by Brown, Tara
“Okay,” I add, unsure what this has to do with anything. “But you’re exhausted so just lie down for a minute. You look like you might pass out.” I drag her into the comforter and wrap it over her, tucking in like my nanny did when I was little. “Just a few minutes and then we’ll go out there and have some pizza and clean it up.”
“Okay,” she sniffles and covers her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I can’t stop crying. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Well, you’re hungover and maybe drunk again. And we didn’t really sleep last night. Then you moved and you’re tired and probably hungry. I’m an asshole when I’m hungry. My grandpa got me a shirt that says, ‘I’m sorry for what I said when I was hungry’ for my tenth birthday.” I chuckle at the memory, making her laugh but it’s weak. I stroke her head and kiss her forehead. “I promise, I’ll make it all better.”
“Mmmkay.” She nods and makes a funny sound.
I hold her until her breath is even and I’m pretty sure she’s sleeping.
Like a complete stalker, I watch her and realize, as weird as this is, I don’t want to be anywhere else. In fact, I want to fix this problem.
The cold reality of Bev and Brady’s mocking reminds me I don’t know what to do.
This is the sort of problem I throw money at, which gives me an idea.
Gently, I pull my phone from my pocket without making a sound, sending a text to Millie and cringing when I see it’s eight at night. She will not appreciate the text, but I need her help and I honestly don’t know who else to ask.
911! I need like ten women just like you to unpack an apartment, ASAP! Can you think of someone? I’ll pay whatever they want to come here now and do this job in the next fifteen minutes.
The message delivers and within seconds she’s texting back. Like all old people, she texts for a whole minute but all she sends is a single word.
Address?
I send her the address and slip from the bed carefully, ensuring Jenny is tucked in. I close the blinds in her room and close the door, leaving her in the fairly dark room.
Turning around, I take it all in. It’s a shitshow. I should have asked for twenty people. I grab the phone on the wall and call the concierge.
“Good evening, Ms. Snowdon. Eric here. How can I help?”
“Hi, Eric, this is Lori—Lawrence Eckelston. There’s a group of people coming to help with the unpacking. They’re going to arrive in about fifteen. Can you ensure they make their way up here and tell them they need to be silent?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Eckelston.”
“Thanks.” I hang up and take a snoop around the apartment. It’s the size of my gym but for some reason it suits her. The view of the park is pretty good considering it’s a street back. As I suspected, the champagne bottle is empty and one glass is dirty.
Wishing I’d simply come here hours ago instead of sending the stupid neighbor note, I feel responsible for her state. I grab a slice of pizza and eat it over a paper plate.
I have no idea how they’ll have this all done before she goes to work. It looks endless.
Eventually, a knock at the door interrupts my scattered thoughts.
I hurry over and answer, smiling at Millie with nine other people who remind me of her. Efficient and stern.
“I owe you something incredible at Christmas, remind me of that,” I whisper.
“Why are we whispering?” She doesn’t enter and the people behind her don’t move.
“The girl whose place it is fell asleep. She’s exhausted and stressed. I think the move was sprung on her. I want this to be done so she can wake up and go to work and not worry.”
Millie’s eyes narrow. “Really?”
“Okay, she’s hot and I sent her a bottle of champagne and she drank it, and now she’s passed out and her apartment isn’t unpacked at all and it’s possibly my fault,” I say with a grin and Millie nods.
“What kind of person is she?” a guy in the back asks. “Besides hot.”
“Canadian. Hardworking, she’s a PR rep. She was Team Canada for hockey and has two gold medals. She plays drums and seems like a tense shouter until you get to know her. I think she’s a bit of a control freak, like an assassin who has fun but on their terms.”
“Really?” Millie’s eyebrows lift.
“Anyway, the place is a shitshow. And I don’t know what to do.”
“That’s okay,” Millie says and walks in. “Enrique and his team are the very best at what they do.” She leads them inside. “They were in the neighborhood with a job that doesn’t have such a time limit. I told them you’d pay double time.”
“Yeah, whatever it takes.”
“This is cute,” one of the ladies notes as she takes in the mess.
“That’s her bedroom. We should do that last and let her sleep. She doesn’t seem like one of those people who wants help.” I motion my head at the door.
“You go stand outside.” The guy points at the balcony. “And take the pizza and beer with you.”
“Okay.” I give Millie a look before grabbing the food and carrying it to the balcony. She follows me outside.
“So who is she?”
“Girl from the wedding,” I admit easily. Millie has seen worse, by far.
“A girl from a wedding who you have known for a couple of days? Who you’re already paying professional unpackers to take care of?”
“It sounds crazy and I’m pretty sure it is, but I like her. And I have a weird feeling something bad is going on behind the scenes; she’s not a crier, I don’t think. Which also makes me think I’ve walked in right in the middle of the storm. But she’s good, ya know?”
“I do.” Millie’s stare suggests she might be hinting that I’m good, which makes me uncomfortable.
“Pizza?”
“Yes, since you interrupted my dinner.” She takes a slice and we eat and watch the team of people assess everything before they start.
21
Skin suit
Monday, June 19
Jenny
I wake with a start, scared I’ve been abducted or something. I don’t recognize the room but the bed is mine. Glancing around, I’m confused until I see a note on the pillow next to mine.
Raincheck?
L.
Memories flood my mind of Sukii and I unpacking. I was crying and drinking the champagne and she had to leave. Lawrence showed up. The rest is hazy.
I’m pretty sure he carried me to bed, we were going to nap.
But the bedroom is bare, or rather clean.
No boxes or clothes.
My phone is charging on my nightstand next to me. I grab it and check the time, six in the morning.
How long have I been sleeping?
What day is it?
Climbing out of bed, I realize I’m still wearing my underwear and tee shirt, but my pants are neatly folded on the armchair in the corner of the room. I have no memory of getting undressed or making the bed.
It’s all a blur.
I pull on my robe which is creepily resting on the hook on the back of the door, and stagger out into the living room, almost collapsing when I see it.
The whole apartment is put away.
There’s not a single box.
It’s like a science fiction movie.
My house looks how it should with only a few things out of place. A smell hits my nose and I turn, seeing a coffeemaker I don’t recognize but I smell the coffee.
“What the hell?” I whisper and walk to it. My stomach growls and I wonder if the magical apartment fairy left me any of that pizza I recall Lawrence bringing. There’s another note on the coffeemaker.
Sorry, this should have been your housewarming gift.
Bev has informed me that the Tiffany’s was weird.
Laughing, I open the fridge and step back, gasping. It’s full. It’s weirdly, accurately full.
With trembling fingers, I open the other door and gasp again. Even my organic coffee cream is there with my favor
ite yogurt, bread, milk, and butter. My jam, how the fuck?
Taking the cream out, I close the fridge and walk to the coffeemaker, opening a cupboard above it to find the mugs where I would’ve put them. My French press coffeemaker is there too, tucked away up top.
“Did I put this all away?” I ask no one as I pour a cup of coffee and walk to the living room, setting the mug down and opening the curtains I don’t recall installing.
The scenery hits me. It’s New York in the morning with the sun rising.
I walk out onto the balcony, confused by the furniture here. It’s not mine. I never had a deck before. The scene suggests I’m still dreaming. This is a dream.
But it’s perfect.
I sit and sip and listen to the sound of the city.
It’s more than perfect.
And I don’t know how he did it, but I’m pretty sure Lawrence is somehow responsible for this dream.
As much as I hate to admit it or accept his help, this is the best wakeup I’ve had in a while. Ever maybe. It reminds me of Christmas mornings before my mom died. She was one of those people who put so much effort into other people’s happiness. Overdoing to the point that Josh would complain we were getting too old to pretend so much magic existed. But somehow Lawrence Eckelston has made me believe again. Lawrence, a person I have clearly misjudged, has managed to evoke that same feeling my mother gave me.
Leaving the balcony and the view is hard, but I go inside and take a quick look around. Everything is here. My second bedroom is an office and den and someone has ensured the soap and towels are in the bathroom.
My closets are filled with linens and things that should be in storage. I’m a little worried Lawrence knows me this well after a few days.
I’m either incredibly predictable or he’s some kind of serial killer.
The thought sticks with me all the way through eating and getting ready for work. But by the time I’m walking across the foyer of the building, I’m wondering if Sukii helped him.
I wave at the new doorman and hurry out into the street.
It’s discombobulating being here but once I have my bearings, I hurry to the subway at Lexington and ride it to Grand Central. My work is right next door to the Chrysler Building.
I smile at Mark, our doorman, as I enter. “Morning, Mark.”
“Good morning, Miss Snowdon.”
“Jenny, call me Jenny,” I say for the hundredth time and click across the massive marble foyer, waving at the receptionists. “Good afternoon, ladies!”
“Good afternoon, Jenny!”
When I step into the elevator, I lean against the stone wall and try to figure out what the hell I’m doing with Lawrence. It’s a minute of contemplation before I put on my game face. Office Jenny is a whole other beast, and I’ll have to figure out Lawrence later.
When the elevator doors open, Stan is standing in front of me, disheveled and not wearing his usual three-piece suit. His face is the shade of crimson I worry about fairly consistently. He’s too old to be that red.
“I’m so glad you’re here.” He gasps. “I had hoped you would come in early, but I know, all the unpacking.” He sighs, taking a deep breath. “We have a crisis. A real one.” His eyes widen and the vein in the middle of his forehead has popped out, flexing with his heartbeat.
“It’s okay, Mr. Levisohn.” I place a soft hand on his arm. “Whatever it is, I’ll fix it.” I use soothing tones.
“I know you will. You’re my girl. This is why—anyway, I need your brand of genius right now.” He wheezes another breath and turns, pulling me with him. “There was an incident last week while you were at the wedding and it’s come to a head as of last night. A complete crisis.”
“An incident?” My stomach tightens. He doesn’t normally get this worked up.
“One of our clients went Twitter crazy. He was Twittering all over the internet.”
“Twittering all over the internet,” I repeat his statement, trying not to laugh as I realize this is no emergency, but rather an average day at work.
“Indeed. Spent the whole evening bad-mouthing one of the directors of the movie he just finished, making some very damning claims.” Stan stops walking and shakes his head. “Very damning.” His eyes meet mine with genuine concern. “If it’s true, I don’t know how we’ll carry on a relationship with the director.”
“Chances are, it isn’t. It’s probably sour grapes or angry words,” I lie. “I’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“You have to fix this, Jenny. The movie releases soon and the press junket is in a few weeks. The director is saying he’s going to cut scenes, breach his contract with the studio. The actor says he won’t attend the junket, despite being under contract. The studio has been phoning me since three am. I haven’t had any sleep. I didn’t want to bug you this morning but—”
“Okay, sir.” I have nowhere to start. My brain is still sort of on Lawrence and the wedding, moving, and Ben. My mind is frozen but I nod. It’ll take some more coffee and a second to get my ideas rolling. “I’ll get Sukii to send me all the information, then I’ll grab another coffee and tackle this. Is Laura here yet?”
“No one’s been able to reach her. We’re pretty sure she’s mid flight from Japan.”
“It’s okay, Mr. Levisohn. Go home and get some sleep.” I smile wide, pretending to have all the confidence in the world. “I’ve got this. I’ll call if I need you.”
Which I won’t.
The world could be on fire and I wouldn’t call him. He’s an old man in a young man’s public relations world. He doesn’t understand the modern technologies at all. He can hardly text. He barely understands email.
When he started the company, it was a world of print and radio shows. He’s seventy years old and out of his league. But he’s a good boss, he cares about us, and he has a team of experts who understand the Twittersphere. And he just got me an apartment with next to no rent on the park, so extra work will be my pleasure, indefinitely.
“Sukii.” He glances behind me. “Can you get Jenny everything we have?”
“I’ve already emailed it to you. How was the first sleep in the new place?” Sukii beams mischievously, confirming my suspicion she helped Lawrence with the apartment.
“Magical.” Which is the truth. I lift a hand to Stan’s arm. “Sir, I’ll phone as soon as I know anything or have any ideas.”
“Thanks, Jenny. You’re a lifesaver. I’m sorry I haven’t asked about the apartment. Was it all satisfactory?”
“It’s too much, sir. I don’t know how to accept something so grand. I am grateful,” I say, not yet totally comfortable with the notion the apartment is mine. “And don’t worry, I’ve got this.”
“I never worry when you’re here.” He smiles and turns and walks away, shouting at Sukii as he heads to the elevator, “I’m going home to sleep. Unless there’s blood or fire or death, don’t call me until tomorrow.”
She waves him off as I hurry for my office to prepare. Not that it will be a huge ordeal for me to fix this. Our firm has handled this sort of thing weekly since I started working here as an intern almost six years ago.
“Good morning.” Sukii enters my office with a coffee. “Okay, he’s gone, like actually in the chopper. Let’s dish.”
“Thanks.” I take the coffee and hold it to my nose, inhaling the soothing medium roast she specially imports for the office from the UK. It’s from a boutique coffee-roasting company called Monsoon and a favorite amongst us all. “And thank you for helping Lawrence with the unpacking. I don’t know how to repay you guys.”
“What?” Sukii makes a doubt-filled face.
“You didn’t help Lawrence unpack me?” my voice cracks and my stomach tightens again.
“How could I? I left. I went to see Cap. He told me Lori was coming to see you. Why didn’t you unpack yourself?”
“Oh shit,” I whisper and tap my finger against my cup. “Okay, let’s worry about who unpacked me later.” I shake my head, trying no
t to think about how big of a skin-suit situation Lawrence clearly is. “How bad is this, the work thing?”
“It’s bad, but nothing more than the usual.” Her dark eyebrows lift with surprise. “New cast of characters this time, Liam Farringdon. You know him?”
“Yeah, of course. He’s in trouble? We’ve never dealt with him before, have we?”
“No, but it was only a matter of time. He’s become such a diva since he started his divorce proceedings from Margo. He’s got his panties in a knot with the director from his last movie. I guess the guy was drunk and started spouting shit last week, said the studio hired Liam for the job because he’s hot. And that Liam couldn’t act his way out of a wet paper bag.”
“Oh no.” None of our A-list celebrities would take that lightly.
“Right. So then Liam’s method of dealing with it was to go full diva on Twitter, calling the director a tyrant who allegedly jerks off to pictures of young—”
“I get it.” I smile, sipping the coffee but the taste is lost in the acid brewing in my stomach. “You said this was routine. Pervert accusations are not routine.”
“Oh yeah, I meant it was a ‘bunch of celebrities being dicks’ normal. So the shitstorm is that not only are the director and Liam our clients, but so is the studio. And they all want blood. Liam says he has proof of the director being a pervert. He’s threatening to expose him.”
“Oh good.” I cover my eyes. “Why do they have to open their mouths, or go on the internet when they’re pissed off? Why can’t they go for a jog?”
“Honestly.” She shrugs. “I used to think actors were hot before I took this job. It’s amazing how few of them are actually cool. Which is why I’m glad I recently made the switch to hockey players.” She winks.
“No wonder Stan was sweating.” I grimace as she laughs her way out of my office, leaving me and the coffee to figure this mess out.
Forcing myself to focus my mind on work and not Lawrence, I open the email, cringing my way through the snaps of tweets and exchanges. It’s a complete shitshow with other celebs coming to the defense of the director, calling Liam a liar. On the flip side, several younger female actors are agreeing with Liam, claiming the director was flirty with them when they were in their early twenties.
