling in my stomach. I worried briefly that Ronan had somehow figured out who I was, that he knew I was The Socialmedialite, that he remembered me from the restaurant, that he saw me taking pictures of him, and that he was looking forward to our pairing in order to exact his revenge.

But I quickly dismissed the thought as preposterous. When he came upon me in the break room, he demonstrated no sign of recognition, just interest.

Just heated, intense, determined, pointed, carnal masculine interest.

Joan must’ve perceived the extent of my anxiety because she assumed a less oppressive posture, leaning back in her seat, and shrugged. “Again, I’m not suggesting that you return his attentions. I’m simply asking you to come into the office when he is here, discuss our plans with him in person, take him out for client lunches and dinners, personally assist him with the intricacies of navigating his launch onto the world stage—you know, precisely what I would ask any other member of the team to do. No more, no less….”

I closed my eyes, gathered steadying breath through my nose; I was clenching my jaw so tightly my temples ached.

I completely comprehended Joan’s not-so-subtle point, which was that I was frequently on the receiving end of special treatment. I was the only one who was absolved from meetings, excused from conferences, lunches and dinners, think tanks, presentations, et. al.

Basically, I did my thing. I did it alone. I had almost complete autonomy. I didn’t have to be a team player. Aside from intermittent infographic emails, I’d never had to schmooze a client.

But now she was calling in my hermit card. This was Joan reminding me how good I had it here. I had to admit, she was right. I had it easy. I had it great.

Unclenching my jaw, I opened my eyes and found her staring at me. Again, she was grinning, her eyes glittering.

She nodded slowly. “I see we understand each other.”

I pressed my lips together, rolled them between my teeth to keep from screaming in frustration, and returned her nod. Never mind the fact that every fiber of my being wanted to run away, maybe find a cabin in Maine, maybe become a true recluse who ate only canned beans.

I wouldn’t last three hours without Internet access, let alone the deprivation of New York’s cuisine. No éclairs from Jean Marie’s, no arepas from Flor’s Diner, no shrimp and grits from Tom’s Southern Kitchen, no kung pao chicken from Mr. Hung Dong. I would die of food tedium.

“Good,” she said lightly, obviously pleased. “We start tomorrow.”

I nodded stiffly, and gathered my cup and accoutrements from the little table next to my seat. Holding my pastry and cold peppermint tea to my chest, I turned to go, my thoughts in turmoil. But Joan’s voice stopped me just as I reached the door.

“One more thing, Annie. Use your business account to buy some new clothes. I think you wear that same outfit every time I see you. You’re a representation of the company. If you’re going to be taking Mr. Fitzpatrick out, you’ll need to look the part.”

I stiffened and turned to face her; knowing there was no point in arguing, I decided to stall. “That’s fine, but it’ll have to be next week. And, if I’m taking on Mr. Fitzpatrick’s account, I’ll have to pass over The Starlet to Becky.”

Joan looked thoughtful for a moment. The Starlet was one of our biggest individual clients and was our code name for Dara Evans, four-time Oscar nominee with a perpetual image problem. She had an image problem because she was a raging bitch.

We kept her looking like flowers and sunshine; she kept us on our toes with DUIs and assault charges. Her most recent debacle was from this last weekend. An amateur video shot with a cell phone showed her at a Yankees game, wherein she snatched a foul ball out of the hands of a crippled five-year-old boy (who had rightfully caught it). Then she made fun of his handicap and held the ball just out of his reach.