by Poppy Dunne
“That’s not what I meant.” Okay, but that’s what you said, dude. “I’m just implying that if none of your supposed experts can help you get this part of your life in order—”
“I am not a big fan of going to HR to complain about every little thing. That’s usually how whiny assholes behave, and I like to believe I’m more of a charming, wining and dining asshole.” I lean forward in my seat. “But if you don’t stop insulting me, Mr. Walker, I’m going to file a hell of a complaint against you.”
Gavin looks at me with half-lidded eyes. Okay, I blew my smokestack a little. I admit it. I might’ve lost the war on that one. Until he closes his eyes and looks…pained.
“Emma, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to talk about it like this.”
It? Blaire Lavender? My ticking biological clock? Stephen King’s overrated miniseries? What ‘it’ do we mean?
“I’ve got some time to discuss, since I guess I’m not getting a contract to Blaire.” I fold my arms across my chest. In turn, Gavin…boots up his computer. What, is it time for a scintillating level of Farmville while I wait for him to get to the point?
And then he does. Oh, how he does.
Gavin turns his computer screen to face me. There’s a photo of him more than a decade ago; he looks far too baby-faced for it to be anyway recent. I recognize him at once, the sleek black hair, the baby blue eyes.
And I see a young, glowering, baby Fraser Drake. Which, okay, I knew they spent a year in college together. That’s not a shock.
What I don’t anticipate is the woman standing between them, her arms around both their shoulders. Because I know her.
It’s the leggy, gorgeous brunette I saw Fraser having drinks with at the Algonquin.
The plot, shall we say, thickens. Thickens, and then curdles. You have to crack a raw egg into the plot and beat it back to an even texture.
Sorry, I just had this wild image of Mary Berry from ‘The Great British Baking Show’ judging my personal life, and it was full of side-eyeing and piped cream.
“Obviously, it’s me and Fraser with—”
“Hot Legs McGee,” I mutter. Yes, that is how I described this woman to myself in my head. Yes, I just blurted that out. No, I don’t have a brain tumor. That I’m aware of.
Gavin’s eyebrows raise. “You sound like you know her.”
Hell, this day hasn’t gotten weird enough yet. Let’s add radical honesty into the mix. “I, er, saw her a few days ago. Maybe a week ago. She and Fraser were having drinks at the Algonquin.” Which was just a business meeting, he told me. And look, why shouldn’t it have been? Lots of the successful adults of today went to Cambridge once upon a time. They all know each other, drink with each other, probably play badminton with each other while wearing white and dancing across pristine lawns. You know. The whitest folks you know.
“Seriously?” Gavin shakes his head and mutters something to himself. It sounds a lot like ‘unbelievable.’ I can smell blood in the water, and like a lipsticked shark, I am swimming straight ahead.
“You want to explain all of this, or do I have to guess?” Twenty questions, maybe. Question one: are you a douchebag?
“This is Gillian. I met her during my study abroad year. She and Fraser were my two closest friends. We were always hanging out together, always studying. It broke my heart when I had to go back to the US. I think Gillian had kind of a crush on me.” There’s a misty quality to his blue eyes now; it’s like he’s dreamily staring back into more than a decade ago, back in the dinosaur years before the iPhone was invented. Back when this picture was probably taken on someone’s actual camera. “So a few years after I graduated, I had an opportunity to go back to England for a bit. I was working in publishing there, and Gillian and I met back up.” He runs an absent hand through his hair, looking into the ether. “We finally started dating. I think…no, I know I fell in love with her. I was getting ready to propose, everything. But.”
He pauses for far too long. “But what?”
A muscle feathers in Gavin’s jaw, like he’s biting down on whatever emotion’s struggling to get out. “But Fraser stole her away from me. There. That’s it.” He throws down his pen with some force. It’s clear that there’s some anger here, and he’s buried it way down deep. “He stole her, then he dumped her. They were together for a while—Gillian thought they were getting married. But then one day, out of the blue. Bam.” He squeezes his eyes shut like he’s got the tension headache of all time. “I should’ve done the honorable thing and kick his ass. By that time, I’d come back to the States. I.” He rubs his hand over his face. “I can’t believe she’s in town and didn’t tell me. She must be trying to chase after him. She’s been doing that since.” He won’t finish that sentence. It’s like he’s embarrassed for Gillian.
So have you ever been on one of those tilt-a-whirl things at a country fair? And have you ever ridden the fastest car on the track, right after stuffing your face with cotton candy? And incidentally, have you done that since turning thirty? Because I do not recommend it. You can’t be as young as you used to be.
Which is not the point. The point, of course, is that the syrupy, nauseous, kind of shook up feeling that you get after eating cotton candy and riding a fast carnival ride? That is what I’m currently experiencing as I stare at Gillian’s picture and listen to Gavin’s story. Is this possible? Because…
Because it doesn’t line up with what Fraser told me. He’s the guy who got left and hurt in the heartsack, not the other way around. For God’s sake, no man who sulks in the corner of parties and broods endlessly at a fabulous handcrafted tequila cocktail can do what Gavin’s suggesting. He’s no Casanova; he’s the guy who’s riding in a gondola right behind Casanova, yelling at him that he ought to settle down and get a shot of penicillin just to be safe.
No, I don’t buy this.
“So you’re afraid that Fraser’s going to give me the ol’ run around?” I lean back in my chair, arms crossed. Gavin looks up at me in shock—and the hurt on his face is so genuine, I worry for a moment that I’m misjudging him and this whole situation.
“I want you to be careful, Emma.” His voice deepens by a degree. “Because I care about you.”
“So we’re passing on Blaire because I’m a fragile little woman who needs protection?” I close my notebook. “Chivalry ain’t dead, kids.”
Gavin looks blank. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Look, thank you for taking the time to explain this to me. And thanks for giving me the heads up on the actions of Fraser past. Which sounds like a good comic book character, by the way. Fraser Past, Time Agent.” I stand and smooth my skirt. “Maybe we should represent something like that.”
Gavin stands as well. I think there’s some disappointment happening in his eyes. “I only want you to know what you’re doing, Emma.”
“And I definitely do. Thanks, boss.” I turn and walk out of the office, heading back to my desk. Thea gives me a tentative thumbs up, but I shake my head. Sorry, kiddo. But I hope you do try that mantra thing. It’s good to have.
Here’s one mantra: I will not listen to creepy bosses who have the creep thing going on.
But as I sit down at my desk and have to indicate to Casey that no, sorry, did not happen—and as Casey makes frantic strangling motions in the direction of Gavin’s office—I have to ponder. Gavin’s being manipulative. That’s it. That has to be all of it.
But Fraser was having drinks with Gillian. And he did call her a business associate—not an old friend or an old girlfriend. He was definitely hiding something.
This is all bullshit, of course. I trust Fraser. I trust he’ll tell me the truth.
I trust he’s not going to lie to me when I ask him about this. Tonight.
14
Fraser
I park my car right around the corner from Emma’s office, get out, and walk over to the front. I’m not wild about being here—it’s always possible to have an elusive Gavin Walker sighting. However, this particular corner of
CAA is a great place to sight the young, beautiful, and hungry. I stand by the glass doors waiting for Emma, and watch the highlighted and glossed women, all wobbling in high heels, as they clack in and out through the revolving doors. This is the part of Los Angeles that’s always depressed me; young people, particularly women, trying desperately to sell themselves to America, to the world. Hungry for love.
And a sandwich, as well. Most of these women are alarmingly thin.
Emma would tell me that I’m commodifying women’s bodies. Then she’d laugh, and run and grab a donut. She certainly does love sugar. It’s one of the most appetizing things about her.
That, and how quickly she’s willing to get naked. I like that, too. For instance, I was thinking of preparing dinner at home tonight. Something simple, delicious, and possible to interrupt with athletic bouts of—
“Jesus,” someone says.
No, no, that one’s off the menu tonight. Sorry.
Oh. It’s Emma’s younger sister…Lillian? Lori? Lysandra? Whatever, some L name. She’s wobbling before me in high stilettos, her blonde hair blowing about her face. I’ve heard Delia refer to—Lily, that’s it—as the prettier of the two sisters. My own personal biases aside, perhaps Lily’s taken it too much to heart. She seems to be always prepared for a model cattle call, or catwalk, or whatever animal-based thing they call those activities.
“It’s you.” Lily smiles, like she’s proud of herself for recognizing me. “So, like, what are you here for?”
“I’m picking up Emma.” There’s no reason to lie. We’ve only been seeing each other for a few days, but I’m fully prepared to walk into her parents’ house and declare that we are together. Then I would sweep Emma into a passionate embrace in front of all of them, and that harpy of a mother of hers could—
No. No. I was going to start thinking more charitably of people. That was a mantra that Emma wanted me to try. I’m not sure it’ll stick, but I’ll give it a shot. I also keep calling it a ‘mantra ray’ which I should attempt to stop.
“So cool.” Lily doesn’t seem to connect the dots on this one. I’m not sure whether I’m relieved or disappointed. “Could you give me a ride too? I don’t want to Uber it.”
“Is your car in the shop?” Do Americans say garage instead of shop? Why don’t I remember anything about living here, apart from the appalling traffic and the spectacular hot dogs at Pink’s?
“Ugh, it got repossessed or something.” Lily rolls her eyes. “Daddy said I had to be responsible about payments.” She makes a face that suggests responsibility is something for the perennially unattractive.
“Well.” I admit I’d rather get Emma into the car all alone. Not in the ‘I’m going to dump the body way,’ more in a ‘Can we have sex in front of the steering wheel without setting the horn off’ way. Then again, this is Emma’s little sister. I might as well look as heroic in Emma’s eyes as possible. “Of course.”
“Thanks!” Lily beams. “Not that I’m going to have to bum rides much longer. I had the best meeting with an agent ever.” She gets a dimple in her cheek that reminds me slightly of Emma, which automatically endears her to me. “Like, we just clicked. He knows exactly what to do for my career. Pretty soon, I’m not even going to have to Instagram model for fame any more. Isn’t that amazing?”
“I presume so?” I didn’t realize you could make money on Instagram. Then again, there’s much about the world I’ve never understood. Lily giggles again, and sidles up to me.
“Mom said you’re seriously loaded. So if you ever want to, like, help out a starving artist?” Bless this girl’s heart, she’s not trying to seduce the money out of me. She’s flat out asking. I’m almost inclined to give her ten dollars and a paternalistic pat on the head.
“Hey, this is a weird and not entirely comfortable sight.” Emma strides towards us out of the doors, the afternoon sun turning her hair into a radiant cascade of gold. And if that sounds too poetic, her cleavage is on light display. I’m ready to have her in the backseat of my car in under thirty seconds. Lily can practice driving, and also practice discreet non-listening.
“You guys are giving me a ride home.” Lily throws her arms around her sister, then eyes her with a certain degree of curiosity. Ah, here it comes. The moment of truth. “Wait a minute. You two are friends now?”
I expect Emma to meet my eye with a wicked expression, and a teasing comment. Instead, she gives her sister an absent-minded hug and says,
“Mm-hmmm.” She won’t even meet my eyes.
Ah. I see. We’re playing coy with the family still. The raging, headstrong part of me wants to sweep her into a searing kiss in front of her sister, all of CAA, and half the traffic on the bloody Avenue of Stars. Let them all gawk at me as I claim this woman with a ravishing—
“Can we stop for In n Out?” Lily asks as she guides Emma around me.
A ravishing hamburger? No. That’s not happening.
“I’ve just had the interior of the car cleaned.” I unlock the doors while Emma gives a slight roll of her eyes, and a quirk of her lips.
“Thank God no one changes that much,” she mutters. As we prepare to pull into traffic, I look at her. It’s not my imagination; she’s not meeting my gaze.
“I assume that’s meant in a good way.” I’m not going to be impolite, but I’m not trying to be any less blunt than I would usually be, mantra rays be damned.
“Yep.” She stares at her bloody phone, and a frown is creasing her brow. Lily clears her throat. Clever girl, even she can pick up on what’s happening in this car. The air has soured; as sour as one of those hamburgers she wanted. Are hamburgers sour? Do I care in the least right now? No.
“I, uh, think I’m gonna get an Uber after all. I’m hungry.” She leans over to the front and kisses her sister’s cheek. “Bye, Em. See you at dinner on Sunday.”
Ah, another raucous family gathering at the Brightmans, I assume. Another magical night filled with alcohol and Delia Brightman. Who could resist? Let me rephrase that, who wouldn’t resist? Lily climbs out of the car and slams the door. It’s now Emma, myself, and the whir of the air conditioner. The little bastard.
“Is something wrong?” I won’t take my eyes from her face, which makes her squirm. Bloody hell, what is this?
“Nothing. I’m totally, completely, absolutely, indisputably, unequivocally, insurmountably fine.” She blinks up at me. “How many adverbs was that?”
“I lost count,” I growl.
“Fine. I’m fine. You can drive. I’m not going to grab the steering wheel and try to hijack your car. I mean, it’s a really nice car. Self warming seats and everything.” She bounces a little by way of illustration. “Perfect for winter mornings. I mean, it’s Los Angeles, but—”
“Your verbal tics are one of your most arousing aspects.” I finally get her to look me in the face. “But if you don’t tell me what the problem is right now—”
“Why’d you tell me Gillian was a business associate?” She’s point blank now, a very American phrase. She looks right into my eyes and asks. “Why didn’t you tell me you two used to date?”
Perhaps Gavin Walker is my own personal gremlin of misfortune, assigned to me by a higher power to keep me humble and on edge. There’s no other way she could know Gillian’s name, or our previous relationship. And the way Emma’s looking at me now—both hopeful and wary—is enough to make me want to keep the car running, go upstairs, engage in the manliest grappling session ever committed in full view of a Hollywood office, then come down here with my tie askew and drive home. I want her to know the truth; it would be so damnably easy.
But the fact that she has to even ask the question shuts me down. No. I won’t play these childish games.
“Did you need a list of all my former romantic conquests?” I ask, my jaw tight. Emma’s eyes darken on the word ‘conquests.’ Perhaps ‘trysts’ would have been a better word. Or ‘dalliances.’ I should keep a romantic thesaurus on me at all times.
“Well
gee, I would’ve told you if I’d ever done anything with Gavin, say.” She nestles back against the seat. I hope she’s enjoying the heated seats.
My head throbs as I finally pull into traffic, as we drive towards Palms. Emma notices after a while that we’re not heading for my place. She winces. “Ugh. If we’re going to my apartment, be prepared for kind of a mess.”
I’m accustomed to kind of a mess. It’s my default setting these days. Whatever this discussion is going to be, I’d rather it be in a patch of reality like Emma’s apartment. I saw the Voltron poster on her wall, alongside her bookshelves. Reality will not feel as grim there; I can sense it.
We park, and take the creaking elevator up to her floor. I swear, the thing is vibrating like it’s prepared to plummet us to an untimely end. The perfect setting for romance: potential death by shoddy engineering.
Finally, we make it to Emma’s place, and it is just as she warned me: a mess. There are clothes slung over the back of her desk chair, or hanging from the knob of a door. How any human being can live in a studio apartment and not turn into a Kafkaesque nightmare is beyond me. Though perhaps I’m a bit too large for this place; getting my shoulders through the doorway is a challenge. Usually, I’d be proud of such a fact. Right now, though, my focus is on Emma as she hastily slides some graphic novels and magazines underneath her bed. Her strange, nerdy obsession with Kylo Ren and General Hux kissing has been made known to me. I don’t find her less desirable for that, another fact which amazes me.
“So now that we’re in the privacy of my comfortable shoebox of a home, can we talk about Gillian?” Emma sits down on her bed, and something crinkles. She jerks in shock, and pulls a half-eaten bag of Doritos out from underneath her. “But first, a word from our sponsor.” Her cheeks flush…and I laugh.
God, how can this woman wind me up and infuriate me one moment, then make me laugh like this the next. Rubbing my eyes, I consider how best to do this. Tell her the complete truth. That might be the smartest option.
