Sara Daulton
Spin-off from Sex Secrets and Scandal
Sara Daulton possessed a secret weapon, one most people wouldn’t associate with the immaculately dressed wife of footballing superstar, Phil Daulton. It wasn’t a designer handbag or a platinum credit card. It was cool, unflappable competence forged in the fires of Camitta Templeton and Dempsey Coleman, William Radford PR manager. While the tabloids painted her as another WAG, draped in diamonds and dripping in designer labels, Sara was busy rescuing campaigns, smoothing ruffled feathers, and preventing PR catastrophes.
Phil, , sometimes didn’t quite grasp the intricacies of her job. He saw the glamorous lunches and the perfectly coiffed clientele and assumed it was all and champagne and caviar. “Busy day, darling?” he’d ask, polishing his latest trophy. Sara would smile serenely, never revealing the near meltdown she’d averted when a celebrity client threatened to walk out of a campaign because the lighting in their photoshoot made them look “too wrinkly.”
Today, however, felt different. The air inside W.R.Studio’s buzzed with a nervous energy that even Sara found hard to ignore. The culprit? William Radcliff , the firm’s owner of the studio
Sara walked into William Radcliff office, Had a new singer Dempsey Coleman, he wanted Sara to do a spread on her Sara’s mind was spinning.
“I have an idea,” Sara said, her voice calm despite the chaos. “But it’s going to require a very delicate touch, and complete trust in my judgment.” She outlined her plan. William loved the idea It involved a series of carefully orchestrated interviews and photoshoots The next 48 hours were a blur of phone calls, email exchanges. Sara, fuelled by caffeine and sheer willpower. however, Jazz however wasn’t happy at all and demanded to see William at once
“Jazz, Will isn’t here at the moment,” Sara said, her voice a smooth as the polished marble desk. “Can I help?”
Jazz’s hands clenched into fists at her sides, and her voice, usually a smoky purr, was a low growl. “I told him to get rid of her, not put her on his books!”
Sara sighed, a delicate puff of air that barely disturbed the stillness. “Well, you know Will,” she replied, as if discussing an incorrigible child. “He would say money before a hurt ego any day of the week.”
“This is not my ego,” Jazz retorted, her face flushing crimson. The accusation seemed to sting more than the original problem.
Sara’s gaze sharpened, sensing a deeper current beneath the usual celebrity theatrics. “What is it then?” she asked, genuinely curious now.
Jazz stared at her, as if seeing her for the first time, a flicker of genuine shock in her usually guarded eyes. “OMG,” she whispered, the rage momentarily forgotten, replaced by a dawning horror. “He hasn’t told you, has he?”
Sara leaned forward slightly, her calm facade cracking just a fraction. “Told me what?”
The words exploded from Jazz then, raw and unfiltered. “That Dempsey Coleman is claiming she my daughter!”
A beat of silence stretched, thick and heavy. Sara’s expression remained unreadable for a moment, then, with the practiced neutrality of someone who dealt with the ludicrous on a daily basis, she simply asked, “Is she?”
The question, so calm, so direct, was like a match to highly combustible material. “NO!” Jazz shrieked, the single syllable echoing off the minimalist walls. Her entire body seemed to vibrate with a sudden, uncontrollable rage. She took a step forward, her eyes blazing, looking as though she might physically assault Sara for the audacity of the inquiry. “Are you out of your mind? My daughter? Do you know what this could do? Do you have any idea…?”
Sara, used to navigating the volatile landscapes of her boss’s high-profile clients, held up a placating hand. “Whoa, whoa, Jazz,” she said, her voice a balm now, soothing the sharp edges of the singer’s fury. “Deep breaths. I had to ask. You know how these things go. Sit down. Let’s talk about this.”
Jazz stood panting, her chest heaving, the fury still simmering behind her eyes, but the initial, explosive surge had passed. Sara’s calm persistence, her unwavering composure in the face of such raw emotion, slowly began to anchor Jazz back to reality. The ruffled feathers of her composure, once so violently agitated, gradually began to settle.
“Well, Will has signed Dempsey to his label, and there’s nothing you or I can do about it,” sara stated, her voice level, but with an underlying current of steel. She watched jazz across the polished table in the meeting room, bracing for the inevitable explosion.
“sara?” Jazz echoed, her face already contorting, a vein throbbing faintly on their temple. “Are you out of your mind, sara?
Jazz scoffed, pushing back from the table, the scrape of her chair echoing in the quiet room. “Will sees dollar signs and a quick buck from some shock-rock novelty act. This is W.R.Studios this studios has created artist from Lori to Selene, Will has lost his mind. A brand built on charting artists, not… performance art provocateurs. Dempsey is poison. She’s a PR nightmare waiting to happen.”
“But Will owns W. R. Studios, and he can spot talent a million miles away I mean he signed you, didn’t he?”
The silence that followed was thick, punctuated only by the distant hum of the office air conditioning. Jazz’s jaw was clenched, her eyes narrowed to slits. It wasn’t a request for understanding,
“You’re going to put W.R.Studio’s resources into her?”? all the pop acts? The smooth R&B artists? You’re going to waste a budget on… Dempsey?” who incidentally has just walked in off the street
“We’re not wasting anything, Jazz. We’re diversifying,” Sara countered, her tone hardening. “Will believes Dempsey represents an untapped market. There’s a hunger for authenticity, for something gritty and real that breaks the Mold. And my job is to make sure that hunger is met, and that Dempsey’s music is presented in the best possible light. I’ll manage the ‘spontaneous audience interactions’ – literally and figuratively.”
Jazz picked up her sleekblack handbag from the table, and stormed out of the office
When Sara got home, she flopped on the couch. Phil walked in and handed her a drink, and sat down next to her, placing her legs over his.
“Has it been one of those days, babe?” he said, gently rubbing her feet.
“Oh, has it ever? I’ve had Jazz shouting at me about Dempsey.”
“Dempsey?”
“Ohh, Will has signed a new singer called Dempsey, and Jazz is spitting feathers.”
“Why?”
“Long story, I’ll tell you another day, baby, I’m too tired to explain it all. Shall we have a takeaway tonight?”
“Yeah, why not?” Phil smiled, grabbing his phone. “Chinese, Italian, or Indian?”
“Indian.”
“Okay, babe, get in the bath, have a nice soak, and I’ll order, and I’ll grab a bottle of chilled wine. I’ll shout to you when it’s here.”
“Okay, thank you. I love you.”
“I love you, too. Go, bath.”
Sara slowly unwound her tired limbs from the sofa, a grateful sigh escaping her lips. The thought of the warm water, the steam, and the quiet was a tonic to her frayed nerves. She shuffled towards the bathroom, shedding her clothes as she went, leaving a trail of the day’s burden behind her. Lowering herself into the steaming water, a soft groan of contentment escaping her. The hot water enveloped her, easing the knots in her shoulders and the tension in her jaw. She lay back, her head resting against the cool porcelain, watching the steam curl towards the ceiling. Images of Jazz’s contorted face, red with fury, flickered through her mind, followed by the memory of Dempsey’s quiet, almost unnervingly confident gaze during the first rehearsal. A new dynamic was certainly brewing, and Sara, as the band’s manager, was stuck squarely in the middle of it. But in the warmth of the bath, the drama seemed distant, muffled. She closed her eyes, letting the day’s stress dissolve into the water.
In the living room, Phil scrolled through the Indian takeaway app, his thumb hovering over their usual order: chicken tikka masala for him, coma for Sara, plenty of garlic naan, and a side of onion bhajis. He added a couple of poppadom’s and dips for good measure, then hit ‘order,’ feeling a quiet satisfaction at the estimated delivery time. He then padded into the kitchen, pulling a bottle of crisp Sauvignon Blanc from the fridge, the condensation beading on its glass. He found two wine glasses and set them on the coffee table. He glanced towards the bathroom, hearing the gentle splash of water, and a small smile touched his lips.
He knew how much she needed this. The music industry, with its volatile personalities and demanding schedules, often left Sara drained. Jazz, their singer, was a force of nature – brilliant, but prone to dramatic outbursts, especially when her territory felt threatened. A new singer, Dempsey, clearly represented such a threat. Phil made a mental note to listen carefully when Sara was ready to explain it all, but for now, silence and comfort were the best remedies.
Phil’s voice called out, muffled but clear, “Babe! Food’s here!”
Sara quickly rinsed off, wrapped herself in a fluffy towel, and padded out, feeling considerably more refreshed. The aroma of spices filled the air, and Phil was already setting out their meal on the coffee table, the wine breathing gently in its glasses.
“You’re a lifesaver,” Sara said, dropping a kiss on his cheek .
“Anything for my stressed-out manager,” he chuckled, pouring her a glass of wine. “Here, sit. Let’s eat this before it gets cold.”
They settled comfortably on the couch, the glowing warmth of the lamps casting soft shadows around them. They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, savouring the rich flavours.
“This is exactly what I needed,” Sara murmured, leaning her head on Phil’s shoulder.
“Good,” he said, wrapping an arm around her. “Leave Jazz and Dempsey for tomorrow. Tonight’s for us.”
Sara smiled, a contented sigh escaping her. She took another sip of wine, feeling the last vestiges of the day’s tension melt away. With the weight of her legs over Phil’s, the warmth of the food, and the quiet comfort of his presence, the world outside their apartment felt a million miles away. It was perfect
As the days rolled , the day arrived when Dempsey was scheduled to address the press. Sara held her breath as Dempsey stepped up to the microphone. She launched into a carefully rehearsed speech, outlining The press ate it up. and fired questions , with optimism. Dempsey raised his glass. “To Sara. You’re not just a promotions manager; you’re a miracle worker.”
Later that evening, Sara arrived home, exhausted but triumphant. Phil was lounging on the sofa, flipping through channels. “Busy day, darling?” he asked, without looking up.
Sara smiled, a genuine, weary smile. “You have no idea.” She leaned down and kissed him. Maybe, just maybe, one day he would understand. But for now, she was content in the knowledge that she was more than just the footballer Phil Daulton’s wife. She was Sara Daulton, the crisis manager, the problem solver, the silent architect of success. She was a force to be reckoned with, both on and off the field. And that was something even the tabloids couldn’t take away from her.
Thank You for Reading
Deborah C Langley
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