Krystal had insisted we work from the condo I shared with Blake. According to her, it made clients more relaxed, more responsive to be in a safe, familiar environment. And it was best if no one else was around. “Distractions,” she said, “are deadly.” I agreed to let Krystal come to the apartment and decided that Sunday mornings when Blake went to the gym to workout would be best.
This was our second session. The first took place just before Blake and I traveled to Scotland. And before we got Scout. She had thoughtfully brought over croissants and coffee from Starbucks and seemed nice enough though rather buttoned up. Very professional, with her hot pink pantsuit and leather briefcase. I’d managed to go on to her website, and her credentials were rather impressive. There wasn’t much personal info about her like her childhood or marital status, but it did mention she was born in a small town outside of Vegas and had a dual degree in public relations and drama from the University of Nevada. It also listed many high-level executives, none of which I knew, as her clients. Their endorsements were outstanding, with most saying that she’d brought their public speaking skills to the next level and helped them become confident, dynamic speakers whether it be before a crowd of hundreds or in an intimate interview with a business watchdog. All attested to her clever play-on-words motto: Make it Krystal Clare. Confidence begins with you!
Over the Starbucks goodies, Krystal had laid out what she wanted to accomplish with me. She was straightforward, blunt, and to the point. She’d viewed my upfront presentation from last April, a keynote speech given at the annual Women in Hollywood’s luncheon, as well as a YouTube interview with one of Variety’s top reporters. While she thought I sounded articulate and intelligent, my problems could be summarized as follows: 1) I relied on the teleprompter too much and didn’t make enough eye contact; 2) I spoke too fast (probably because I was nervous), and 3) I sometimes sounded flat and needed to put more energy into what I said via body language, be it dramatic hand gestures, facial expressions, or even punctuating certain words. Together, in our first session, we viewed the tapes and what she said was all true. Though my shortcomings made me a little glum, by the end of our time together, I was looking forward to working with Krystal and reaching my potential as a public speaker. She’d won my confidence.
Usually on Sundays, I wore casual sweats or an old baggy pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. Or just lounged around in Blake’s polka dot boxer shorts, which I loved to wear. But today, like Krystal, I was dressed in formal business attire—a new navy blue pantsuit and pumps—because Krystal firmly believed form equaled meaning. While I might feel more relaxed in jeans or sweats, she wanted to work with me wearing what she deemed essential for success. A powersuit. Early on in her career, she’d allowed her clients to wear casual clothes when they trained with her, but she’d noticed that when it came to doing a real-life presentation in public with more formal attire, they stiffened. And often froze. “Jennifer, you are what you wear,” she told me, insisting that I invest in some designer pantsuits in time for our next session.
She was as much an image coach as she was a speech coach.
While Krystal set up the equipment for today’s session, a small video camera on a tripod and a lectern, my mind drifted. I wondered how Blake was doing with Scout on his first day of obedience school. I hadn’t heard from him, so I assumed no news was good news. In my heart of hearts, I knew my adorable fur baby was going to be a stellar canine student. Maybe the best in his class!
My thoughts were cut short by Krystal. “Let’s begin.” She ignored the bottled water I’d set on the coffee table. “Please stand behind the lectern and let me hear the short speech you’ve written. Pretend you’re talking to an audience of five hundred. I’m going to stop you as you go along and make corrective suggestions, which I want you to implement.”
I did as she asked and once behind the lectern, I cleared my throat.
“Never,” Krystal snapped, “clear your throat when you may be miked or on camera. It’s a sign of weakness. It shows you’re nervous. And lack confidence.”
I swallowed hard. She was right. I was nervous. And I was unnerved by her belligerence. Maybe all the sweetness she’d showed me on our first meeting was just a sugarcoated front. She was a force to be reckoned with.
“I’m sorry,” I said meekly and feeling very uncomfortable in my new pantsuit. The suit didn’t suit me, bad pun intended. Ordered online from Nordstrom’s because of my hectic schedule, it was a little too big and frankly, I was much more comfortable in a simple A-line dress or anything my good friend Chaz Clearfield designed. I was also wearing my contact lenses rather than my glasses, which she insisted would allow me to make better eye contact with my audience and take better photographs by the press. Adding to my discomfort, they irritated my dry eyes.
Fiddling with the thick gold chain of her necklace, which was mostly hidden under the collar of her blouse, her steel-gray eyes pierced me as if apologies didn’t matter. “Whatever.” She glanced down at her gold watch, which must have cost a mint. “Time’s awasting. Let’s move on.”
Over the course of the next hour, we worked on the short speech, which she’d made me prepare and memorize. “Not every venue will be able to provide a teleprompter,” she’d told me, “so sometimes memory is your best and only tool.” I’d written a speech about the difference between pornography and steamy romance, and why women coveted the latter. Having taken several drama classes at USC and performing in a few plays, I was good at memorization. I think it stemmed from my father, a former literature professor, who’d made me memorize verses of famous poets when I was a child. I could still recite many of them by heart.
Standing behind the lectern in my uncomfortable pantsuit and under her scrutiny, I felt stiff and nervous. The speech, which I’d rehearsed ad nauseam, began to fall apart as she criticized what seemed to be my every word and gesture.
“So all women want a good story and a happily ever after?” she parroted as I at last came to the end of what felt like an eternity. “You don’t seem to believe a word you’ve written.”
She was right. With all the interruptions and verbal jabs, I had no clue what I was talking about despite the fact I’d launched My Sex-TV on the premise of what women wanted.
“You choked on almost every word,” she added, reaching into her leather briefcase, which she called her “bag of tricks.” She slapped a sheet of paper onto the side table. “Here are some breathing exercises that I want you to practice before we meet next time so you don’t sound like you’re suffocating.”
I was honestly exhausted by the end of the session. Drained. Walking her to the entrance to our condo, I couldn’t wait to change into my sweats, take out my contacts, and relax. Read my Los Angeles Times and be rid of her. About to leave, she eyed the photos of Blake and me on our entryway console. There were at least a dozen, spanning from our courtship to our recent trip to Scotland. I hadn’t yet added a photo of Scout, ensconced in Jeffrey’s stunning silver frame.
My eyes fixed on her as she lifted one of the framed photos—that of the two of us kissing, taken at our memorable Christmas in July wedding at my parents’ house this past summer—and studied it.