“Nope. Didn’t bring anyone. Callie wanted to come, of course. She was ready to throw the twins into the cargo hold.” He smiles weakly.
“She’s making a run for Mother of the Year,” I say. Small smile from Flint again, then silence. I would pay for someone to come down the hall and hit me in the face with a pie. Nothing can be more uncomfortable than this.
“Laurel?” Raj walks over. And thank God, he isn’t holding a pie. He nods, a hand pressed against his ear so he can listen to his Bluetooth, and says, “The execs want you guys in the conference room. Now.” He throws one last searching glance between me and Flint, turns on his heel, and zips away, eager to keep up with the higher-ups’ demands.
“Here we go,” Flint mutters. He doesn’t love the executives so much, not since our first meeting when they told him he was a piece of meat they wanted to use as bait for the horny women of America. Executives are good at getting you to hate them. Well, maybe they’ll be better this time, I think to myself as we walk down the hall. Maybe they’ll be well behaved.
And maybe I’m the long lost heir of Imelda Marcos. Though that’d be great for my shoe collection.
“You are going to flip for this,” one of the executives tells Flint when our mountain man is uncomfortably seated in a plush leather spinning chair. The executives are lined up on either side of the long conference table, with Herman Davis, head of development, perched at the top. Davis is the only one not floored by the Flint McKay, God of Beauty show. He polishes his glasses and coughs.
“I mean it,” the executive continues, beaming. “It will rock your world.”
“Or you’ll hate it. As I suspect you will,” Davis says, cutting through the bullshit as he is wont to do. “We’ve got a full schedule ahead for you, McKay.”
“I’m not afraid of work,” Flint says. Davis’s gray, bushy eyebrows shoot up. I think he likes Flint. He tends to like people who get the job done.
“We’re starting a major line of promotion,” I tell him, keeping my voice bright and my gaze slightly to the left of where he’s sitting. I don’t want to get lost in his eyes and stop talking, or burst into tears. Bad business etiquette. “Over the next few weeks, we’ll be shooting interviews to run exclusively on Bravo and their website, YouTube channel, etc. We’re also going to get you coverage with some print media, and of course a few daytime talk shows.”
“Daytime talk show? Like sitting on a couch with a bunch of ladies drinking out of oversized coffee mugs?” He seems kind of baffled by this. I shrug.
“It’s the demographic. Maybe you can teach
The View
how to level out a wobbly armchair.”
“We want your face to be everywhere,” one of the executives gushes, flinging his manicured hands around. “Building hype is the most important thing right now, and I don’t think it’ll be hard to get women to go crazy for you.”
Of course, Flint doesn’t care about thousands of women going gaga over him. He just needs to concentrate on one woman. One flawlessly beautiful, recently-returned-to-his-brawny-arms woman. I may start banging my head on the conference table.
“I don’t mind playing along and building hype, as you call it,” Flint says, leaning back in his chair. “But I’m not going to make myself look like some kind of asshole. Not for any kind of money.”
Davis smiles, looking contented. “That’s just what I expected you to say. And I’m glad. You have no idea how refreshing it is to not hate someone I’m working with.”
All the executives around the table blink at each other and kind of roll away from Davis. He looks at me as well, and nods. I guess I’m also on the ‘not hate’ list. Oh, the places you’ll go by not being repellent and morally bankrupt. That should’ve been in the Dr. Seuss book.
“And I’ll be right next to you, every step of the way,” I tell Flint. I keep trying to smile, and it keeps not working out the way I want it to. It’s kind of a crazy-eyed grimace.
“When do I get to see an episode?” Flint asks, obviously ignoring me. He looks sharply at all the guys crowded around the table. “I’d like to make sure it didn’t change in big ways. You know?” Smart move. A lot of bad magic can happen in the editing bay.
“That’s the first order of business,” I say, still keeping my voice bright and happy. I’m a way better actor than I ever thought. Maybe I shouldn’t have settled for third spearman in my high school’s production of
Julius Caesar
. “We’re having a premiere party tonight.”
“Tonight?” Flint echoes, looking a bit concerned. “That’s pretty soon.”
“Oh don’t worry,” one of the sycophants says, practically oozing across the table at Flint. “It’s not like the actual
premiere
premiere, with everyone there to flash the cameras and ogle and pinch. Just a party for a select few industry folk.”
“Ogle? Pinch?” he growls. Those two words should never come out of Flint McKay’s mouth. But the man keeps on going.
“It’s strictly network. You know? Higher ups, all the heavies. They want to see how amazing you are. And that’s a reason to celebrate, isn’t it?” I swear, this guy is practically panting with the thought of all those Hollywood bigwigs in one room, shaking hands and talking up the glories of Flint McKay. And the thing is, I think they really might. Flint frowns, a sign that all is not well.
“Like I said, I’ll be with you the whole time,” I say. This time, he looks at me, and I see clearly that this idea isn’t his favorite. And hell, why should it be? Even if he got his happily ever after, we never officially broke things off. Never talked about why I stormed out of there. Never discussed maintaining some kind of decent professional working relationship. Instead, I’ve been avoiding him at all costs.
So not only do I have to spend an entire month up in Flint McKay’s perfect, un-haveable face, I also have to walk on eggshells. If he gets grumpy, or stressed, or just pissed about the way I knocked him aside and ran for the hills, it could affect marketing. No one wants a surly star on Good Morning America. My shoulders tense, and my temples instantly throb. There is not enough Excedrin in the world for the stress headaches I am about to have. The future of the show, my career, my sanity; it all hangs in the balance.
God, why did I ever sleep with him? Apart from the fact that it was glorious? Already, I can feel the heat creeping into my cheeks. Mercifully, no one notices, especially Flint.
“And just think, we’re going to have a small celebratory dinner at Mr. Chow’s afterwards. All on the network’s dime, of course,” another of the oily executives—let’s call him Number Five—says. All the men in the room chuckle and nod at each other. Well, I can’t blame them for that. Never turn down a free meal in Hollywood.
I’m not sure I’ll be eating anything, actually. Even sitting next to Flint right now, my stomach’s all tied up in knots. No, I won’t be able to eat a bite. Unless they have the crab puff things again. With that plum dipping sauce. Then I might be able to—no, I’ll still be too stressed.
Soon after that, the meeting wraps up. We all rise, and I walk Flint out of the room. We should be able to walk around together, after all. No reason to be awkward. It’s not like we slept together and then he got back together with his ex-girlfriend (alright, ex-fiancée, dammit) who looks like a way hotter, more polished version of me, pshaw. Why do you say these things?
The elevator ride downstairs is one of the most silent in history. You can actually hear time passing. We finally reach the front receptionist’s desk.
“You know your way back to the hotel?” I ask.
“It’s that mythical Uber service you turned me on to. It’s really incredible,” he says, quirking up the corner of his mouth in a perfect half-smile. He nods. “So I guess I’ll see you at the party tonight?”
“Yes, seeing tonight. That is a thing that we’ll be doing.” Like Yoda this conversation has become.
“Suit and tie, right?” On my nod, he turns and heads out the revolving doors without another word. I walk back to the elevators, my head already throbbing.
How am I supposed to get through a month of this? Seeing Flint’s face plastered everywhere, blinking at me from television screens, that was all going to be bad enough. But now, to have to be with him all the time, riding to events, coaching him through interviews, forced to inhale his delicious, pine-fresh musk all the while? All without wanting to combust, scream, or cry?
I don’t know if any of that is possible.
27
In Hollywood, nothing is more guaranteed to make you nervous than a network event. It’s full of people in low cut gowns and expensive suits wandering around, making small talk, sipping champagne, and judging you. The trick is to walk in like you own the place, especially if you’re a woman who’s barely five foot two, and you refuse to dye your hair platinum blond. So I walk into that party with my brown hair up and my fashionable pumps on, because fuck yeah confident women. I also sidle over to a handsome caterer and grab a glass of champagne, because fuck yeah liquid courage. Sad thing is, the booze isn’t my helpmate for this party. I’ve got as much
sang froid
as the best of them.
It’s Flint. He’s tense; I’m tense. We’re all tense together. And in addition to personal shenanigans, we’re about to head into the theatre and watch the first sneak-peek episode of my very first show, and I don’t know how it’s going to go down. I’d hate to sit in the theatre, grin plastered on my face in horror, if it turns out that what I’ve produced is utter dogshit. I’d survive it, though. But having to deal with sitting next to Flint, feeling his disappointment over the whole thing? That’d probably drive me crazy. Crazier than I have become, at any rate. And hell, he might even blame the whole thing on me.
“What are you on?” Suze asks as she comes over. She purses her lips, which are a shade of kickass red lipstick. “Alcohol wise?”
“Second glass.” I shrug and take another sip. I do what I want.
“Okay, in the interest of staying vertical tonight, I’m ordering you to put the alcohol down,” Suze says, gently removing my glass from my hand.
“I’m in fine shape.”
She gives me that gentle, hate-to-tell-you-this smile that I dread. “You’re listing a little to the left, hon, and we don’t need any of the assholes in this room underestimating you. So give me that glass and take this complimentary bottle of water.”
She’s got a point.
We stand together, sipping side by side. Sisters in solidarity. Across the room, I get to see Flint in a sports jacket and tousled hair. I bet his stylist made him wear it like that. I bet he hates it. But he’s shaking hands and laughing, putting in a damn fine performance. Or hell, maybe he’s enjoying himself. When all of Hollywood is enamored of you, it’s kind of hard not to love it. He’s astounding, with the corners of his eyes crinkling, his head tilted back and his copper, now artfully messy mane glowing under the lights. Everyone’s circling around him tonight, agog at his beauty. It’s like watching moons orbit a planet. A really sexy planet, with great abs and the biggest—
“You can’t be like this before every single event,” Suze says, perfectly shaped eyebrow raised. “You’ll be dead by April.”
“I know,” I say, wilting. I don’t want to talk about Flint. I’m not making this night all about some guy; it’s
my
big shot, damn it. I turn to Suze. “Do you think the episode’s solid?” I ask her. “No best friend BS, either.”
“You have nothing to worry about,” she says. She throws an arm around me and leans her head against mine for a second. “That’s why I want you to be calm. You’ve paid your dues for this moment. Don’t let anyone take it from you.”
“Wise words.” I smile, and let Suze go as she excuses herself to talk with Herman Davis. He’s standing in a corner, not eating or drinking anything, dressed in an elegant, conservative gray suit. He glowers with his hands behind his back, observing everyone. He hasn’t walked up to shake hands with me yet. I don’t know if that’s a good or bad sign. Considering that right now my nerves are kicking in and I’m about ready to claw my way up the wall and hang from the chandelier making chimpanzee screams, everything feels like a bad sign.
“Hey,” a familiar voice says. Flint walks over, holding a glass of fizzing beer. I nod at it.
“Is that an IPA?” Joke, of course. He’d rather drink tar.
“Budweiser. They insisted on putting it in a glass, though. Ruins the texture,” he deadpans, taking a swallow. I can’t help it; I burst out laughing. He grins, and the line of his shoulders instantly relaxes. It’s familiar, us joking like this, even if it’s also a little painful. I’m glad the industry hasn’t changed everything about him. He looks me up and down, and I try not to feel the way his eyes track the line of my body. “You look tense.”
I don’t like him knowing my body language. It’s too damn intimate.
“Making friends?” I ask, changing the subject. Flint clears his throat, darting glances at the crowd. He doesn’t seem fond of our group. It was a performance, after all.
“Two people gave me their business cards. One’s a producer named Peterman who says I should think about getting into film acting. Then he tried to grab my ass.” Flint grunts. I bet he was very polite in his refusal, but he’s clearly a little flustered.
“If it makes you feel better, hot women in Hollywood have to put up with that seven times a night. Every night.”
“It doesn’t make me feel better. It makes me feel sorry for them. It makes me feel gross. Like everyone’s for sale,” he snaps. Rolling his shoulders, he sighs. “And then the other business card was some director’s wife wondering how many affairs I’ve had since I landed. This morning.
And
she offered to be next in line. I don’t know how you put up with all these vultures.” He scowls, narrowing his eyes at the party.
“This isn’t Los Angeles; it’s Hollywood,” I remind him. I scan the crowd for the offending jerks, but it’s a sea of tanned bullshit artists. Hard to just pick two. “One’s a real place, the other’s a diseased state of mind.”
“If you say so.” He sounds disapproving. Let’s change the subject.
“How are things back home?” I ask, clearing my throat. Keeping my tone professional and detached. “The twins okay? Callie and David?”