Chapter 17
Laine
A tip hadn’t come through in hours. Nothing. Nada. That hadn’t happened in years. I’d have liked to think my phone was broken or that I had no signal, but when I’d refused the seventh call from unknown extensions of known celeb mags—meaning, the lifestyle reporters were calling me, not the editorial acquisitions department—I knew my phone had a virus. The name of the virus was Greydon.
I didn’t have much of a life outside work, which I’d never thought about because I was too busy working. It didn’t take long for me to get antsy.
“Hey, Phoebs, what are you doing?”
“Setting up for my niece’s baptism. Oh my god, she’s so cute. What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
The weight of silence nearly broke my phone.
“You should come!” she said.
“I—”
“You can take pictures.”
Baptism pictures. Weddings next. No doubt I’d soon be competing for jobs with Lorenzo Balsamo. I almost choked on my horror when my phone vibrated in my ear.
Phoebe’s voice cut into my thoughts. “And Rob would love to see you.” Rob, her fiancé, was as happy and gregarious as she was.
“I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
The text sat on my home screen after I cut the call.
—I still have your camera—
I sighed.
Could things get worse?
Yes, indeed they could. This could all blow over, but it wouldn’t if I continued to see him. I shouldn’t have answered the text, but figuring it might bounce back anyway, I did.
—Keep it—
It didn’t bounce. I paced. Looked at my map.
Still it didn’t bounce.
Okay, fine. He’d put me on his short list, and as much as that gave me a flutter of excitement, it ate at me. I had to get out of the loft. I had to find some action. I would die if I didn’t move.
The last decent tip I’d gotten was at Sequoia. It was deader than dead. Britt had left the hospital with one arm in a sling and the other over Maryetta, smiling and waving to the cameras.
Back in the day, when I was still too young to drink or even vote, my phone didn’t do a damn thing but sit in my pocket. I still hustled. I still got out the door and made it rain. So though the car was nicer and the parking lot I kept it in was more expensive—I was still the same girl with the same fire under her ass.
I approached my car with my phone plastered to my ear.
“Tom?” I said, jangling my keys.
“Hello, Mrs. Greydon.”
“Shut up, asshole.”
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“Staring at my phone, that’s where. Has all of Hollywood gone and died?”
“Shoulda kept your lips to yourself, big sister.”
I stopped in the stairwell, my hands gripping the steel handrail. “It’s not that. It’s just slow today.” I knew that wasn’t true before I was done saying it. Gossip was never slow. “Please, it’s not like I can go out until the camera’s fixed anyway.”
He could have turned into a real dick. He could have tormented me. With the right jab, I’d have been reduced to a puddle of powerless rage.
Instead, he asked, “Fiona’s at her trainer’s. Should be out in a couple of hours. Maybe more, depending. Think you’ll have it fixed by then?”
I could have chased anyone, shown my face and my continued viability. I could beat the street same as always as if nothing had happened. That was the smart thing to do. Be seen with a camera, doing what I did.
“Can you pass me her twenty?” I asked. “When you know it, I mean.”
I’d never asked Tom for a damned thing. I’d never had to. I should have been happy about the flip, about the chance for him to lead the waltz, and in a very distant, big-picture kind of way, I was. But he was my closest friend, and we had a relationship that I understood. I felt it changing. It wasn’t that I needed to be his boss or in some sort of superior position, but a thread of uselessness ran through me, as if my identity showed a crack. If I wasn’t helpful to him, what was I?
There was a moment of silence on his end then the strum of a guitar and the murmur of female voices.
“I’m working,” he said.
“I can hear that, Razzledazzle Boy.”
He laughed softly. “I’ll let you know when I know.”
“Thanks, Tom.”
“Don’t thank me until I come through. And, Laine?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t sweat this. It’s temporary. They forget.”
Sure. They’d forget. But would I?
“I’ll be at Irv’s fixing my rig if you need me.”
We hung up. By the time I got to the car, a text had come in. Had Tom gotten Britt’s twenty so fast?
—Is this a special actor-chasing camera?—
I smiled and leaned against my car.
—It takes fine pictures of flowers and shit—
—Teach me how to use it—
—There’s a manual in the box—
—It doesn’t kiss like you do—
I’d typed a few replies—some sweet, some snarky, none truly honest enough to send—when another came.
—I want to see you again—
I felt as though my insides were transported to the sky while my eyes stayed on Earth and stared at those letters. But as much as I smiled remembering our kiss, a part of me stayed firmly planted on the ground. He made me feel nice, he truly did, but with every word he used to rope my heart, my brain screamed foul.
—I can’t. It’s career suicide—
The pause was longer than they’d been before. Had he given up on me? On the one hand, if it was that easy, he wasn’t worth it. On the other, if I meant what I said and said what I meant, and if he respected me enough to hear that, I should be relieved. I should be able to move on, repair whatever damage had been done, and remember him well.
I got in the car confused. When I started it, I got another text.
—I’m not going away so easy this time—
I didn’t want to be relieved. I wanted to be annoyed. I wanted to text him back and threaten to call the cops, but I couldn’t be that dishonest with myself. I didn’t want him to go away any more than I wanted to forget him.
The phone rang while I was on Temple.
“Hello, Miss Cartwright?” said a woman’s voice.
“Yes?”
“I have Kenneth Braque on the line.”
I knew who Kenneth Braque was. Everyone knew. As much as I wanted to believe he was calling to represent me, I knew he represented Michael. I stiffened at a click from the other side. I was totally unprepared for this conversation, but that was how I’d rolled my whole life.
“This is Ken Braque, Laine. How are you?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“I own the public relations firm of—”
“I know who you are,” I said.
“I represent Michael Greydon.”
What was this? Did Michael know about Ken calling me? Did he arrange it? I shouldn’t have picked up. I was driving, for Chrissakes.
“I’m aware. And I saw the pictures.”
“Good. I think I can help you,” he said. “I wanted to discuss how you intend to speak to the press about last night.”
“However I want.” I felt bitchy and tight. Though I knew he could do more for me if I played ball, all I could imagine was him talking to Michael about how I needed to be managed. Was this a baby-sitting call to see if I was going to cause trouble? “I’m a big girl.”
“Of course,” he said, as if he’d never, ever try to tell me what to say despite the fact that spin control was his job. “And I’d never expect you to tell anything but the truth. But in representing my client, I do have to help the people he’s involved with and try to get a line on how they’re going to talk about him. It’s my job.”
“So you can craft a response.”
“You can put it that way.”
I wasn’t taking him seriously, and I should have. But I was annoyed. I didn’t want anyone to know how I felt or what that kiss had meant to me. I didn’t want anyone between Michael and me, even though a world existed between us already. I was weak, thoughtless, and the fact that Ken had talked straight rather than blown smoke up my ass put me off guard.
“Did Michael tell you to call me?” I asked.
“No, he did not. But nonetheless, I think I can help you. You’ve been getting calls from reporters, I assume?”
“Maybe.”
“I can help you with a response,” he said.
“I don’t want my response crafted. I don’t want to make any response at all.” I felt as if I was making decisions without thinking things through. I pulled over, parking in the red.
“I can help you with that as well,” he said. “Look, I know this can be overwhelming, especially for someone with one foot in the business and one foot out. I’m not trying to sell you anything—”
“I can pay you,” I said. I didn’t want to hire him necessarily. I didn’t want to not hire him either. I just didn’t want him to think I couldn’t pay him if I wanted to.
“Why don’t you come around, and we can discuss it?”
“Fine.”
“Until then, if anyone asks, I’ll say you’re not responding,” he said.
“All right.”
He transferred me to his assistant, and I made arrangements with her for two afternoons hence, which seemed late to me. The whole thing could blow over or explode in that time.
I was suddenly terrified. This was bigger than I was, and I wasn’t thinking. Everything I said would be put through the amplifier of the media. I didn’t know what I’d say next, and that was a problem. I needed to step back and think, for once, before I shot my mouth off.
I got three more calls from unknown numbers in the next three minutes. As unused as I was to taking any kind of levelheaded action, I did the only sensible thing. I didn’t answer any.