Chapter One - Ellie
Ellie: Hi, honey! I hope you’re having a great day! I made this super-cute Pinterest board last night. Wouldn’t the twins’ room look adorable like this?
“Stop doing that, Ellie.” Ming is glaring at me like I just strangled a puppy.
“What? I made a new Pinterest board last night. I just wanted to share.”
“Share,” Ming says, shaking her head. “That’s a good one, Ellie. Anyway, that Brutus guy is here. The pilot just radioed and said he’s not pleasant, so be ready.”
That’s it. I’m quitting.
I’m not kidding. There is not enough money in the world to persuade me to put up with Brutus one more time. I’ve been talking to this guy for three months trying to get him to agree to an interview with Shawna and Greg on the Humpday Hottie segment of Daily E! and every single time the rock star has been an asshole to the nth degree. He was not at all thrilled about the Humpday thing. But he was only available on Wednesdays and he says he never tapes shows, only sings live. What does he want me to do? Reinvent the days of the week? Everyone knows Wednesdays are hump days. He should be thrilled we’re calling him a ‘hottie’.
“I can read your mind, you know,” Ming says from behind me. She’s my best friend in the whole wide world.
I’m looking out the window of my fishbowl office that opens up into the airplane hangar where the big shots come in. Any second now the plane will taxi in and he’ll get out and my personal hell will begin. Why did he agree to the interview if he didn’t want to come? We sent our best jet to pick him up in Santa Fe and fly him here. I’ve got the green room all ready for him—all those stupid riders he requires as part of his contract. Who needs an organic cheese tray at nine in the morning? The toothbrush I can see. That’s a good rider. And I’m not worried about the M&M’s with all the brown ones picked out. I have bags and bags of single-colored M&M’s stashed away down here. I can deal with any of the hundreds of silly M&M requests a celebrity can throw at me. But the hand-made Icelandic wool socks? When is he going to take his shoes off during this show? That bastard better take them home, too. If I find those Icelandic socks left behind after I had to personally arrange for a pair to be overnighted here—
“Just ignore him, Ellie.”
But I can’t ignore him. It’s my job to pay meticulous attention to his every whim. So I ignore Ming instead. I can see a reflection of her face in the glass. She’s scowling at me.
I work for Stonewall Entertainment. I’m a celebrity consultant, which sounds fancy when you’re an intern, which I was when I took this job. But seven years later it’s nothing more than a fancy name for babysitter. My job is to handle the celebrities as they come in for appearances on any one of our two dozen online networks we run from the Stonewall Campus in the Denver Tech Center.
Today is my lucky day because Brutus is coming. His first interview in five years and it’s with us. I arranged it. I wooed him and soothed him and promised to make his day perfect. Every album he’s released in the past ten years has gone platinum and Stonewall Senior told me to ‘make it happen.’
And because making it happen is my MO, he’s here. But Brutus is a pompous ass.
“Ellie?” Ming asks sharply to make me pay attention to her.
“What?”
“Don’t let him get to you. He’s just another somebody. Humor him.”
I look over my shoulder and roll my eyes. “I do humor him. It’s my job to humor him. I even have the golf cart ready to take us to the main building. The covered one, like he asked for.” Even though it’s eighty-one degrees already and it’s only seven AM and the covered one has no air conditioning.
Just imagining how much sweat will collect inside my bra on the drive over is almost enough for me to walk out and give no notice.
“I’m definitely quitting today,” I tell Ming.
“Nooo, Ell-lllie,” she says, sing-songing my name in that get-down-off-the-ledge voice. “You’re not. Because Adeline is coming tomorrow, remember?”
I sigh. I didn’t. Well, I mean, I knew, of course. I have the whole schedule in my head. But Brutus…
Most of the celebrities are regulars. Every once in a while we get a new person, but not very often. And Adeline is my favorite singer in the whole wide world. She just put out a new song last week and she’s going to sing it tomorrow on Throwback Thursday.
I can’t quit until after that, I guess. I owe her the courtesy of a professional goodbye.
“Fine.” I give in. The jet makes its way towards the hangar entrance. I smooth the wrinkles out of my pink A-line skirt and then wish I hadn’t worn something so girly today. My kimono blouse is white and flirty. Very ruffle-y. People never take me seriously when I wear ruffles. And there are no buttons in the front, it’s just a wrap-around.
But it’s Wednesday, so that means an interesting blouse with an A-line skirt, mid-heel shoes, and a clutch. Thinking about what to wear each morning isn’t something I have much time for so I came up with a schedule for it. Mondays are pencil skirt with button-down oversized shirt and a thin belt at my waist. Tuesdays are business chic. Fitted trousers, light in the summer, dark in the winter, with a cami shell and a matching blazer. Thursdays are sex-it-up-for-happy-hour dresses. Ming and I both wear the office-safe version of a short cocktail dress, discreetly covered up with a blazer, and stash the stilettos in our desks until after work.
Fridays are business casual. But for me that usually means wide-legged trousers with super-high heels to make my legs look long enough to pull that look off. I love the look, I just need a little help making it work. My legs look long in comparison with my small body, but they are not long. Stonewall has a great tailor on campus. They know me well.
I’m sure Brutus will give today’s flirty outfit the stink-eye. I do my best with the clothes. I mean, really, I do damn good, if I do say so myself. It’s not easy dressing like a celebrity on a celebrity assistant’s salary. And I have to look this way, it’s part of my contract.
“God,” I tell Ming. “I really won’t miss the clothes when I quit. I’m going to wear yoga pants to work every day.”
“Where do you think you’ll be working that will let you wear yoga pants?” Ming asks.
I shrug, my heart beating fast as they lower the airstairs. “The gym maybe. I might start teaching Zumba classes.”
Ming laughs. “Honey, please. The last time you took Zumba with me you sprained your middle finger.” She shakes her head with a chuckle. “Who sprains a finger in Zumba?”
“I fell on it wrong.” As I was flipping the instructor off for telling us to shake our money-makers like we mean it.
Brutus appears in the doorway.
“Shit,” I say. “Here he comes. See you later.”
“Later,” Ming says.
I take a deep breath, tuck my fancy pink clutch under my arm, and push through the glass doors of my office heading towards the jet. The airplane hangar is loud, busy, and dirty. I practically tiptoe across the bay, desperate to keep my second-hand hot pink Jimmy Choos from picking up any oil. I huff out a sigh of disgust. Why don’t we have a depot or something? A tiny concourse? This campus has a dry cleaner, a medical building, seventeen restaurants—not including the cafeteria in the main Atrium, which is free for everyone—three gyms, a tailor, an organic grocery store, and a wellness center that has a full-time staff of nail techs, hairdressers, and massage therapists.
Why don’t we have a concourse where guests can walk down a jetway into a nice climate-controlled building?
Breathe, Ellie. Focus on your job. Just get through today, put in your two weeks’ notice, and think about the future. I won’t be teaching Zumba, I was kidding and Ming knows it. I’m terrible at Zumba. No. I have big plans.
“Mr. Brutus.” I beam as the summer heat washes over me. Yup, I have a pool of sweat in my bra. When I quit I’m not going to wear a push-up bra ever again. “Mr. Brutus,” I say again as I get closer. “I’m thrilled to finally meet you!” He’s almost down the stairs when he sees me. My smile is so big. So big. And it should be. I’ve been practicing this smile for seven years.
“You’re late,” he says.
“I am?” Wait. He’s baiting you, Ellie. Ignore, ignore, ignore. “I’ve got the golf cart right over there for you. The covered one, so the sun won’t freckle your skin.” I keep a straight face for that remark because that’s the kind of professional I am.
He shoots me a disgusted look anyway.
Right. I walk over to the waiting cart, pull back the plastic cover that surrounds the little vehicle like a hospital oxygen tent and resign myself to sweaty tits.
No one uses the golf carts because we actually have a train that goes to the main building. Like, our own subway system. The campus here at Stonewall is so damn big—one hundred and fifty acres, to be accurate—we need a train to get around.
But Brutus refuses to use the train. I roll my eyes just thinking about it. Germs, he said. It’s not New York City, for Pete’s sake. It’s a private train on a private billion-dollar corporate campus.
Ming thinks he’s obsessive-compulsive and the germs are part of it. She read that online.
Whatever his excuse, it’s not enough to make me happy about being inside a rolling plastic tent in the middle of summer. I sigh loudly.
“Well,” Brutus says. “You’re cuter than I expected.”
“Excuse me?” Ignore, ignore, ignore, Ellie.
“You sounded so wound up on the phone. I thought you’d be some thirty-something matron. It’s a nice surprise,” he says, like that will dull the sting of the insult.
All he talks about when we get inside the mobile tent is the heat. Apparently he loves the heat and this plastic-covered golf cart is his idea of bliss.
“I’m very excited to hear you sing,” I say, pushing the start button on the cart. It hums to life and I press my designer shoe down on the power pedal, eager to get this over with.
“People usually are,” he says.
I nod, doing my best to smile and ignore. “I’ve got you all set up in the green room. There are plenty of snacks and drinks for you as you wait. And everything you asked for is waiting.”
“It better be,” Brutus huffs. “That’s why I came.”
I nod. Sure. That and the paycheck, which is outrageous, and the jet, which is nicer than his own, because I checked. And the fact that Daily E! is the highest-rated nighttime entertainment show for six years running. But sure, we can all pretend he came for the M&M’s and wool socks.
He starts coughing and breathing heavy like he’s suffocating. Maybe it’s this plastic sauna we’re rolling around in when it’s the middle of summer? “I hope you’re not getting sick, Mr. Brutus?”
But he’s too busy hacking and gasping to answer. “Brutus? Are you OK? Do you need some water?” I flip the little console box open between our seats and take out the bottled water I stashed there earlier. It’s a little warm, so there’s one more thing for him to bitch about.
The rock star waves the water off. “I hope,” he croaks out, “there are no peanuts in the green room today.”
“Oh, no, I took note of your peanut allergy. We had it professionally cleaned just for—” I stop short. Oh, fuck.
“I don’t think”—he coughs again, clutching his throat—“you’re telling—”
Oh, my God. He’s turning red. “Brutus?” I ask, my little two-inch pump pressing down on the power pedal as I try to make it over to the health building. “Brutus?”
“—me the truth.” And then his eyes bug out and he makes another mad grasp for his throat with one hand and my arm with the other.
Oh, shit. How the hell, Ellie? That’s all I keep asking as I race my way over to the medical building. How the hell could you forget to take your peanut butter sandwich out of your purse?
“Hang on!”
“You’re trying to—”
“No, sir!” I say.
“—kill me.”
“No, sir! I’m so sorry—”
But my words are cut off as his head flops back against the seat and he gasps for breath.