The Hollywood Project: Shuttergirl Part 11

"This is not about where you're putting your personal d.i.c.k, Greydon," Ken said from behind me. "This is about three generations of men in this business. It's about the fact that you don't know how to do anything else. You want to end up like Gareth? You want to spend ten years drinking because no one wants to hire a moody, temperamental a.s.s who loses bond? And what could he do besides say tough guy lines? Nothing. He was trained to do nothing else. Like you. Outside the business, you have nothing. No skills. No a.s.sets. No training."

"And my father managed to keep me in private school and a big house."

"That's how you judge his success? Let me ask you, how would you handle not working then leaning on your son to get a movie made so you can have your great comeback?"

I looked back at him. He had his hands in his pockets as if he was staying humble and non-confrontational.

"Lay off my father. You don't know what you're talking about." I think I growled low, the words gurgling from my gut.

Ken put his hands up as if showing me he was unarmed. I knew better.

"You're right. It's not about your father. What does she mean to you? You've seen her twice since you were kids. What could she mean to you?"

"Not the point."

"What is the point?" Ken could have gotten tight or irritated, but he didn't. He was the picture of reason.

"I like her. That's the point."

"You can like a lot of girls."

"I like her. Period. I don't have to explain myself."

He looked out over my view, squinting at the horizon. He put his sungla.s.ses on. "You're right."

"I'm right?"

"You know what? This spins like a top." He swept his hand over the landscape. "Michael Greydon. Hollywood's new rule-breaker. Perfect. No one tells you what to do. You'll date the foster kid with no family. The commoner. We don't play her as the Hollywood underbelly. We play her as the s.e.xy underdog. You'll be America's Boyfriend times a hundred."

"I don't think she's open to being played."

He flicked his wrist. "Irrelevant."

"It's totally relevant."

"In a couple of weeks, you're going back to shooting. Steven's going to double down on the calendar, and you're going to have zero access to anyone off set for a month." He stepped down the flagstone path, and we walked to the front, where he'd parked his Mercedes. "You might want to check out that envelope I left on your couch."

I put him in his car and watched him pull past my tarp-covered front hedges and out the gate.

I texted Laine.

-I still have your camera-

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 G.o.d, 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 fiance, 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 d.a.m.n 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 a.s.s.

I approached my car with my phone plastered to my ear.

"Tom?" I said, jangling my keys.

"h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Greydon."

"Shut up, a.s.shole."

"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 d.i.c.k. 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 pa.s.s me her twenty?" I asked. "When you know it, I mean."

I'd never asked Tom for a d.a.m.ned 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 ident.i.ty 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 s.h.i.t- -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.

"h.e.l.lo, 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 b.i.t.c.hy 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 a.s.s 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 a.s.sume?"

"Maybe."

"I can help you with a response," he said.