“Yeah, that was some Twitter feed,” I offer casually.
“I don’t want to discuss it.” His eyes meet mine, expressing a seriousness I don’t expect. “I’ve had my hands slapped, my Twitter and internet rights revoked, and have been put on warning with the studio.”
“Right.” I press my lips together.
“Go ahead, laugh.” He waves a hand at me. “I’m a grown man being scolded as if I’m a child.”
“Okay.” Why is this elevator so slow?
“It’s ridiculous.” He folds his arms. “I got drunk and acted like an asshole and said all my inside thoughts outside. I’m not the first person to do it.”
“Let’s go sit and I’ll quickly go over whatever Stan wants me to.” I hurry to a spot in the light, not sunlight but at least the last of the daylight.
He waits for me to sit before he does. The sight of him and the leather chair belongs on the cover of Vogue.
I open my phone, peering at the email and cringing inside.
It’s one paragraph and not a good one. “We never told him about the spin, we forced him to take a social media break. Mia wants you to tell him what’s really going on. Everyone likes you. You’re Canadian. Thanks!”
Sighing, I almost close my eyes as dread fills me. I press my lips together, struggling with how to tell him anything.
My insides are raging but I manage to start, “So the whole Twitter thing, we’ve obviously been spinning it.”
“I assumed you would.” He’s flippant now. He changes his moods faster than I do. Extra awesome.
“Right. So in the past few weeks we’ve taken advantage of your aunt’s passing away to offer you a reason for your outburst but also to drive sympathy. Redirect the feelings people have for you, so to speak.”
“What?” A distasteful sneer crosses his lips. “What the hell does that mean?”
I continue, talking faster, “We’ve been saying that the recent divorce and your aunt’s death have made you quite emotional—”
“Ya mean unstable?” He’s seething.
“Emotional,” I repeat. “And we’ve been selling it that you were spending a lot of time with Natasha Wentworth, leaning on her and believing there was something there. But then she slept with the director to win a part in a movie next year. And that’s why you attacked him.”
“You have to be fucking joking?” No one says “fucking” the way the Irish do.
I can’t defend this to him. When I created it he wasn’t my client. He was a faceless being. I continue quickly, “And you were emotional and feeling stressed and betrayed during this hard time. That’s why the outburst on Twitter. The idea is that we’ve been using any traffic driven to gossip about you to plug the movie, along with any articles about your meltdown. The studio gave you this role to comply, and we will sell it as your big break and hope everyone sees this entire series of events as an emotional betrayal and not a childish outburst.”
The scowl on his face suggests I am not nearly as gifted as Stan believes me to be.
“That is disgusting.”
“I didn’t say it was pretty. Just a spin to save your career.”
“How do you people sleep at night?” His accent thickens with the rage. “How can you drag Natasha into this? Holy shit! You’re a soulless psychopath. All of you are! This is fucking disgraceful.” He stands abruptly and stalks to the elevator, not saying another thing.
“Wait!” I run after him, hating everything about this. “Listen, if you don’t go to the junket and play along and behave yourself, you don’t get the part. The studio will blackball you, I need you to take this seriously.”
“You’re disgusting—”
“I’m disgusting?” I step into his personal space and glare up at him. “You publicly accused a man of being a pedo with no proof. That’s the worst thing you can accuse someone of, and for what? Because he hurt your feelings?” I point a finger up at him as he looms over me, not backing down to the aggression pouring off me. “He doesn’t think you’re a good actor so you tried to ruin his whole life?”
His eyes narrow and it’s his turn to step closer. He’s so close I feel his breath on my face. “I never said pedo. I said he’s a pervert and I stand by my accusations.”
“Really? You have proof of underage girls?” I’m not backing down.
“You really are sexy when you’re angry.” He changes the subject and moves closer, lowering his face to mine. He kisses me once on the cheek and whispers, “See you tomorrow.” He steps into the elevator and smirks.
I want him dead but I force a smile, certain the combination is terrifying, though he shows no signs of intimidation.
“Fuck!” I shout when the elevator’s gone and he can’t hear me.
No wonder Laura wanted to get rid of him.
30 The arrangement
Friday July 7
Lori
The fresh British Columbia air hits hard in the lungs, making me cough a little as I finish the ten-kilometer run through Vancouver’s British Properties. The guard at the gates gives me a nod as I walk past him, hands on my hips.
My thigh’s better, thankfully, but my head remains clouded with the scent of cherries and the feel of Jenny. I can’t shake her and I don’t seem to want to. It’s new and unsettling. Particularly, since she stood me up last night for work. The girl’s a workaholic.
Wiping the sweat from my brow, I walk up the estate to the front door.
“How was your run, Mr. Eckelston?” our butler, Bert, asks as he gets the door for me.
“Mr. Eckelston is my dad, Bert, but the run was good.” I slap him on the arm affectionately and cross the vast main floor to the breakfast room and out onto the deck where Grace, our German chef, meets me with a massive glass of water. “Thanks.” I take it and drink, loving the sparkling feel of the
