by Emma Quinn
And then what?
We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, I told myself for the second time.
There's no point worrying about something that may or may not happen.
“I gotta go,” I said, sadly. “I've got a meeting in an hour with his agent and I feel like poop. Gotta check into my room and grab a shower.”
“Call us later.”
“Will do. Love you Luca.”
“Love you, Mom!” he replied with chocolate smeared across his face.
I hung up and reached for my suitcase. Walking toward the reception desk, a thought crossed my mind.
What if you could turn back now and never see Ethan again?
But just as the thought took hold, the pretty receptionist looked up and smiled.
“Hello, how can I help you?”
“Hi. I have a reservation under the name Mc Sweeney.”
“Of course,” she smiled, taking my ID. “Here's the key. It's straight ahead to the elevator and you're on the fourth floor.”
I took the key card and looked at it held between my fingers.
It's too late, I thought. You can't turn back now. This is really happening.
It was eight o'clock at night and I was exhausted. The last thing I wanted to do was meet Ethan's agent, but as soon as he heard I'd touched down in Hollywood, he insisted on seeing me right away. I sat in the back of the cab ready to fall asleep as the driver made his way down Sunset Boulevard.
“So... Are you an actress?” he asked, glancing at me in the mirror.
“Me? An actress? You've got to be kidding me. I'm a lawyer.”
“Ah, same thing,” he chuckled to himself.
“How exactly?”
“Hey, you both stand up in front of people and get paid a fortune to spout bullshit.”
His eyes met mine in the mirror and he could see I was not impressed.
“I was only joking,” he added quickly. “Being a lawyer's tough, right?”
“Right.”
“You must be real smart.”
“I just worked really hard.”
He went quiet for a second and returned his attention to the road. Although it was a Tuesday evening, the streets were packed as people mingled in roadside cafes and walked the streets in glamorous outfits.
As we stopped at the lights, two girls walked past the cab in impossibly high heels, their long blonde hair billowing out behind them.
“Say, are you sure you aren't an actress?” asked the driver.
What is it with this guy? Is he an idiot or something?
“I'm pretty sure.”
“It's just that you're too good looking to be a lawyer.”
“Oh... Thanks,” I blushed.
“I mean it. You look like a young Sophia Loren.”
“I hope you mean very young Sophia Loren,” I laughed.
It wasn't the first time someone had made the comparison, especially since we shared the first name, but I'd often brushed it off. For some reason, I was never one of those girls who liked to get complimented on their looks. And every time someone mentioned mine, I'd always quickly change the subject.
If anything, I wanted to be complimented on the things I achieved, not what I looked like. After all, I hadn't done anything to look the way I did apart from being born. It wasn't exactly an achievement to be pretty. Not that I really thought I was pretty anyway. In fact I never thought about my looks at all unless someone brought them up.
“You could make millions on the screen,” said the driver. “More than being a lawyer anyway.”
“Oh, I don't think so. Anyway, I don't want to be anything else but a lawyer. I love my job.”
“Hey, I love my job too,” he said. “I'm self-employed. Get to be my own boss. Nobody ever gets to tell me what to do.”
“Just pull in here,” I told him. “That's the restaurant.”
He pulled up at the curbside and I reached to pay him.
“No payment needed,” he said.
“What... do you mean?”
“I mean you're too pretty to part with your cash. I got a better idea. How about you give me a kiss and we'll call it even?”
I stared at him for a second, hoping to God he was joking. But the way he leaned toward me and puckered his lips told me he wasn't.
“Eeeuw!” I screamed, pushing him away. “I'm not kissing you! Here. Take your fucking money!”
I reached into my purse, pulled out a fifty dollar bill and threw it at him.
“Creep!”
I climbed out the car and slammed the door as hard as I could. The cab screeched off and joined the traffic and I felt a surge of goosebumps rise up the backs of my arms.
“What an asshole.”
“Sophia?”
I turned round and was confronted with a tall, tanned man in a white suit with the body of a lamppost. With slicked back hair and gold chains dripping from around his neck, he could only be one person.
“You must be Ethan's agent, Jules,” I said, extending a hand to shake his.
He ignored it and instead moved in for a hug. He smelled like expensive cologne and tanning lotion.
“It's a pleasure to meet you,” he said, kissing my cheek. “I recognized you right away.”
“You did?”
“From your Facebook page.”
“You stalked my Facebook profile?”
“Stalk is such a strong word,” he said, slithering his hand around my waist. “Now why don't we head inside. This place is terrific. Does the best seafood.”
As we entered we were greeted by a kid in a black suit who looked barely old enough to graduate high school.
“Hello, Jules,” he beamed. “Another date?”
“I take it you come here often,” I said to Jules, flatly.
“Maybe,” he winked.
The boy showed us to our table and a moment later, a waiter arrived with the menus.
“So I'm just going to come right out and say it. You look fabulous,” swooned Jules. “I think you're the best looking lawyer I've ever seen. You ever think of a career in the movies?”
“No... But you're the second person in the last five minutes to wonder the same thing.”
“I'm not surprised. You're a real looker. Are you sure you don't want to be an actress? I'd represent you myself of course. I mean with a face and body like that you could...”
“I could what?”
“Make a fortune.”
“I already make a very good salary at McSweeney's. Now can we get down to business?”
“Wow. So you're a serious girl,” he said, reaching for his napkin and flattening it down over his lap. “Has anyone ever told you you're quite intimidating?”
“A few people have. Although it's never my intention. I'd prefer to call myself assertive.”
“Oh, you're definitely that. Okay, so let's get down to business then. But first, wine?”
He clicked his fingers at a nearby waiter and pointed to the list.
“Most expensive red!” he shouted, and the waiter scurried away to fulfill his order.
“Did you just... click your fingers at that waiter?” I asked, aghast. “You do realize he's a human, right? He's not a lapdog.”
“Hey, I tip well enough in here to click my fingers all I want.”
This was going to be a long dinner.
“You look tense,” said Jules.
To my horror, he reached over the table and stroked my hand.
“Not tense,” I replied, pulling my hand away. “Just wondering when we're going to get down to business. As I'm sure you'll appreciate, I've had a long day.”
“You must be so stressed out from all the traveling,” he said, insincerely. “How about you have a drink and relax.”
“I'd rather just talk about Ethan's case if that's okay with you.”
He sighed as he realized he wasn't getting anywhere with me and sat back in his seat.
“Okay, let's get down to the case then, shall we? It's simple an
d it's bullshit. And any lawyer worth their salt will get it thrown out of court pretty much immediately.”
He began fiddling with the corner of his napkin as though he was starting to get nervous. Was the case making him anxious? Or was it me? By the way he started to now avert my gaze, I was starting to think it was probably me.
“What have you been told so far?” he asked.
“To be honest I've not been told a thing. I was starting to wonder what the mystery was. Usually clients are eager to tell me what I'm working with right away so I can get a head start but Ethan... Well he hasn't even turned up to this meeting let alone told me what I'm working with.”
Our conversation was briefly interrupted by the waiter returning to the table with a bottle of wine. He presented it to us with great ceremony and Jules waved a hand impatiently.
“Yes, it'll do,” he said, arrogantly. “Just pour it out.”
With the wine poured and the waiter scurrying off again, we returned to the problem at hand.
“Should I be worried?” I asked.
“Worried?”
“What I mean is, when a celebrity gets secretive about a legal matter it's usually for a good reason. A sex scandal maybe. or something worse. Something that could really damage their reputation.”
“Oh, this could damage Ethan's reputation all right,” Jules replied before sipping on his wine. “But it's nothing of that nature. Thankfully. Do you know Vincent Roberts?”
“Who doesn't? He's one of the hottest actors in Hollywood. Or he was, like, twenty years ago. What about him?”
“He's accusing Ethan of stealing one of his plot line. Says he's going to sue him for everything he's got. Apparently The Rampage just like some script Roberts had written ten years ago.”
“I see...” I replied, feeling grateful I didn't have anything too scandalous to worry about. “If Ethan didn't steal his intellectual property it should be easy to prove and dismiss in court.”
“Are you sure?”
“I'm positive.”
Jules appeared to perk up at this and relax back in his seat.
“Great,” he said. “That's good to hear.”
He picked up the menu and began perusing the list of mains. I took a quick glance down at my own menu, but didn't think anything looked appetizing.
“So... Ethan...” I said, my eyes looking over the salads. “I would have thought he would have wanted to meet me tonight.”
Without taking his eyes off the menu, Jules sighed again and said, “He's too busy. Besides, he tasked me with finding a suitable lawyer. He doesn't know anything about you or McSweeney and Sons.”
My stomach lurched at hearing this. He didn't know anything about me? Well he knew a lot more than he realized!
“He'll be joining us at the end of the week when he gets some free time in his schedule.”
“The end of the week? So what am I supposed to do until then?”
“I dunno. See the sights. Go on a few celebrity house tours and soak up the sun.”
“I didn't leave my child back in New York just so I could soak up the sun,” I seethed.
He finally looked up from his menu and saw the anger in my eyes.
“If I'm going to work on Ethan's case, I want to see him right away. I'm not just going to sit on my ass for the rest of the week waiting on him.”
“Wow, you're quite the feisty little sausage, aren't you?”
“I'm just not the kind of girl to sit around waiting on people.”
That was true. But it was also true that I didn't want to sit around waiting for Ethan for the rest of the week. Days spent worrying about what would happen when I saw him again. Days spent hanging around my hotel room with my stomach churning. I wanted to get the initial meeting over with right away. Rip the band aid off before it got too painful.
“I want to see him tonight,” I insisted.
“I don't think that would be a good idea. He's going through some personal problems right now and—”
“May I remind you that I flew all the way out here from New York to meet him? I don't give a crap if he's having personal problems. Who isn't?”
A smile fluttered across Jules' lips.
“Has anyone ever told you that you're cute when you're angry?”
They had. Ethan used to tell me all the time whenever we argued. Suddenly, my mind was taking me back to being twenty-one again and having the immature though passion filled arguments youngsters have. The kind that make you feel as though your world is being ripped apart. The kind that leads to Earth shattering makeup sex.
“Tonight,” I repeated. “If I'm going to work his case I need to see him as soon as possible.”
“Okay fine. I'll give you his address. But can you at least stay a while and try the scallops first?”
10
Ethan
I
walked from room to room and marveled at the silence. How could only one person take up so much space and make so much noise? I thought as I walked into what used to be Mila's dressing room and heard nothing but the sound of the air conditioner.
It had only been a day since she'd packed all her things while screaming and left with the tires of her Porsche screeching along the driveway. A whole day of silence without any temper tantrums or demands. It was bliss.
But I had to admit the house did feel empty. It was big anyway, and now with nothing in it but me and my thoughts, it felt cavernous.
Leaving Mila's dressing room, I walked down the stairs and spent a moment standing in the hallway. It was so eerily quiet I was sure I could hear my own heartbeat.
Usually, there would be the distant sound of the juicer in the kitchen as Mila concocted some peculiar green drink, or the sound of her singing terribly along to her favorite RnB song. But now there was nothing but the sound of the crickets outside and my own breathing.
I need to have a party.
This house is far too big for just one person.
Yeah, a party. I'll call Gary and some of the boys. Get them to bring a whole bunch of girls over and we'll get shitfaced and skinny dip in the pool.
Except the studio probably wouldn't let me do that. I couldn't tank my favorite Jack Daniels anymore. Not when I had to be in peak physical condition.
Ah, fuck the studio, I argued internally. Why do they get to think they own me?
But I knew that in some way they did. Or at least they owned my body and what I did with it. I may have been more successful than I ever dreamed of being, and rich as shit, but I couldn't so much as eat a slice of cake without being yelled at for violating a contract. It felt like there was always someone checking up on me making sure I did what I was told.
One of these days you're going to own your own studio, I told myself as I walked into the kitchen. And nobody will ever be able to tell you what to do.
Opening the fridge, I looked inside for something to celebrate my first night home alone, but all I saw were dozens of sticks of celery and jugs of tomato juice.
“Rock n roll,” I moaned and slammed the door shut.
Looking around the room, I wondered what I could do with the place now that Mila was gone. Even though she didn't own a single brick of the building, she'd made it pretty clear that things had to be in her taste.
That meant everything had to be fitted and decorated in her boring style. All the walls were cream and the carpets white. It was the least cozy house I'd ever lived in and looked more like a show home.
I'm going to tear up all these crappy white carpets and replace them with red shag pile. Mila would hate that.
The thought of pissing her off brought a smile to my lips.
Moving through the kitchen, I felt the urge to check the fridge again just in case something tasty had miraculously appeared or escaped my attention the first time. But there was nothing but the smell of vegetables wafting out and my heart sank.
I need to get out of here. Need to hit the town. Go to a nice restaurant. Anything, to just not be in this sad, sterile
house filled with vegetables.
Leaving the kitchen, I ambled up the stairs. The sound of my footsteps echoing throughout the house.
This feels ridiculous, I thought as I aimed for my bedroom. This doesn't feel like a home. It feels like a mausoleum. Somewhere this big should be filled with laughter and happiness. Maybe even the laughter of children.
I paused on the stairs for a moment and looked down into the center of the house. I imagined children running down the hallway making a mess with their toys. Thought about a little boy on a tricycle winding his way through the rooms. I imagined a family living here. My family.
Shaking the thought from my head, I continued up the stairs.
You're getting smushy with all these thoughts about children and families.
Upstairs, I entered the en suite bathroom to my room and ran the shower. I was still aching from my workout in the morning, but that was nothing new. Over the last few weeks Gary had worked me so hard I woke up most mornings feeling as though I'd been hit by a truck.
“Ah, fuck,” I said out loud as I pulled off my jeans and felt my hamstrings stretch. “Jesus that hurts like a motherfucker.”
As I let my clothes drop to the floor, I took a moment to admire my physique in the mirror. Not because I was vain, but because I could see the results of all my hard word.
“You look like a fucking Olympian,” I said to myself, flexing the muscles in my chest. “Like a fucking Greek God.”
Flexing my biceps, I blew myself a kiss in the mirror and laughed.
Stepping into the water, I felt the heat soothe my sore muscles and instantly relaxed.
“Aaaw... Fuck, I needed this.”
Closing my eyes, I breathed in the steam and leaned back into the water. Picking up a nearby bottle of luxurious sandalwood shower oil, I drizzled it over my body and rubbed it in. I wasn't exactly a skincare aficionado, but it seemed as though actors couldn't go five minutes in this city without people flinging freebies at them. And the oil had been gifted to me by a luxury brand of skincare in the hope I would appear in one of their commercials.
It was a long way from the cheap bars of soap I used to scrub myself with as a kid.
Taking a deep breath, I inhaled the scent of the sandalwood and felt my muscles release themselves.
