by Lila Monroe
And, speak of the devil, my phone buzzes. I pull it out and see a text message from Raj. Flint is entering the building. Groaning, I turn and press my forehead against the wall for a minute. And maybe bang it once or twice, just to get the circulation going.
The ride down in the elevator sends my stomach up into my heart, or my heart down into my stomach. Either way, some organs are where they shouldn’t be, and they need to sort themselves out. The doors whisper open. My heels clack as I walk across the marble lobby to the front desk. Tyler’s there already of course, no worse for wear after our little t
te-à-t
te in the hallway, wearing his trademark shit eating grin, his shirt collar popped. A few of those producer and executive weasels are sniffing around, waiting eagerly for their newest, sexiest cash cow.
And there he is. Flint walks through the revolving doors, alone. He’s wearing a black button down shirt, his worn brown leather jacket thrown over his shoulder. The way he strides in, powerful and utterly confident, almost knocks me over. His eyes, normally the warmest golden brown, are hard and sparking. Tyler almost leaps in front of him, wearing a spectacularly oily grin.
“Flint McKay. Star of the show. Sex god of the east coast,” Tyler says, holding out his hand to get in on the action. “You remember me?”
“Unfortunately,” Flint tells him, looking at the hand and not taking it. “Trust me, I’d like to forget.” Tyler’s expression falls. I can’t help but smile. That is, until Flint looks at me, and I feel the color drain from my face. But I’m not going to scurry under the desk and hide. I pull my shoulders back.
“Good to see you again,” I tell him, no crack in my voice. I am blue steel, a black panther, a color combined with something awesome.
“Laurel,” he says, nodding curtly. Is it just me, or does his voice get rougher and lower when he speaks to me?
It’d be unprofessional not to shake, so I hold out my hand. Flint takes it, encasing it in his own large, calloused grip. I am titanium. A second later, he pulls away.
“We’ve got a team upstairs waiting to meet you,” I say. The executives and Tyler are all scattering before him; it’s like they know they’ve been outmanned.
“Let’s go then.” Flint brushes past me and walks toward the elevators. I follow close behind, digging my nails so hard into my palms I might draw blood.
One minute down. Seventy thousand to go.
26
The doors slide open on the fifth floor, and we walk out into an excited group of chattering people. Everyone has gathered to greet our new star. You’d think God himself had strolled in. And judging by the reactions of most of the women, I think that’s a pretty fair analogy. There are some gasps in the back, the strategic tossing of hair or batting of eyelashes. Margie from H/R actually stops breathing for a second. I catch her fanning herself with an office memo.
“Everyone,” I say, clapping my hands and calling the rampaging hormone convention to attention. “This is Flint McKay, star of Rustic Renovations, reality king in the making.” There’s a lot of applause, which I know is killing Flint slowly. He tightens his jaw, always a sure sign he wants to bolt. This much attention has got to be like shoving him on a spit and turning him over a roasting fire, apple in his mouth, shirt off and chest glistening.
Even that titillating and strange image does nothing for me. I’m too depressed right now.
“Great to see you, Flint. Remember me?” Raj, my assistant producer, sidles up and squeezes Flint’s hand. And his bicep as well. I don’t blame him.
“How could I forget?” Flint smiles, cool and gracious, and a flock of women swarm around him.
“I’ve seen some of the footage,” Bethany, one of the script supervisors, says. Has she popped a button on her top? There’s definitely some cleavage happening. “You’re even better looking in real life.” Okay, is she also licking her lips?
“Thank you,” Flint says, giving that charming, bemused smile. Combined with the perfect wave of his hair and the strength of his jaw line, it’s a deadly combination. Bethany seems to purr in contentment. I stand aside, smiling a little. Flint is like an aftershave-anointed mountain man, an alpine Adonis. I should really just start doing marketing’s job for them.
“You got to work with him?” Margie says, coming over to me. I think she’s still fluttering a little. “What was that like?”
Completely perfect, until he broke my heart and I stormed off into the sunrise.
“He’s a real professional,” I say, and leave it at that. She beams, and eventually Flint makes his way out of the group of women and over to me.
“Any chance we can get out of here?” he mutters, barely moving his mouth. “I think one of them started smelling me.”
That’d be Claire, in accounting. And I can’t hold her at fault; it’s like he bathes in pine and crystal springs. Still, he’s got a point, and I clap my hands.
“All right, we’ve got a month to go, people. Confirm appearances on every morning show in town, buy up those billboards, and start skywriting the premiere date. Let’s promote, sell, and celebrate,” I say. Everyone cheers as I guide Flint down the hall. I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead, refusing the temptation to look over at him. I make sure there’s a nice little distance between us. For a minute, we have nothing to say.
“Are you actually going to skywrite?” he finally asks. I think he’s legitimately concerned.
“No, but we’re printing the invites to the premiere after party on these really thin slices of wood. You’ll love it.”
“Yep,” he says, clearly straining to sound casual. And that’s it. We pause outside my office door. I don’t think either of us really wants to go in and let ourselves marinate in uncomfortable feelings in one small room. The hallway dissipates it, makes eau de awkward less pungent. So now we’re standing here, hands in pockets, wondering when someone is going to come and rescue us.
Maybe if Charlotte were here, she could break the ice. I try not to think about it. And I try not to think about how Flint looks right now, leaned up against the wall. His face is blank, his eyes meeting mine. He isn’t looking away. Well, he’s not a coward, Laurel. All I can think about is going over to him, laying my head against his chest, letting his arms wrap around me…
No. That chapter’s over. Start another one that begins with the words ‘I was so over Flint McKay, and had a bevy of oiled cabana boys eager to respond to my every whim.’
I’m not much of a writer.
“So.” Flint clears his throat. “I guess this is it.”
At first I think he means ‘this is the end of the nonversation,’ but then I gather he’s talking about start of promotion. “Yep. Ah, yes. Starting. We all start somewhere.” I try that megawatt grin that guys love so much, and get exactly zero response. He looks at the wall instead of me. We are off to such a flying start. “Was the trip okay?” I ask, clutching at things to talk about.
“Fine,” he says. He squares his jaw in the silence. Great. Is there any way I can excuse myself and go jump out the window?
“You, uh, came to LA alone?” I imagine Charlotte, her sleek dark hair pulled back into a bun, sitting beside him on the plane. Holding his hand, smiling, reassuring him that she’ll be waiting for him back at the hotel. That seeing me won’t be as bad and awkward as he thinks. This idea makes me want to recreate Edvard Munch’s painting ‘The Scream.’ By, you know, screaming. Against a backdrop of surrealist coloring.
“Nope. Didn’t bring anyone. Callie wanted to come, of course. She was ready to throw the twins into the cargo hold.” He smiles weakly.
“She’s making a run for Mother of the Year,” I say. Small smile from Flint again, then silence. I would pay for someone to come down the hall and hit me in the face with a pie. Nothing can be more uncomfortable than this.
“Laurel?” Raj walks over. And thank God, he isn’t holding a pie. He nods, a hand pressed against his ear so he can listen to his Bluetooth, and says, “The execs want you gu
ys in the conference room. Now.” He throws one last searching glance between me and Flint, turns on his heel, and zips away, eager to keep up with the higher-ups’ demands.
“Here we go,” Flint mutters. He doesn’t love the executives so much, not since our first meeting when they told him he was a piece of meat they wanted to use as bait for the horny women of America. Executives are good at getting you to hate them. Well, maybe they’ll be better this time, I think to myself as we walk down the hall. Maybe they’ll be well behaved.
And maybe I’m the long lost heir of Imelda Marcos. Though that’d be great for my shoe collection.
“You are going to flip for this,” one of the executives tells Flint when our mountain man is uncomfortably seated in a plush leather spinning chair. The executives are lined up on either side of the long conference table, with Herman Davis, head of development, perched at the top. Davis is the only one not floored by the Flint McKay, God of Beauty show. He polishes his glasses and coughs.
“I mean it,” the executive continues, beaming. “It will rock your world.”
“Or you’ll hate it. As I suspect you will,” Davis says, cutting through the bullshit as he is wont to do. “We’ve got a full schedule ahead for you, McKay.”
“I’m not afraid of work,” Flint says. Davis’s gray, bushy eyebrows shoot up. I think he likes Flint. He tends to like people who get the job done.
“We’re starting a major line of promotion,” I tell him, keeping my voice bright and my gaze slightly to the left of where he’s sitting. I don’t want to get lost in his eyes and stop talking, or burst into tears. Bad business etiquette. “Over the next few weeks, we’ll be shooting interviews to run exclusively on Bravo and their website, YouTube channel, etc. We’re also going to get you coverage with some print media, and of course a few daytime talk shows.”
“Daytime talk show? Like sitting on a couch with a bunch of ladies drinking out of oversized coffee mugs?” He seems kind of baffled by this. I shrug.
“It’s the demographic. Maybe you can teach The View how to level out a wobbly armchair.”
“We want your face to be everywhere,” one of the executives gushes, flinging his manicured hands around. “Building hype is the most important thing right now, and I don’t think it’ll be hard to get women to go crazy for you.”
Of course, Flint doesn’t care about thousands of women going gaga over him. He just needs to concentrate on one woman. One flawlessly beautiful, recently-returned-to-his-brawny-arms woman. I may start banging my head on the conference table.
“I don’t mind playing along and building hype, as you call it,” Flint says, leaning back in his chair. “But I’m not going to make myself look like some kind of asshole. Not for any kind of money.”
Davis smiles, looking contented. “That’s just what I expected you to say. And I’m glad. You have no idea how refreshing it is to not hate someone I’m working with.”
All the executives around the table blink at each other and kind of roll away from Davis. He looks at me as well, and nods. I guess I’m also on the ‘not hate’ list. Oh, the places you’ll go by not being repellent and morally bankrupt. That should’ve been in the Dr. Seuss book.
“And I’ll be right next to you, every step of the way,” I tell Flint. I keep trying to smile, and it keeps not working out the way I want it to. It’s kind of a crazy-eyed grimace.
“When do I get to see an episode?” Flint asks, obviously ignoring me. He looks sharply at all the guys crowded around the table. “I’d like to make sure it didn’t change in big ways. You know?” Smart move. A lot of bad magic can happen in the editing bay.
“That’s the first order of business,” I say, still keeping my voice bright and happy. I’m a way better actor than I ever thought. Maybe I shouldn’t have settled for third spearman in my high school’s production of Julius Caesar. “We’re having a premiere party tonight.”
“Tonight?” Flint echoes, looking a bit concerned. “That’s pretty soon.”
“Oh don’t worry,” one of the sycophants says, practically oozing across the table at Flint. “It’s not like the actual premiere premiere, with everyone there to flash the cameras and ogle and pinch. Just a party for a select few industry folk.”
“Ogle? Pinch?” he growls. Those two words should never come out of Flint McKay’s mouth. But the man keeps on going.
“It’s strictly network. You know? Higher ups, all the heavies. They want to see how amazing you are. And that’s a reason to celebrate, isn’t it?” I swear, this guy is practically panting with the thought of all those Hollywood bigwigs in one room, shaking hands and talking up the glories of Flint McKay. And the thing is, I think they really might. Flint frowns, a sign that all is not well.
“Like I said, I’ll be with you the whole time,” I say. This time, he looks at me, and I see clearly that this idea isn’t his favorite. And hell, why should it be? Even if he got his happily ever after, we never officially broke things off. Never talked about why I stormed out of there. Never discussed maintaining some kind of decent professional working relationship. Instead, I’ve been avoiding him at all costs.
So not only do I have to spend an entire month up in Flint McKay’s perfect, un-haveable face, I also have to walk on eggshells. If he gets grumpy, or stressed, or just pissed about the way I knocked him aside and ran for the hills, it could affect marketing. No one wants a surly star on Good Morning America. My shoulders tense, and my temples instantly throb. There is not enough Excedrin in the world for the stress headaches I am about to have. The future of the show, my career, my sanity; it all hangs in the balance.
God, why did I ever sleep with him? Apart from the fact that it was glorious? Already, I can feel the heat creeping into my cheeks. Mercifully, no one notices, especially Flint.
“And just think, we’re going to have a small celebratory dinner at Mr. Chow’s afterwards. All on the network’s dime, of course,” another of the oily executives—let’s call him Number Five—says. All the men in the room chuckle and nod at each other. Well, I can’t blame them for that. Never turn down a free meal in Hollywood.
I’m not sure I’ll be eating anything, actually. Even sitting next to Flint right now, my stomach’s all tied up in knots. No, I won’t be able to eat a bite. Unless they have the crab puff things again. With that plum dipping sauce. Then I might be able to—no, I’ll still be too stressed.
Soon after that, the meeting wraps up. We all rise, and I walk Flint out of the room. We should be able to walk around together, after all. No reason to be awkward. It’s not like we slept together and then he got back together with his ex-girlfriend (alright, ex-fiancée, dammit) who looks like a way hotter, more polished version of me, pshaw. Why do you say these things?
The elevator ride downstairs is one of the most silent in history. You can actually hear time passing. We finally reach the front receptionist’s desk.
“You know your way back to the hotel?” I ask.
“It’s that mythical Uber service you turned me on to. It’s really incredible,” he says, quirking up the corner of his mouth in a perfect half-smile. He nods. “So I guess I’ll see you at the party tonight?”
“Yes, seeing tonight. That is a thing that we’ll be doing.” Like Yoda this conversation has become.
“Suit and tie, right?” On my nod, he turns and heads out the revolving doors without another word. I walk back to the elevators, my head already throbbing.
How am I supposed to get through a month of this? Seeing Flint’s face plastered everywhere, blinking at me from television screens, that was all going to be bad enough. But now, to have to be with him all the time, riding to events, coaching him through interviews, forced to inhale his delicious, pine-fresh musk all the while? All without wanting to combust, scream, or cry?
I don’t know if any of that is possible.
27
In Hollywood, nothing is more guaranteed to make you nervous than a network event. It’s full of people in low c
ut gowns and expensive suits wandering around, making small talk, sipping champagne, and judging you. The trick is to walk in like you own the place, especially if you’re a woman who’s barely five foot two, and you refuse to dye your hair platinum blond. So I walk into that party with my brown hair up and my fashionable pumps on, because fuck yeah confident women. I also sidle over to a handsome caterer and grab a glass of champagne, because fuck yeah liquid courage. Sad thing is, the booze isn’t my helpmate for this party. I’ve got as much sang froid as the best of them.
It’s Flint. He’s tense; I’m tense. We’re all tense together. And in addition to personal shenanigans, we’re about to head into the theatre and watch the first sneak-peek episode of my very first show, and I don’t know how it’s going to go down. I’d hate to sit in the theatre, grin plastered on my face in horror, if it turns out that what I’ve produced is utter dogshit. I’d survive it, though. But having to deal with sitting next to Flint, feeling his disappointment over the whole thing? That’d probably drive me crazy. Crazier than I have become, at any rate. And hell, he might even blame the whole thing on me.
“What are you on?” Suze asks as she comes over. She purses her lips, which are a shade of kickass red lipstick. “Alcohol wise?”
“Second glass.” I shrug and take another sip. I do what I want.
“Okay, in the interest of staying vertical tonight, I’m ordering you to put the alcohol down,” Suze says, gently removing my glass from my hand.
“I’m in fine shape.”
She gives me that gentle, hate-to-tell-you-this smile that I dread. “You’re listing a little to the left, hon, and we don’t need any of the assholes in this room underestimating you. So give me that glass and take this complimentary bottle of water.”
