As I walk out the door, I look one last time in the mirror. Not bad. Instead of my usual jeans and tight T-shirt, I’m wearing dark loose-fitting trousers, a dark shirt, a coat, and a cap.
I pull the cap down to cover my face. No one should recognize me in this getup.
Instead of driving, I take the bus and walk the rest of the way.
Outside a double-story building with broken shutters and a crocked sign, I look around. There appears to be no one around. With any luck, no one will see me go in.
I press the bell where it says “Keyhole Antics” and wait for someone to open the door.
When it does, I almost sprint up the stairs. I make sure I touch nothing. The germs are practically staring at me from the railing and walls.
On the second floor, I turn left and spot the large green lettered sign straightaway.
Richard Burstfly, Director.
Keyhole Antics and Co.
I cringe.
If Kayla didn’t mean so much to me, I wouldn’t be here.
Carefully I walk to the door. A cockroach glares at me I nearly step on him. I would step on him if I didn’t want to get my shoes dirty. The damn thing is so huge I wonder if it’s some kind of mutant.
Once I’m past it, I half turn to look at it again. I swear I thought it talked to me.
Luckily, Richard opens the door before I can work out how to touch the handle without catching the plague or something worse. I don’t want to be walking out of here with two heads and four legs, or something weird like that.
“Me man Scott,” Richard greets me like a long-lost friend.
“Hey, Richard.” I lift my hand in a hello type of wave. There’s no way I’m touching his hand. Who knows where it has been.
“Call me Dick Scott. Everyone else does.”
I follow the PI into his office.
To describe the shit heap as an office was an exaggeration—a massive overstatement.
The couch against the back wall was so full of stains I wondered what had been going on there before deciding I probably did no really want to know. Those stains could be anything.
A single light globe hung from the ceiling; the paint was peeling off, and every space was covered in either papers or some other shit.
Dick shoves a pile of stuff off a chair and invites me to sit down. He himself heaves his mass of fat onto one of those swivel chairs behind his desk. As his weight descends on the unsuspecting chair, there’s an almighty racket.
In anticipation, I hold my breath.
Nothing happens. Judging by the noise, I thought the chair was going to collapse and Dick end up sprawled on the ground.
“Now, my man,” says Dick, and his stained sausage fingers fumble through some papers on his desk. “Is it the wife? Girlfriend? Bitch on heat straying and you want to find the bastard for castration?”
At the word castration, I feel a twinge in my penis.
“No.” I shake my head. I feel something crawl over the back of my neck, and I swiftly brush it off. Out of the corner of my eyes, I see a cockroach.
No, wait a minute, not just any cockroach, but the one from the corridor. Is he staring at me? I glare at him and lift my foot in a threatening manner.
The roach gets the message and disappears behind a bundle of papers.
“Sorry,” Dick says. “Boyfriend straying? Same thing really, isn’t it?”
I shake my head.
“Sorry?” I have missed what he said, too distracted by the fucking bug.
“You want me to find who your boyfriend is fucking?”
Now I roll my eyes.
“No.” I hold up my hand to stop him from talking. “It’s not that sort of investigation. I need you to find dirt.”
Dick leans forward on his desk. Is he drooling? He is all ears.
“What type of dirt?”
“I need you to find what you can on these two people.”
I pull out a photo of Ian and Ed. I have written their names under each of their photographs.
“That dude looks familiar.” Dick’s meaty finger points at Ian and leaves a fat stain right on his cheek.
“He’s an actor on a daytime television series.”
The PI scribbles something in his notebook.
“And this one?” Now the same fat stain can be seen on Ed’s chin.
“He’s the producer on the same show,” I explain.
Dick scratches his chin.
“They’re together?” His fingers entwine as if to get his point across a little clearer.
I shake my head.
“No, it won’t be that easy. Ian, the actor, seems to only be in stuff where Ed is the producer.”
More notes are scribbled in the notepad, emphasis on scribbled because to me it looks more like one of the many bugs in this room crawled across the page in drunken stupor than legible writing. Maybe Dick couldn’t write?
“It’ll cost.” Dick rubs his hands together, and it looks like his nose is glowing.
“I’ll pay. I’ll pay top dollar, particularly if you can deliver.”
The hands stop rubbing and come to rest on the desk.
“Keyhole Antics will deliver, Scott. It always does.”
I pull out some notes and throw them onto the desk. I don’t want to touch anything.
“Down payment, Dick. There’ll be more once you give me the dirt.”
Now I’m sure there’s spit trickling down the PI’s chin.
“Don’t you worry.” Dick stands, and I make for the door.
I see his outstretched hand and manage to avoid being patted on the back by it. Even in the dim light and from where I’m standing, I can see the black dirt under the fingernails.
I cannot get down those stairs fast enough. Once I’m outside the building, I take a deep breath. The odor was so strong in there I had barely been able to breathe.
I know the man is brilliant and he gets paid well. What the fuck does he do with his money? I know what he should do with it: invest in a new office, a cleaner, and a makeover team.
36
Kayla
With a sigh, I delete the last thousand words I’ve typed onto the screen and watch them disappear. Ed’s words about a car accident ruin anything I want to write.
I glance at my handwritten notes. During one night this week, I couldn’t sleep, and some good ideas came to my mind. So as not to forget, I jotted them down.
I’ve decided the brothers’ relationship needs to become the focus. They are going to stop doing their old tricks. It’s time to decide to do something bigger than they have ever done before.
My notes went on to describe how they masquerade as antique dealers to con this mega rich single woman into buying a very valuable manuscript from them.
I try again.
The car accident scene refuses to take shape. Any time I start with a car, it turns into an old antique thing—one this lady drives and the two brothers have their eye on.
I shake my head and decide there’s only one thing I can do right now.
When I come back with my strong hot coffee, I sit down and put fingers to keyboard again.
As I type the opening of the scene, I sigh.
Blast Ed into outer space, I think. Why is he trying to ruin my life? He and Ian, together they are the odd couple determined to make sure I fail.
I think about the last few days. It’s been great. Scott and I had amazing sex.
And then there had been the mind-blowing sex with Brad.
I shake my head as I stare at my screen, notes, and back at the screen again.
I slam my hand onto my desk. Fuck Ed, I think.
If there’s one thing I know, killing Brad and Scott is not the answer. And I know I don’t only hold this opinion because I’ve got feelings for both of them.
During my soul searching, I’ve realized I’m more professional than Ed. It might appear to Ed or some of the others that I am letting my feelings get the better of me, but I disagree.
And wh
at had Ange said to me? It had been something about standing up for what I believe in.
I believe in Scott, and I believe in Brad, and more importantly, I believe in this show.
Drinking my coffee, I curse both Ian and Ed. Instead of sitting here and reveling in all the good things in my life, I’m sitting here being miserable.
This is a time when I should be enjoying falling in love with two men, and I should be drinking up my success in the screenwriting world.
Less than two years ago, no one had heard of Kayla, and now over a million viewers watch the show on which I’m head writer. Not that bad for someone who didn’t like English and whose fifth grade teacher told her to get ready for a career in hospitality.
I sigh.
I know what I must do. I must write the script the way I want to write it. And then somehow Ed needs to be…needs to be what?
It’s good neither one of them are here right now because I’m so tempted to lash out physically. I ache all over.
Next time Ian makes some smart-ass remark about my writing, I swear I won’t be held responsible if I hit him.
My gaze moves around the office. What suitable object could I use? I don’t want to hurt my hands or get blood on them.
I shake my head migthought. What’s happening to me? What level am I stooping to?
I don’t believe in violence.
And yet thoughts of smashing something heavy over Ed’s head are overwhelming.
With a sigh and another sip of my coffee, I straighten up and start typing again.
If I want to change the show, I had to get writing.
My eyes glance at the clock and the little reminder that has been bopping up and down in the top right-hand corner of my screen.
Shit.
I’m meant to be on set for filming. In my haste to get out the door, I knock my cup of coffee. Hot black liquid splatters everywhere. Some land on the ke“
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter and grab some tissues to wipe up the mess. Quickly I turn the keyboard upside down. Coffee drips onto my desk.
After I’ve mopped up most of the mess, I leave my keyboard upside down to make sure it dries out completely. I doubt the budget would allow for a new one, particularly if I have to confess to being responsible for its malfunction.
At the lift, I frantically press the down button. For some reason, it seems to take forever to come.
Why is it that when you are in a hurry, technology moves extra slowly? Newton’s law, or was the guy called Murphy?
With the elevator a no-show, I race to stairs. It’s probably faster to walk.
By the time I’m on the ground floor, my hair is in my face, little beads of sweat are rolling down my cheek, and I know my makeup will is smudged.
A glance in a mirror from another set confirms my worst fears. I look like a mess.
Breathing heavily, I arrive on set.
All eyes are on me as I open the door. Filming had not started.
“You’re late,” Ian says and sneers. He then looks at Scott and Brad. “Again.”
There’s that intense desire to hit him again. I brush the hair out of my face and
quash the temptation to plant my fist right between his eyes. Deliberate and slow, I walk over to Derrick. He greets me with a smile and a wave of his left hand.
“Don’t worry, Kayla. You’re just in time,” he says. “We’re about to start.”
With a nod at everyone else, I take up my seat next to the director.
Silently, I congratulate myself for not losing my cool and keeping it together.
37
Kayla
I settle into my chair and busy myself with my e-reader. If past takes are anything to go by, I know I will need to be on hand to help Ian with his lines.
When my fingers find the spot, I finally look up.
Brad and Scott are on set and ready to go. Ian hovers on the edge and seems to be arguing with a young girl.
“Problem?” I turn to Derrick, who shrugs.
“Let’s roll,” he calls, and everyone takes their place.
This time the scene takes place in the garage of the brothers’ home. They’re about to head out to a party where they plan to meet their unsuspecting female victim.
I watch Brad and Scott deliver their lines near perfect. I hang on their every word. They are good—really good.
My decision to write the show my way intensifies. I don’t only owe it to these two great actors, I also owe it to the viewers.
Ian comes on set. I hold my breath. I watch and listen.
Today at least he remembers most of what he has to say. Luckily, he only has a few words to recall. It’s really Brad and Scott’s scene.
To an outsider, it might look deliberate. But it wasn’t. For this scene, the focus had to be on what the older brothers were doing. Ian just had to take a little back seat.
Whilst he remembers what to say, his delivery was still nowhere near as good as that of the other two. Ian stumbles over some of his words, and as far as delivery is concerned, well it could be done a lot better. I groan inwardly and shake my head.
The part might only be minor today, but that does not mean it is not important. And of course, it is no excuse for a poor performance.
I sigh. Ian really needs to go, off-limits or not.
During the break, I see Ian flick through his script. I watch him. His piano fingers move the pages back and forth.
A storm cloud travels across his face. And then he looks at me.
As he walks over, I know whatever he’s got to say, it’s not going to be complimentary.
“A word,” he hisses, and I can feel some of his spit land on my cheek.
Disgusting.
“Yes?”
I try and remain cool, calm, and collected.
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed what you’re trying to do.” More spits come flying my way, and I try and move to the left to avoid being showered in it.
“It won’t work with me playing the innocent little girl.” Ian is overcome with rage. Out of the corner of my eyes, I can see Brad move in my direction.
It is heartwarming to know he’s concerned for me; however, at the same time, I don’t want a repeat of the other day. Life’s complicated enough.
“You are trying to reduce my part. Don’t think I haven’t noticed I have far fewer lines than Brad or Scott. I’m not stupid.”
Someone, I’m not sure who, whispers that’s debatable, but I don’t laugh.
“If you think you can write me out of the show, you’re wrong. If you don’t start to write more scenes for me, you’ll be sorry. Really sorry.”
Silently, I pat myself on the back for having stayed calm.
“Finished?” I ask and rise out of my chair.
For this I don’t want to be having to look up at the enemy. And I have decided that is what Ian is, the enemy.
Part of me wants to wipe his smirk off his face with a heavy object, but there’s nothing suitable nearby.
“Well, let me tell you something, Ian.”
Someone is putting his hand on my arm. I think it might Derrick, but I shake it off.
“If it wasn’t for your bumbling, idiotic attempts at acting, this show could be fantastic. You are dragging it down. Not only do you never remember your lines, you can’t deliver them. A dead fish would have more delivery presence than you do. I have never seen an actor as bad as you.”
“How you can even call yourself an actor is beyond me,” I continue. “You are a disgrace to all other actors. I’m not sure how you got the job, but if you want to keep it, you should start to put some effort into it. Better still, why don’t you have someone teach you the basic skills of acting, speaking, and enunciation? Half the time, I can’t hear what you are saying.”
I take a deep breath in before I continue. “But maybe it’s just that you can’t get any better. Maybe it’s time you look for a new career. I hear they have a vacancy in garbage collecting right now. Surely even you with
your pea-sized brain should be able to do something like that.”
I stop.
Silence.
No one says anything.
My arms are by my side, and I feel a little quiver run through them.
Ian takes a step toward me.
“You’ll be sorry,” he hisses. “You’ll be sorry you spoke to me this way, and you’ll be sorry you’re trying to write me out of the show.”
I lift my head and pull my shoulders back. “Appearance is everything,” my ballet teacher used to say. If you look confident, you will feel confident and ooze confidence.
“Not as sorry as you and your lousy acting career,” I yell at his retreating figure. “You may be pretending to be an actor, but I’m still the writer.”
I’m not sure if he can hear me. I don’t care. Someone will tell him what I said, I’m sure of it.
Without taking any notice of the other people in the room, most of whom are not quite sure where to look, I turn to Derrick.
“I’m going home,” I say and pick up my device. “There’s some major rewriting I’ll need to be doing whilst it is fresh in my mind.”
I leave the set quickly. I don’t want anyone talking to me.
38
Brad
I drive to Scott’s house.
I was hoping to avoid this moment, but it can’t be fucking helped; Shauna has warned me that a few more articles are circulating online, some of which seem to point to the fact that someone knows about what happened between me, Scott, and Kayla.
I have to let him know all. Maybe he has some insight—maybe he knows who is releasing information to these stupid celebrity blogs.
But what if he’s the one behind it? I wonder for a moment, but then I just dismiss that thought. Nah, no, it couldn’t be. He wouldn’t hurt Kayla.
He must have heard my car pulling into his driveway as he is looking out the window when I put my car in park. I glance at him for half a second, and something in his expression immediately tells me he knows I’m not coming as a bearer of good news.
“Hey, Scott,” I say as he opens his front door.
The Proposal Problem: A Billionaire Royal Hangover Romance Page 63
