by Brown, Tara
“You got here at five again this morning? You’re back to fourteen-hour days. Things not going well with Lori?” She sips her iced coffee and leans against my small desk.
I don’t know how to answer the question so I change the subject back to something safe, “I’ve used these fourteen hours productively. I messaged Liam’s agent, Mia, and organized a meeting for the press junket. She agrees we need a full game plan, so I’ll arrive a few hours early at the location where the junket is taking place. I’ve organized my flights to LA tomorrow and taken care of a driver. And I’ve figured out which clients Laura will have to take over for me.”
“Is she still pissed at you?”
“Kinda. I hoped she would come around to it all. Especially since I saved her ass, but whatever.”
“You saved her and Liam. He isn’t typecast as a bad boy, so the public persona needs to match the roles he plays.”
“Yup.” I take a long sip and sigh.
“You nervous about being his rep or are you cool with it?”
“Nervous.” I don’t bother lying. “As hell.”
“I would be too. I’d be freaking out.” She sips and nods. “And speaking of celebrities, it’s cool you’re avoiding asking me about him. I’ll just skip the bullshit and tell you how things are with Cap. I think I love him. We haven’t been apart once since the wedding. Not one night.” She beams and I want to be happy but the news of his divorce just broke. God knows where his head is or if he’s using her to avoid dealing.
“Hello, Jenny.” Stan pops his head in my office with Liam-friggin’-Farringdon right behind him.
I almost spit my drink but manage to stay cool. “Hello.” I stand tall and put the coffee down.
“You guys want an iced coffee?” Sukii asks as she saunters to the door as if this isn’t a big deal that our boss has caught us sitting around talking about guys like college girls.
“I’d love one, Sukii. Vanilla, thanks,” Stan orders for only himself and Liam doesn’t say anything.
“Mr. Levisohn, what a surprise.” I act as though I don’t recognize Liam, giving Stan a chance to introduce us properly.
“This is Liam Farringdon. Liam, this is my secret weapon, Jenny Snowdon. She’s a wizard.”
When I don’t say anything because my mind is a whirling dervish, Liam does, “Nice to meet you, Miss Snowdon.” He cracks something resembling a half grin and bats his long, inky thick lashes.
Whew, he’s hot in person.
Why do guys always have the good lashes?
Why am I still not talking?
I force myself to speak, “Likewise, Mr. Farringdon. Are you in New York on your way to LA for the junket?”
“I am.” His Irish accent is delightful. “I came to meet ya, and thank ya for helping me out of that sticky situation. I just got a call about a new role, and I heard it was you who made sure my name was at the top of their list.” He’s all smiles and manners, and I’m pretty sure this is going awesome.
“Oh, no problem. My pleasure.” That’s a lie.
“Jenny, I asked Liam to sit down and have a chat before the junket tomorrow. But it’s not a great day for me. Do you mind taking Mr. Farringdon to dinner for me? I have a reservation already and the car’s waiting downstairs.” Stan’s new life purpose is to abruptly put me in intense spots.
“Of course not.” I force a smile across my lips, though I’d made plans with Lori to have dinner. “I’m starving anyway.”
“You guys have a great meal.” Stan touches my arm. “I’ll get Sukii to email you the details of what I wanted discussed so you have the notes for reference.” He winks and walks away, leaving me alone with a complete stranger.
“So.” I clear my throat and shoulder my purse. “Dinner?”
“Do you mind if we just drive and talk? I’m in a bit of a rush to get to LA and ready myself for the junket.” Liam places a hand on my arm.
“Of course, no problem.” God, I love the accent. “In fact, we don’t have to drive at all. We can ride the elevator to the top floor and sit in a window, have a chat and no one will see us. It’s the private work area.” I point to the ceiling as though he can see what I’m talking about.
His lips lift, flashing those perfect white teeth. “A quiet place no one will see us?” His bright-blue eyes narrow. “No one will take pictures of us? I’ve had enough publicity.”
“I promise.” I almost roll my eyes but fight it. “It takes a lot to impress the people who work here. We’ve met the Dalai Lama.” And now I’m bragging and name dropping. This is amazing. “He was humble,” the word slips out before I think, and I realize it’s like a shot at him. Am I saying Liam isn’t humble? Why is this happening? Why can’t I be cool?
“Humble?” He laughs. “Are ya mocking me by suggesting I’m not humble?”
“No.” Oh my God.
“You are. That's cheeky.” He chuckles as we stroll into the elevator.
“Genuinely, I wasn’t. I was just saying he is.”
“Mmmhmm.”
Well, now that that’s cleared up.
I need to staple my lips shut.
I press the button for the floor below the penthouse, our own quiet private work area. It’s the sort of place someone like Liam would want to sit. Rarely is anyone there. And if there are people, they’ll be wearing headphones and be too geeky to recognize the celebrities we work for.
“So,” Liam says, leaning and smiling, and I have a bad feeling he’s hitting on me. In a closed-in space. Does God hate me?
“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 water. It’s so clean and fresh and crisp.
“How was the run, my dear?” Grace asks, not bothering with formalities. She’s known me since I was a baby and doesn’t bother with titles. Honestly, she doesn’t really speak to the rest of the family, apart from the odd nod. Not that I blame her.
“Good.” I cough again and force a deep sigh. “My lungs are polluted from the city I think.”
“This is a city.” She laughs and takes the glass as I finish, handing me a post-run protein smoothie she has waiting.
“It’s different. Canada has so few people. The city here is like a nature preserve in comparison.” I chuckle and sip the smoothie from the rubber straw Grace insists on buying. She’s got that West Coast recycling program down pat.
“Are you all right?” She rests against the railing and folds her arms. I’ve been home for three hours and she already sees it. “Is it the season ending badly with the team playing so poorly that has you distracted?”
“No.” I scowl, not sure how to explain the Jenny thing.
“Interesting.” Her hawk eyes remain on me, waiting for the answer.
“It’s this girl—woman—Jenny. Actually, you’ve heard me talk about her before.” I laugh and shake my head. “Jennifer Snowdon from the women’s hockey team. Won the gold for Canada at the last two Olympics.”
“I don’t recall her,” Grace says slowly, unimpressed by gold medals since she has two herself for winning the Culinary Olympics.
“We met at Sami’s wedding and we didn’t get along at all in the beginning.” I smile recalling her shouting at me. “But then something changed. And now I can’t stop thinking about her. But it’s bad timing for her so she’s not as invested as I seem to be, and I don’t know what to do about it.”
“She’s using you for a physical relationship as you have done to countless other girls?” She lifts an eyebrow. “God is punishing you, Lori, for being such a bad boy.” She laughs wickedly and goes back into the house.
“No, legit there’s a connection. I know she feels it too.” I follow her inside instead of stretching which I’ll regret later. “We have something, but we haven’t talked much really.”
“You’re a beautiful boy, very handsome and sweet and fit.” It sounds nice but with her accent and the coldness of her demeanor, there’s definitely something bad at the end of this. A “but.” “All girls have an attraction to that, my dear dumb boy. But that doesn’t mean there are feelings attached to it. Does this girl—woman—Jenny, know your heart? I don’t think so. You don’t even know your own heart.”
She starts working as I sit at the counter, my usual hangout when I was a kid to be her recipe tester and listen to her lecture me.
“I remember when you were a boy. You told me you would never marry because a wife was the last thing a man should check off his list of things to do. It was your grandfather speaking, but you were adamant you’d be single your whole life.”
Her words slice into me, as always, as I wait for the point. It will be a doozy, I can already tell.
Her sharp stare flickers to the far side of the room where the dining room overlooks the city and harbor. “No doubt growing up amongst such people, you have no faith in love. You have no belief that relationships work and are worth your time and effort.”
“That’s fair,” I admit hesitantly before taking another long drink, contemplating her words.
“And now ten years later, you have been a coward when it comes to love. Which has always baffled me, as I’ve never seen you be a coward in any single area of your life, apart from that. You see girls for one night and never again. You have your foolish rules.” She stops mixing the bowl in front of her. “Which leads me to believe you don’t understand your own heart. You are still just a boy spouting his bitter grandfather’s words.”
“Ouch.”
“Tough love is good for you. Time to—how does your grandfather say that?” She pauses. “Pop your testicles out and stop fooling around. You’re not a kid anymore, you’re a man now. And it’s time to start acting like one. When I was twenty-two, I was married, apprenticing under the best chef in all of France, and sending all my money home to take care of my dying mother and help my father and my husband support our families.”
“I know, I know, you walked uphill both ways to school,” I tease her, hoping we can stop the soul-shredding serious talk.
She picks up and points her glistening chef’s knife at me. “You little shit, I did walk uphill both ways.”
“Grace, I’m serious. I’ve broken all my rules for her. And you met Frederick when you were nineteen. You said you kn
ew he was the one the moment you met. So don’t talk to me about crazy kids making weird love choices.” I point back but with a finger. She’s the only one allowed on the business side of the counter where the weapons are.
“Yes, but I didn’t have your privilege and ridiculousness.” She goes for the low blows again. “I knew a gentle heart and kind eyes were more important than breeding and pocketbooks. Your head is so full of yourself and all the nonsense of this world, there is no room for loving another person. If this Jenny has a good heart and kind eyes, then stop trying to close those eyes with your kisses and distractions. You get to know her and lower your guard. You win her over with everything but the physical, then you come and darken my doorway with your stories of connections and breaking rules.” She rolls her eyes and I hate that she has a point.
She always has a lot of points.
“And stop chasing this girl if you have no intention of giving the relationship a chance. She isn’t a box to be checked. I suspect your boxes are just a way to want something you can’t have, so you will never end up with something you don’t want.”
“Damn, that was mean. It might have been your meanest yet.”
“Good. Now, go and shower before your mother sees you all sweaty. Dinner will be ready in a couple of hours.” She waves me off, dismissing me.
“Love you, Grace.” I smile.
“Love you too.” She nods and I take my smoothie and walk to the stairs to my room in the west wing of the house.
My bedroom hasn’t changed, not that anything in this house changes. It’s a museum to the Piggott dynasty.
I climb into the shower and let the jets beat the hell out of my body, massaging me as my mind whirls with the truths Grace spoke.
I’m not sure she’s right, but there’s a real chance she’s not wrong.
It’s a weird and disturbing realization.
Why am I so fucking nuts about commitment?
The thoughts and insights into my batshit crazy brain stick with me as I walk into the dining room to have dinner with my father and mother.
