“No,” he laughs. “Why would I ever have given a press conference?”
“No reason,” I tell him as Mags comes through the door.
“They’re ready for the two of you,” she says.
“Give us just another minute,” I tell her. “The doc still needs to unhook me from my chemo drip.”
“Do you want me to track him down?” she asks.
“If you would, Margaret,” I answer. God, I hate calling her Margaret.
“Who’s ready and what are they ready for?” he asks.
“I took the liberty of setting up a nice press conference just off the hospital property,” I answer.
Now he has that look in his eye. He knows exactly what I’m planning.
“No,” he says. “I won’t do it.”
“I don’t think you’re going to have that much of a choice,” I tell him. “We were planning on announcing today, and I’d bet that the print reporters Mags has sitting in the waiting room are going to tell their people if you leave a poor, sick, dying woman hanging right after she’s just gone through chemo.”
“You’re trying to smear me — and by extension, KJBP,” he says, stating the obvious. I’ve always wondered why people bother stating the obvious. Isn’t it already, well, obvious?
“I’m trying to give you the opportunity to come off like a saint and KJBP a savior,” I tell him. “The fact that once you leave this room, you’re going to be answering questions from the press while someone wheeling me right behind you shouldn’t make you nervous.”
He opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, I make my move.
In preparation for this round of chemo, I went ahead and shaved my head. I find that better than waiting for it to just come out on its own. This way, I don’t have to worry about half my hair coming off my head with a stout breeze.
Andrew doesn’t know any of that, at least until I reach up and slide my fingers through the hair of the black wig I’m wearing and lift it off my head. “What are you doing?” he asks.
“Just making myself more comfortable,” I tell him. “These things can get so hot after a while. They really don’t breathe.”
“So if I don’t go out there and announce that we’re taking your offer, you’re going to make me look like a monster,” he says.
He’s very astute.
“It’s not going to work,” he says. “Even if you smear me, it’s not going to change anything. You don’t have the money or the influence to strong-arm us like this.”
“You’re right about the money,” I tell him. “The influence, though — the press has enough of that on its own.”
The doctor comes into the room and checks my bag, sayi
ng, “Looks like you’re done for the day, Grace.”
“Thanks, Doc,” I tell him, feeling sicker than confident. Oddly enough, that might just work for my benefit. “Would you mind if I take a puke bag to go?”
Andrew glares at me.
“Not at all,” he says, and grabs one of the blue plastic bags with the plastic handles and gives it to me.
“Margaret!” I call.
Mags comes in the room, and I tell her to grab my chair, that Andrew and I are ready to meet the public.
“I’m not going to give a press conference,” he says. “You may get a few reporters to see me leaving, but it’s not going to be the story you’re hoping for.”
“That’s certainly your choice,” I tell him. “You really can’t make a person give a press conference when they don’t want to, so I guess I’ll have to do it myself. I just hope this doesn’t get picked up on social media. I certainly wouldn’t want our competitors to think that your public image is so radioactive they have to end up withdrawing their proposals.”