KATE
She doesn’t know why, but it is the wrong thing to say. She always picks the wrong things to say. Last week, she made the horrific blunder of congratulating a pregnant woman who was, in fact, just a little chubby. And that was just one example. There have been a hundred more, all accompanied by the sinking feeling hitting her gut right now.
Helena deflates, her anger seeping into something else. Sadness? She looks away, toward the mall. Maybe she wishes that Kate had gone inside instead. There is a twist of jealousy at the easy relationship she seems to have with Mark, their interactions lacking the stiffness that Kate has always felt with the woman. It isn’t fair. She’s championed for Helena for thirteen years. She helped to make her famous and protected her against the publishers, the press, the readers.
Yet, Mark is the one who Helena has let in. When he argues with her, she doesn’t blink. When he touches her shoulder, she doesn’t move away. And this book… whatever it is… she is sharing it with him. Maybe that’s why their relationship has grown so quickly. Maybe it’s something between two artistic minds, the writing process a bonding one, a type of personal interaction that her contracts and deadlines can’t compare to.
She abandons the question about movies. Maybe Helena’s last movie was scary, some horrific slasher film that triggered a panic attack. Or it could have been one of those painful biopics, the kind that look great in trailers, and then end up boring the life out of you for a hundred and twenty painful minutes. She eases her hand into the space by the door and drops the Starbucks wrapper on the floor.
“I can’t believe he left us out in the cold.” Helena grumbles into the leather of Mark’s jacket.
“Me too.” Kate warms to the idea of an imperfect Mark. “What an asshole.” Bonding over a common enemy, that strategy might work. “I mean,” she continues, “why wouldn’t he leave the truck running? No one’s going to steal it with us inside.”
Helena turns to her, the word IDIOT written across her features. “He didn’t want me to steal it and drive myself home. Or for me to get you to drive me home.”
“Oh.” Kate shifts in the seat, Helena uncomfortably close, even though Mark’s seat is now vacant. “Was that your intention?”
“Of course.”
“You don’t want to go to the movie?” It just doesn’t make sense. It’s not like Helena has other plans. And this movie is supposed to be hilarious. She could stand to laugh a little. Kate would be willing to bet that she hasn’t laughed since… her mind instantly sobers. Since that little girl lived upstairs.
“No.” Helena says shortly, turning to face the mall, her eyes on a passing couple. The man puts his arm around the woman and Helena looks away.
“It’ll be funny,” Kate says quietly. “I read that it’s good, when writing, to clear your mind every once in a while.”
“Thanks for the writing advice,” Helena says tartly. “I’ve never done this before.”
She’s in rare form tonight. Kate knew they shouldn’t have gone by her house. She tried to tell Mark that it was a waste of time, that Helena—if she had already turned down the movie invite—wouldn’t change her mind. And now he is in the safety of the warm mall while she freezes her ass off with a possibly-kidnapped client. “How’s it going with Mark? The book, I mean.”
“It’s fine. He’s talented, which is a nice surprise.”
“How much have you guys gotten done?” She quietly moves her hand inside her purse, stealing out another Starburst.
“The rule isn’t against eating in the car, Kate.”
“I know that,” she says defensively. Except of course, that she sort of hadn’t. Not when Helena glared at the slightest bit of wrapper noise, or chewing noise, or each time the ice shifted in her purse and made noise. Maybe she shouldn’t have brought the ice. But no one had Diet Dr Pepper anymore. And she didn’t want to go through an entire movie without a drink. And she’d assumed, while filling up the bag at the hotel’s ice machine, that Helena wasn’t coming, so why would it matter? Mark wouldn’t care. Mark probably wouldn’t even notice.
Now, she feels stupid and fat, unable to stop herself from eating during a chance to have a real conversation with her client. There is no way, in the theater, she’ll be able to pull out the bag of ice and cup, assemble the contraband soda and pour in the first can. Not with Helena right next to her, all appalled and righteous, with her naturally thin body and—she stops herself. Helena is dying. If there is a pity party to be had, Kate is the wrong host.
“We’re almost halfway done with the book.” There isn’t an ounce of cheer in Helena’s voice, the words dull. If they had a smell, it would be of defeat.
“Halfway done with the novel?” She puzzles through the reply, her mind calculating the time frame. “That’s ahead of schedule, isn’t it?” She and Mark had been working… almost twenty-two days? Twenty-three maybe? And at least half of those had been days where—according to Mark—she did little more than sleep. It seems incredible that they would be so far along. They’d be done by Thanksgiving! Her final month could be spent… she put another Starburst in her mouth, unable to imagine Helena relaxing. What does a calm, peaceful Helena look like? What will she spend those final weeks doing? She glances at her. “Isn’t that good?” Any author would be pleased to have forty thousand words completed in twenty-odd days. Any other author would be freakin’ joyous right now.
Helena’s face is anything but. “It is good. I’m glad we are sticking to the schedule.”
“You don’t look very happy about it,” she ventures.
“We’re approaching some difficult scenes. I’m just working through it in my head.”
The urge to ask questions is almost painful, like holding in a secret that’s ripping at you to come out. She knows she shouldn’t, her mind screaming at her to STOP yet still one falls out. “What’s the book about?”
There is an overall stiffening, one that ripples through Helena’s body, as if the cold has finally seeped in and she has crystallized, from knee to forehead. When she turns her head to Kate, she almost expects to hear her shatter. “You don’t know?” The question is slow and almost accusatory, as if surely Kate should know, as if this was part of her job description, and asking this question has proven her incompetence, once and for all.
“No,” she says, almost helplessly. “I’m sorry.” I’m sorry. What a weak thing to say. Ron Pilar has probably never apologized to his authors. Ron Pilar’s authors probably apologize to him.
“Mark hasn’t told you?” Helena isn’t letting this go. She’s insistent on embarrassing her, on dragging this out, the way Kate’s mother used to do. No date to prom? Really? You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking. No one asked you? NO one? Explain that to me.
“No.” She tries to find some backbone, to say the single word in a breezy, confident tone, as if she has other clients and books to worry about and this isn’t the only thing on her tiny shaky plate.
Helena’s eyes see through it all. She examines her as if to find a lie, as if Kate would lie about this. “Good.”
Good? She can’t tell if the word is uttered in sarcasm or sincerity. Helena leans forward, the leather jacket falling from her chest. “He’s back.”
Mark is a shadowy figure, coming across the lot, big and bulky, the sort that causes Kate to walk faster on the sidewalk, and grip her keys like she had been taught, one poking out between each finger. He pauses beside the door, eyeing them through the glass, then opens it. “You didn’t lock the door.” He glares at Helena, and she reaches an arm out.
“I know. And dammit, no one tried to steal us.”
He smiles, and Helena smiles, just the edge of it visible to Kate, just the edge of it enough to knock her off guard. There is the rustle of plastic, Helena’s head down, elbows sticking out as she rummages, like a scavenger squatting over its kill. She pulls out sweatpants and a long-sleeve t-shirt, then a pack of socks and a sneaker box. “Hmm,” she says, and it’s impossible to tell if she is pleased or irritated.
“We’ll give you some privacy to change.” Mark starts to close the door. “Kate?”
“Huh?” She looks from him to Helena, then realizes her mistake. “Oh!” She scrambles for her bag and jacket, pushing open the door awkwardly. “Just a minute.” She’s had ten minutes to be ready, yet doesn’t even have shoes on. She works her feet into the boots, then steps out, making her way around the truck, Mark meeting her by the back.
“This’ll be fun,” he drawls, in a manner completely void of sarcasm.
“It’ll be interesting,” she counters. He’s an idiot if he thinks this will be fun. Fun and Helena Ross… those two concepts don’t intersect.
“Where’s your sense of adventure?” He leans forward when he asks the question, and she gets a whiff of him, a mix of soap and masculinity—a masculinity that doesn’t live on the streets of Manhattan. A masculinity that makes a forgotten part of her swoon.
Where is her sense of adventure? She probably lost it years ago. Regardless, a movie date with Helena is probably not the thing to bring it back.