Arnie gave his remarks a dramatic pause.
Del watched the crowd, which sat rapt under his agent’s spell. Cameras flashed. Videographers zoomed in.
Arms crossed at the wrists in front of his waist like an executive in waiting, Del savored his command of the moment, inhaled the scent of hot lights upon him. The fragrance of fame. A sweat began to break upon his brow.
A glorious occasion! Relevance felt so good.
“This morning,” Arnie continued, “I stand before you to confirm that this information is not a rumor. It is true.”
A gasp among the press. More flashes popped. The top of Arnie’s head gleamed amid the lights.
“In a letter dated March 12, 1962—five months before her passing—Ms. Monroe, of her own free will and volition, placed the screenplay in the possession of her close friend, Mr. Delbert Corwyn, and conferred upon him full rights. I will now read Ms. Monroe’s letter, the text of which we will also make publicly available.” Without further ado, Arnie removed an envelope from the breast pocket of his suit, unfolded the letter, and read its text, including Marilyn’s explanation of her thumbprints on the script pages.
In truth, the letter Arnie held was a photocopy of his photocopy, which Arnie had folded and stuffed into a blank envelope, then creased twice for good measure. The original still sat in Del’s safe deposit box at an unnamed bank in Beverly Hills.
When Arnie reached the end of the letter, he added, “We will consider all interested parties and offers worthy of the project at hand. As you might imagine, we anticipate a deluge of interest in turning Ms. Monroe’s vision into reality, so we will only be able to consider studios and production partners of a minimum caliber, the standard of which Mr. Corwyn will apply at his discretion. As the agent who represents Mr. Corwyn, appointments will be arranged through my office. We have provided that contact information in your press packets, which we will also provide to parties we deem strong contenders for this opportunity.” Arnie paused, scanning the crowd. “At this time, we will take a few questions.”
A flurry of activity ensued, hands shooting into the air and reporters calling Arnie’s name. Arnie acknowledged a brunette female in the second row, who rose to her feet.
“Mr. Clemmons, does the script have a title?”
“Yes, Ms. Monroe named it, Beautiful Mess.”
“And how will you distribute copies of the script to interested parties?”
“Excellent question. The script is on complete lockdown. No copies will be provided at any time prior to signing a deal. Interested parties must schedule an appointment with my office and view the script in person.” Arnie maintained a confident, no-nonsense demeanor. “Next question?”
More shouts and raising of hands as the first reporter sat down. Arnie called upon another.
“You mentioned the script is on lockdown. What measures have you taken ensure control?”
“We have discussed the matter with our attorneys. All parties will be required to sign a confidentiality agreement prior to viewing Ms. Monroe’s screenplay. No photocopies or photographs of any portion of the script will be allowed, nor will parties be allowed to take notes. All writing utensils and electronic devices must be stored away during the duration of the read. I will be present the entire time to ensure the integrity of our needs are honored.”
“Isn’t that rather unusual?”
“Given the circumstances, I think we can agree extra security is warranted. If we discover an individual has violated our trust, they will be removed from our list of contenders. No exceptions.”
“Can you reveal the premise of the script?”
“Absolutely not.” Arnie raised an eyebrow. “What I can tell you is that the screenplay reveals a side to Ms. Monroe that will challenge the public’s assumptions about her and finally establish, albeit postmortem, the full respect Ms. Monroe sought as an artist. Next question?”
A man with graying temples asked, “Can you provide concrete proof that this screenplay and its accompanying letter belonged to Marilyn Monroe?”
“The letter and thumbprints provide her identification.”
“Yes, but assuming the print on the letter matches the prints on the screenplay, can you prove their authenticity?
Del smirked. Let the reporters think the question was their idea.
“Yes, the fingerprints were verified as those of Marilyn Monroe. Her prints are on file as a result of her autopsy in 1962. A match was confirmed by experts in the field. In addition, we acquired the services of handwriting experts, who verified her signature is not a forgery. The analyses were conducted by three independent contractors each. The analysts documented their procedures, findings, cases and conclusions in writing, which are also included in the press packets.”
More bulbs flashed. And with that, Arnie wrapped up the press conference, dramatic tension hanging in the air, reporters still waving and begging for attention. If Arnie allowed it to continue, the press would ask questions until sunset. But as he and Del had agreed prior to the event, they planned to leave most questions unanswered so speculation would continue to swirl.
Del salivated at the future. His hunger to return to prominence in the industry had gone unfed for so long.
CHAPTER 40
AS SOON AS TRISTAN REPLIED to his client by email and started to close his laptop, a chime interrupted him. A chat window popped open. He had hoped to head out for an early evening break, but he eyed the clock and, with a grunt, decided to make himself available.
Checking the username, he recognized it as a client who had started working with him in the last couple of weeks. The public figure, whoever she was. He hoped she didn’t make a habit of using these live chats. He didn’t mind them on occasion and felt they made a great first impression, but they prevented him from prioritizing his responses.
CAGirl202: Hi Russell, it’s Callie. Are you available to chat?
Well, as long as he’d already stopped what he was up to, maybe he could tackle this one right away. She wasn’t one of his more difficult clients.
RMerritt44: Hi Callie, I’m here.
CAGirl202: Are these live chats OK?
RMerritt44: Yes, but if I don’t respond, please know I’m simply assisting another client.
CAGirl202: I understand. It helps to talk to a live person. I don’t have many of those. Not many I can confide in, anyway.
RMerritt44: So what’s on your mind?
A pause. Was she putting together her thoughts? Tristan eyed the clock again. He’d promised some friends he’d meet them at a karaoke bar for appetizers and hang time in an hour or so.
At last, another chime.
CAGirl202: It’s been a rough day.
RMerritt44: How so?
CAGirl202: I’ve done some thinking.
RMerritt44: About?
CAGirl202: My career. My life.
RMerritt44: What spurred your sudden evaluation?
CAGirl202: Something happened. Something not good.
RMerritt44: Can you share more?
CAGirl202: No, it’s too humiliating. It’s the worst thing that could happen to me at this point.
RMerritt44: These things tend to pass, don’t they? You mentioned you’re a public figure. Surely you’ve endured challenges before.
CAGirl202: Not like this. This is—it couldn’t get much worse. It’s funny, fame looked so enticing before I had it. But now, it’s like I don’t belong to myself anymore. Everyone feels entitled to a piece of me.
RMerritt44: Everyone?
CAGirl202: Not everyone. But I don’t know who those exceptions are. I don’t know who I can trust.
RMerritt44: Can you take a sabbatical?
CAGirl202: It’s not that easy. This thing that happened, it’s not project-related and it won’t go away. The pressure is building. It was always there, but it’s tripled with this latest incident.
RMerritt44: Is a mental vacation what’s needed?
CAGirl202: No. In my career, the only wa
y I can avoid these things is to totally walk away. End the whole thing.
Tristan considered how many people ended one career and began a new one. How many said they found more contentment in the next chapter of their lives than in the previous one?
RMerritt44: Sometimes you do just need to walk away from everything. Something better might be on the other side.
CAGirl202: But what if the other side is darkness?
RMerritt44: Risk is part of the equation.
CAGirl202: I’m so tired. Maybe the pressure isn’t worth it.
Why did she keep talking that way?
RMerritt44: Callie, are you OK?
CAGirl202: I think I need some time to myself. Maybe this chat was a mistake. I’m wasting your time.
Tristan straightened in his seat. Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
RMerritt44: You’re not wasting my time, Callie.
He waited, but no response arrived.
Shit. What had he done?
RMerritt44: Callie, are you there?
A longer pause. Tristan jiggled his knee.
A reply never arrived.
His stomach went sour. Now he was nervous. Would he hear from her again? Ever?
Tristan had dealt with an array of clients. He’d grown accustomed to people complaining about their lives. After all, the primary reason most contacted him was because they were dissatisfied and sought improvement.
But Callie was different. As he reflected on that afternoon’s odd chat, apprehension mounted. This sounded more serious than what he was used to, and Tristan wondered if he’d gotten in over his head. He was just a guy making a living. He never intended to make anyone’s life worse.
So what the fuck just happened? Where was she?
Another chime. Tristan gasped and looked at the screen, then a hammerhead sunk in his gut. She had signed out.
All he had was her username. He didn’t know her real name, her address, or her billing information. He couldn’t track her down. And by her own admission, she had decided not to offer any clues about her predicament.
Yes, this was more serious than he’d realized at first.
Tristan tensed his jaw and slammed his hand on the arm of his chair, kicking himself for not paying closer attention, for trying to breeze through their conversation.
Suddenly, he wasn’t in the mood for karaoke.
With a sigh he grabbed his keys and headed out to grab coffee. Might as well. His work was finished here.
CHAPTER 41
NORA CLOSED her chat window.
Maybe it was a mistake after all. This wellness coach had never been in her situation. How was he supposed to guide her? She couldn’t offer him any specifics about her life: Considering the photos had just leaked, Russell wouldn’t need a degree in rocket science to make the connection and figure out his client was Nora Jumelle.
Granted, countless other celebrities had fallen victim to her predicament. But that didn’t make this any less personal for her. And she refused to engage in nude scenes, so this latest development invaded her privacy in a new way.
She could have strangled the frat guy who leaked her photo. She couldn’t even remember his name.
Was this worth it? Why did people feel entitled to a piece of her?
Nora had dressed in her comfort clothes, casual jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, her go-to wardrobe whenever she felt down. Though Alanis Morissette had reinvented herself in a similar stripped-down version around the time Nora was born, Nora had discovered the musician’s Jagged Little Pill album in her mother’s music stash and had grown up listening to it. She related to the artist—her simplicity, her understated sexuality, her yearning to be taken seriously as a creative force.
Curled on a loveseat in her living room, she browsed the latest Oscar buzz online, fingering the cozy fabric that covered her arm. Soon she stumbled upon a website that cited the Vegas odds on the current Oscar race. People bet on that, too?
According to the website, odds had increased in her favor this past week. She remained the favorite. For that matter, Nora Jumelle looked more and more like a sure thing.
Though she wanted to deny it, exhilaration mounted within her as the race continued. She had dreamed of this before she arrived in L.A.
So why couldn’t she shake the sadness that haunted her? It peeved her. Why couldn’t she feel normal? She ran through this emotional cycle day after day.
Nora slammed her laptop shot.
Fuck it.
Fuck the sadness. Nora Jumelle was gonna go have some fun.
CHAPTER 42
STILL PROTECTIVE of her privacy on her home turf, Nora hopped in her car and ventured twenty minutes away, near the coffee shop that had become her refuge. The air felt balmy and brought a tingle to her skin. A perfect day to sit outside.
When she turned a corner, she spotted a Mexican restaurant hosting a happy hour. Taking advantage of the unusual warmth on this winter day, a crowd of patrons mingled outside on the patio, a closed-in area with a bar at one end and gaps at the corners to allow customers to come and go. The place was a beehive of activity. A salsa beat thumped from a pair of gigantic speakers. Individuals laughed and conversed at a handful of high-top tables along the periphery, but otherwise, people swarmed within the patio and spilled out to the parking lot. Hovering overhead was a sign featuring the restaurant’s trademark character, a laughing jalapeno, its comic-strip arms extended: Welcome to the fun, folks!
Perfect. She could interact with a few people, yet maintain a degree of anonymity among the crowd. Nobody would notice her unless she chose to allow them to. No one would hear her over the blasting music unless she chose to talk to them.
She squirmed through the crowd toward the bar, ordered a Grey Goose martini dirty, then worked her way into the middle of the crowd. She had no destination here, and it felt good. She’d float along, a cork in the ocean, and see where she landed.
A man with a five-o’clock shadow turned around. Tall, dark and handsome, dressed in a sport shirt and khaki pants, he looked as though he’d arrived from an office that allowed business-casual attire. In one hand he held a bottle of Corona with a lemon wedge floating inside. Before Nora had a chance to divert her gaze, the man laid eyes on her, and their glances locked. Measuring at least six feet tall, he had to lean down to interact with her.
“Did you come from work?” the man shouted over the music.
Nora still had to cock her ear toward him to decipher his words. “No, I had the day off.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m an actress.”
“In that case, you fit right in! Half the women here are actresses!” The man chuckled. “Name’s Ben.”
“Nora.” She raised the martini glass to her lips.
“You been in anything I’d know?”
“A few.”
The man nodded, then inspected her closer. His upper eyelids twitched as if her reply registered with him.
“Hold on! Nora, you said? Are you Nora Jumelle?”
“You bet.”
She loved this. Individuals engaged in conversation and laughter all around her. Nobody else could hear a word she said. The sense of control ushered in a feeling a triumph. Once again, she had defeated the odds, wandered into a public place, and managed to maintain her anonymity except with whom she chose to reveal herself. Her confidence revived.
“What would Nora Jumelle be doing here?”
“I came on a whim. Decided to grab a drink.”
“Yeah, I’ve had a few myself.” Ben lifted the bottle and took a quick pull from the longneck. “Been here an hour. This is my fourth.”
She nodded, then scanned the crowd for someone else with whom to mingle. If Ben was on his fourth drink, he wouldn’t be as much fun as she’d hoped. Intelligent conversation wouldn’t be an option.
Nora felt a man’s touch on her arm, and she pivoted. Ben had laid his fingers on her, though he had kept it lig
ht and respectful. As respectful, she supposed, as you can keep things with a stranger. But the fact he’d made contact within two minutes of meeting her—after tossing several beers into his system—put her on alert. At first, she’d found him attractive; but on second thought, she decided to keep her distance and wade to the other side of the crowd.
Standing a few feet from one stereo speaker, the beat started to sound like chaos.
“I’m going to head the other way,” Nora said. “It was nice meeting you, Ben.”
His hand dropped. “Why don’t I come with you? We can talk.”
“That’s nice, thank you. But I’m gonna go it alone.”
A grin emerged on Ben’s face. Whether out of kindness or desperation, Nora didn’t know, but goose bumps prickled along her arms.
And now he’d put his hand on her again.
“Come on, I’ll buy you another drink.”
“I’m good. Thank you.”
“But you came to mingle, didn’t you?”
“Yes, so I’d better start working my way through the crowd.”
“What’s the matter? Nora Jumelle can’t talk to a regular guy?”
Shit. Why wouldn’t he leave her alone? And now his hand bordered on gripping her.
She pierced his eyes with hers. “I’m sorry, but I said no.”
“Come on, just one drink. What’ve you got to lose?”
Nora squirmed in an attempt to free herself. Ben tightened his clutch. If she hadn’t shifted her drink to her other hand, she might have spilled it.
“I said no, Ben.”
“You’ve known me five minutes, and you’re judging me already? The great Nora Jumelle is judging an average guy?”
Nora couldn’t wriggle loose. Now Ben scared her. This was a mistake. She needed to get away from him. Somehow.
She shook her arm. “I said no!”
The salsa beats intensified.
“Come on, Nora, give a chan—”
Call it survival instinct, but she tossed her drink in his face and, in the process, splattered several patrons around him. Wondering what had happened, they ceased chatting and spun around. Ben dropped his hand to his side—and, by accident, dropped his beer bottle. The glass shattered when it hit the concrete.
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