by Josie Brown
He finds me beguiling?
Hmmmm.
But no. “No…” Sorry, I can’t let you read it, Sebastian. What I write is personal, and for my eyes only. My God, even Jack has never seen my journals.
Not yet.
Ouch! My head hurts…
Closing my eyes makes it better.
So. Does. Sleep.
He’s kissing me.
“Sebastian—no!” I smack him away.
He nips my hand and growls. Talk about crossing the line—
Only it’s not Sebastian. It’s Rin Tin Tin.
I roll over to find Jack, staring down at me.
I stumble to my feet. “Where’s…”
“Sebastian? I have no idea. I’ve just returned with the dogs.” He picks up the empty whiskey bottle on the floor beside me. “It must have been quite a party.”
“You could have stayed, you know. In fact, we were just waiting for you to come back. He offered to take us all to dinner.” Damn it, I wish Jack would quit moving. I didn’t know he had a twin…
He steadies me with both hands on my arms. “I would have passed. You know what they say, ‘three’s a crowd.’”
“Don’t be jealous!”
“I’m not. Frankly, I think it’s hilarious that you’re star struck.”
“I am not! Besides, he’s a writer, not an actor.”
“He’s got an Oscar, and he speaks the King’s English as if he were the King. Admit it, Donna: if he was from Oxford, Mississippi, as opposed to Oxford, England, would you be batting your lashes at him?”
“If I bat my lashes—and I’m not admitting to it—perhaps it’s because he finds me ‘beguiling,’” I counter. “They don’t use words like that in Mississippi.”
“You’re right. He would have called them ‘tah-tah’s.’ Doesn’t have the same ring to it at all.”
“What are you implying?”
“I’m not. I’m stating a fact. Have you noticed that he never looks you in the eye? He can’t tear himself away from staring at your breasts.”
“Oh! …Well, that’s beside the point.”
“No, it’s exactly”—he looks at my breasts, and smiles—“the points.”
I slam the bedroom door and lock it behind me.
He can sleep on one of the hotel’s doggy beds with Rin Tin Tin and Lassie, as opposed to in here, with “the points”—Pixie and Dixie—and me.
Lovely, lovely, everything is so lovely at the Ivy on North Robertson!
Our thank-you-and-farewell lunch (wild lobster salad for me, a Kobe-style New York Steak for Jack—on Addison’s dime of course) is being served on the terrace, under a sun-kissed baby blue sky. Vines of yellow roses coil around the white picket fence in the front. The brick walls on either side are adorned with green boxes of hot pink geraniums.
Addison and Sebastian sit on green wrought-iron chairs, leaving the white wicker settee lined with colorful floral, paisley, and gingham pillows for Jack and me. This suits me fine because it allows me to take quick glances at all the actors, directors and various Hollywood movers and shakers sitting at the tables around us. Yes, that is Cate Blanchett in the corner, and I’ve just knocked elbows with Robert Downey, Jr. (or RDJ as his friends call him) apologizes to me. (To me! Me! Squeeee! Oh my goodness, he’s got the bluest eyes…)
Between chitchat about the projects of the various players around us, Addison and Sebastian have been singing our praises. (Can RDJ hear them? Is that why he turns to smile at me? Me! Squeeee!)
Damn, I wish Jack would at least pretend to listen to our hosts! Instead, his eyes are constantly on the move. Why is he so distracted by all the cars that pass the restaurant? Robertson is a four-lane road, for goodness sake! If he’s not noting every drop-off at the valet stand, he scans the faces around us—not because he’s star struck, but out of boredom, I presume.
He’s ignoring me, too. Noticing Bryan Cranston not three feet away from us, I squeeze Jack’s hand to get his attention. Finally he tears himself away from his pouting to see what I want. I nod in the direction of this ultimate celebrity sighting. All I get for my troubles is a squeeze back—
One that hurts.
To retaliate, I pinch him—hard.
He curses loud enough that Sebastian stops what he’s saying—some little anecdote about him and Benedict Cumberbatch at the soiree for Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts at Buckingham Palace.
Jack is so rude.
Not to mention that he’s barely touched his steak. That’s okay. I’ll get it put in a doggy bag. Not really for the dogs, of course, but for the rest of us. Now that we’ve vetted the script, I’m sure this will be the last decent meal we’ll be having for a very long time. Drive-through McDonald’s Happy Meals aren’t exactly lobster salad with the stars, but it’s all you get when you’re on the lam.
With all the flowery compliments coming out of Addison’s mouth, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I ordered a few more entrees and took them to go. Yummy, the spicy chicken gumbo ya-ya looks delicious…Oh look, it’s what RDJ ordered! Now that we’re practically besties, I wonder if he’d let me sample a bite—
“—franchise potential, which would mean ongoing consulting for you.” Addison declares.
“Seriously?” Tah-tah to the ya-ya. It’s time to talk turkey. “Why, that would be wonderful!” I elbow Jack. “Don’t you think so, dear?”
“Yeah, sure, whatever.” He’s still got his eyes peeled to the sidewalk traffic. What the heck is wrong with him?
“In fact, we’d like you on the set as well, through the whole six-week shoot,” Addison continues. “Immediately, in fact.” He pauses. “Of course, we’ll first have to get both of you to sign off on the script changes Sebastian has proposed, now that it’s based on your life story.”
The lobster shell cracker falls out of my hand and onto my plate with a crash. “Our…what?”
Finally Addison has our undivided attention—which, from the looks on our faces, is not necessarily a good thing.
Realizing this, he positions himself to give his best elevator pitch for this ludicrous idea. “Didn’t Sebastian mention it? Apparently he feels the information he found in Donna’s personal journals”—he emphasizes my name, now that he’s discovered I’m not Jane Smith—“would give the plot and story a whole new dimension. How did you put it, Sebastian? Oh yeah! You said, ‘We feel her pain.”’ He puts a hand on the screenwriter’s shoulder.
They do?
They like me. They really, really like me…
“Her personal journals?” Jack looks at me as if he’s seeing me for the very first time. “You mean, her cookbooks?”
I force a smile on my face as I turn to face Jack. “Honey, those aren’t exactly cookbooks. I mean, yes, they are cookbook binders, but the pages inside are some personal notes I’ve made.”
He blinks hard. “You mean, all the time we’ve been together, you weren’t just jotting down recipes?”
“Well, yes of course I’ve got my favorites in there—and my mother’s, too. But I also write about…I guess about my life.” Just like a man, not to notice the things that mean the most to the love of his life! My God, how many recipes does he think I know?
And just like a man to read something personal without a proper invitation. I shift my glare to Sebastian. “How dare you! Who gave you permission to read them?”
“Why, you, my dear! Don’t you remember?”
“No!” Boy, do I have a headache. Okay, yes, let’s call it what it is—a hangover. “Perhaps I had a bit too much to drink.”
Sebastian sighs. “You Americans. You should learn to hold your liquor.” He takes my hand. “Donna, you’re absolutely right to keep a diary. You’re living an incredible story—one that will enthrall audiences all over the world—”
“You’ve got that right,” Addison chimes in. “It’ll be bigger than the Bond franchise! Sebastian spent all night beefing up the new script with your backstories. In fact, he’s already put together a six-m
ovie arc.” Addison winks at Jack. “The family angle adds depth and dimension. And the grudge match between you and this Carl guy is the crux of the story—”
I stand up, indignant. “What do you mean, the ‘grudge match is the real story?’ My betrayal is what this is about, and how I avenge what I presume is a wrong—”
“It doesn’t matter what any of you think because the damn thing won’t see the light of day.” Jack’s tone is hard as steel. “It can’t. Much of what she’s written about is classified intel.”
The faintest of smiles rises on Sebastian’s lips. “How do you know? You’ve just admitted you haven’t read it.”
Jack’s face turns red. His eyes narrow as he turns to me. “Just what, exactly, do those journals contain, Donna?”
“Well…” I have to word this carefully. It’s true my diaries contain information on missions that are classified, not to mention a few things the kids might find embarrassing. At the same time, who wouldn’t want to see their life portrayed on the big screen—by Jennifer Lawrence, no less! “Jack, in all honesty, there’s really nothing in there that can’t be tweaked.”
He leans back, glowering. “So, there’s no mention of Breck?”
I gulp hard. “I didn’t say that.”
“How about the other Quorum members?”
I pause.
Gee, I wish I could say the same about Sebastian. He exclaims, “The way Acme ensnared them is sheer genius! Of course, what makes the plot even more thrilling is how, at each turn, you’re stymied by your nemesis—because of this marvelous woman sitting in front of us! In fact, I’ve proposed that the title be changed from Lethal to The Housewife Assassin’s…oh, bloody hell, I don’t know. What do you think of ‘Handbook’?” His epiphany has him all smiles. “My God, that’s brilliant! The Housewife Assassin’s Handbook!”
“I can think of another name for it,” Jack mutters. “How about The Convicted Housewife?”
He’s got a point, since our nemesis is now the head of the US intelligence community. Can’t forget that little detail, now can we?
“Sorry, boys, our story isn’t for sale,” Jack stands up, pulling me with him. “You’ll have to go back to the script we approved.”
The color drains out of Addison’s face. “Wait! I’m open to negotiation. How about a hundred thou for the rights to your life story?”
Now, I’m insulted, too. I stand up. “Really? Is that all you think I’m worth?”
But before I can say another word, Jack yanks me back down on the settee.
Make that under the table.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I whisper.
He puts his finger to his lips, to silence me. “Saving our lives. There are three NSA agents on the street, checking out the tables.”
Oh, hell. “How did they know we were here?”
“Great question. An even better one is how are we going to get out of here?”
“We can’t have a shoot-out!” Real blood—on real actors? I can see the headline in Hollywood Reporter now: “Housewife Assassin Slays Hollywood Elite.”
“You’re right Donna—it’s an insult,” Addison says from above. “But—but please, no rough stuff!” Addison must have heard me say “shoot-out” and thinks we’re talking about him, because his voice is quivering. “What say we make it a quarter-mil?”
I raise my hand beyond the table and let my middle finger do the talking for us.
Jack slaps my hand until I lower it again. He points under the tablecloth, where we can see three pairs of highly polished black wingtips under crisply creased black suit pants walk past the table, stop, and then scatter in pairs, over the terrace.
“Alright! Half a mil,” Addison pleads, “and, of course, you’ll be executive producers.”
“I take a sheet of paper from my purse and scribble something, then raise my hand in order to slap it on the table.
“What? A million, and a gross point—apiece? Are you crazy?”
Jack and I stay silent as the black wingtips congregate in front of RDJ’s table for a recon confab. “Dudes, do you mind?” The star’s exasperated tone does the trick. They head back out onto the street.
A moment later, we hear their SUV peel off.
Addison must think our silence is a negotiating tactic because he’s quiet, too, but his foot is twitching. Good. That’ll teach him not to lowball the next sap. Finally he says, “Yeah, okay, it’s a deal. But you have to be ready to leave tonight, for our first location shoot—in Turkey.”
I stick my head up. “Why there?”
“It boils down to dollars and cents. Turkey is a cheap place to shoot. We’ll spend pennies on every dollar we would have spent anywhere else.”
“I don’t like it,” Jack mutters to me. “And neither will Ryan.”
“We don’t have a choice!” I counter. “We have to get out of the country, and fast.”
He sighs. He knows I have a point.
I follow him as he crawls out from under the table.
“Send the Final Draft version to this email. If we can live with the bulk of it, we’ll make edits as we see fit. Let me make this clear: any attempts at unapproved changes during production, the deal is off.” Jack scribbles down what looks like an innocuous gmail address. In truth, it’s routed through a fake IP address coming from a masked browser, which has a custom firewall that not only protects against hacking, but also allows us to worm our way into the hacker’s computer.
In this case, any version of the script we don’t like is toast. “And, by the way, Bradley Cooper looks nothing like me,” Jack mutters.
The producer laughs. “No need to worry there. He passed on the project.”
My heart sinks. “So, I guess this means J Law is out, too. Am I right?”
“Donna darling, not to worry! I know you’ll be beside yourself as to who plays you, but I want to keep you in suspense until we’re wheels-up tonight and I have both stars already signed, sealed and delivered. But just to whet your appetite, I’ll let you in on a little secret! We’ve got Reed Horwitch to play Handsome, here.” He nods toward Jack.
Tall, dark, and hunky, sure, but Reed Horwitch is a sitcom actor with limited range—and from what I’ve read in the tabloid press, a truly obnoxious horn dog. I’ll break this news to Jack later—when we’re on the plane, and there’s no turning back.
Then again, do I really want to be forty thousand feet up in the air if he doesn’t like what I have to say?
I’ll have to take that chance.
“A gentleman never reads a lady’s diary,” I mutter to Sebastian as we walk away from the table.
“You’ll forgive me when you read it.” He winks at me. “And by the way, you’ll be stunning on the red carpet, my dear.”
He’s playing me and we both know it.
I’m not worried about tripping the light fantastic. It’ll be a miracle if this movie gets made.
“So, what do you think?” I ask Jack as I click the SEND button, transmitting our vetted version of the screenplay to Ryan, so that he can weigh in on it, too.
Jack doesn’t say a word. He just sits there, deep in thought.
Five minutes go by. I can’t stand it anymore. “Please Jack, say something.”
He sighs, but doesn’t move. Finally, he shrugs. “It’s in Sebastian’s favor that he focused on the love story.”
“I think so, too.” Because it’s our story—about two people who are thrown together under terrible circumstances. They must work as a team. But, can they really trust each other?
The script is now true to life.
Maybe too true.
I feel the heroine’s pains, because they are also mine.
And I know Jack relates to the hero, perhaps too much.
His computer screen shows his edits and mine, side by side. A faint smile rises on his lips. “I guess we’re of like mind as to the changes that must be made.”
“Then we’ll say yes to Addison?”
“A million bucks goes a long way to assuaging my concerns.” He pulls me onto his lap. “Of course, Ryan has the last word. If I were you, I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”
“You’re probably right.” I try not to show my disappointment. “Well, at least we’ve already earned a few shekels to float us for the next month or so, especially if we go off the grid.”
He laughs. “Talk about a culture shock for the kids!” His grin disappears. “Donna, I’d like permission to read your diaries. I know they were originally meant for your eyes only, so if you feel it’s an intrusion, I’ll thoroughly respect your answer either way—”
I put my fingers to his lips. “I’ve been waiting two and a half years for you to ask.”
He blinks. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” I lay my hand in his. “I’m no fool. I realize any day may be my last. And I’m fully aware that others—especially Carl—will do what they can to discredit me. I started my little ‘handbook’ because I wanted the children to know, from me, why I chose the path I’ve taken. It proves I love them—and you—more than life itself.” My tears are dropping fast now.
He takes a finger and nudges them off my cheek.
I take his finger and kiss it gently.
He takes this as my tacit approval to kiss the palm of my hand. Soon his hand has moved up my arm, onto my neck.
Until his lips meet mine.
It’s easy to get lost in a kiss.
I break the spell it has cast over us by pressing him down onto the couch.
He has already hardened. He groans as I ease myself onto him.
As we find our tempo, my mind ricochets between two emotions: from the joy surging through me—right here, right now—to my irrational fear of his response to what he reads.
Baring my body to him is one thing. Baring my soul is quite another.
Our orgasms tremble through us, twin thunderbolts that shock and surge and charge before subsiding in our spent bodies.
I don’t know how long I’ve slept in his arms before he gently nudges me into the crux of the couch and heads off to the shower.
