Opportunity Knocks

by Alison Sweeney

  “He could still post it online. It still exists,” Hillary interjects.

  “True,” I have to concede, but Fircham’s unblinking stare warns me not to get distracted. “But there’s no power behind it now. Anything he posts will be ignored or mocked. So it’s better than shutting down this one article, or my quotes. You have the confidence of knowing that no matter what Nick Slants says, no one will listen.”

  Fircham keeps his eyes on me as he rises and walks the few steps to where Hillary is simmering in the corner. They confer quietly. The lawyer’s voice is rational and low while Hillary’s whispering borders on hysterical.

  “I’m just supposed to take her word for it?!” Her shrill screech is impossible not to hear.

  “No, you don’t have to take my word for it.” Both heads turn back to me. I reach into my purse and grab my iPhone, which hasn’t been out of my grasp since I left Liz Daniels. Quickly flicking through the menu, I press play on the video I swore to delete the second this meeting is over.

  “Hillary, it’s been a long time.” I hold out the phone so both Hillary and Fircham can see and hear it clearly. Hillary leans in to stare closely at the video image of Liz Daniels on my screen. “We’ve had our differences over the years, but you and I both know that image is everything. Today, one nasty piece of trash is getting what it deserves.” She pauses, and I swear I can see Hillary’s complexion pale under her too heavily applied foundation. “But it’s not you. I won’t publish Nick Slants’s exposé, and neither will anyone else. Your secret is safe.” And then silence.

  Hillary is still for a moment before making a sudden grab at my phone. I wasn’t expecting it, but I’ve been so tense I manage to hold on to the phone in spite of her lunge. Instinctively jumping back a step, Fircham reaches up to physically restrain his client. “Just take it from her. That nasty bitch. Who does she think she is?” Hillary unleashes a torrent of filth at me, Liz Daniels, and even her lawyer as he unsuccessfully tries to calm her down. Hillary slaps his hands away, curses at him again, and slams into her private bathroom, where we hear several things shatter.

  Completely unfazed by Hillary’s tantrum, Fircham reaches out to shake my hand. “Ms. Cleary, I’m glad we could come to an understanding. You’ve proven your point, and I think we can all put this little matter behind us.” I shake it, my eyes darting to the door as the cursing and crashing continue unabated.

  “One more thing before I go, Mr. Fircham. I had this drawn up.” His brows immediately furrow as I reach into my purse for the letter. “It states that I understand I am still bound by the nondisclosure I signed, and will continue to act accordingly. As Hillary”—I hesitate—“or her representative, agrees that this one incident regarding private nonspecific statements I made unknowingly to Mr. Slants is not to be held against me now or in the future.”

  It’s grown suspiciously quiet as Hillary’s lawyer reviews the simple paragraph. Billy’s lawyer helped me draft it, but I wanted it to be as straightforward as possible. No room for loopholes.

  “Yes, this looks in order.” He side-eyes me. “Good work.”

  “Thank you,” I reply as he pulls a fountain pen from his inner coat pocket and signs with a flourish. He hands me the pen and I sign as well.

  “I’d like to keep this, if you don’t mind,” he says coolly, reaching for the paper.

  “Wait.” Wishing I’d thought to make copies, I pull out my phone again and just as I snap a close-up picture of the letter, the bathroom door slams open.

  Hillary sweeps back into the room, her attention directed only at her lawyer. “Please get her out of my private space, Douglas.” She leans heavily on the back of a chair. “I just can’t bear the sight of her. I want this whole mess over, now.”

  “Yes, of course, Hillary. She’s leaving now.” Giving nothing away with his facial expression, Fircham calmly opens the door, blocking her view of me as I walk out. It takes a few steps for me to wrap my head around what just happened. Really, it’s not until I’m at the elevator banks waiting to head downstairs that I feel my cheeks almost aching from my ear-to-ear grin.

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, I still haven’t found a cab, and I don’t even care. The pedestrians walking past me keep shooting me dirty “she must not be from here” looks. The visual of how my hand waving ineffectually in the air and my dopey smile must look to strangers makes me giggle. Finally a taxi pulls over and, still floating on cloud nine, I hop in, ignoring my usual germ issues.

  After giving the cabbie the address, I sit back, reliving the conversation with Hillary so that I can recount everything for Billy as accurately as possible. Thinking of the look on his face when I show him the video I took of Liz Daniels, I am caught totally off guard when his voice suddenly fills the cab. After a second of disorientation, I realize it’s coming from the TV screen in the center console. Wow, they already have Billy’s Late Night interview up? But then no… it’s not Billy they’re talking about. It’s an entertainment news story about Nick’s live disaster.

  “Last night, in what is being described online as an epic journalistic fail, Nick Slants publicly revealed himself and his incompetence all at once.” There’s a cut to the shaky low-resolution footage of Nick standing out front of the artists’ entrance to my old West Side studio. “I’m here at the hidden back-alley entrance to one of the legendary studios in New York City. You may not recognize me, but I’m Nick Slants. A reporter willing to stop at nothing to get to the truth.”

  “Ha. He wouldn’t recognize truth if it hit him in the face,” I say at the cab TV screen.

  “But as it turns out, Mr. Slants has a very different definition of ‘truth,’” the newscaster says before the camera cuts back to Nick.

  “I have been following the sex scandal of the century. When I discovered the level of atrocities being committed by these so-called celebrities, I knew I had only one choice: to come forward and speak for the innocent and abused victims. There are probably going to be some depraved and immoral acts going on behind these closed doors. I am broadcasting this to you live to make sure the criminals are forced to take responsibility. But what you are about to see is not for the faint of heart.” I roll my eyes, and then he is kicking in the door, quickly followed by his cameraman.

  Me: Good thing you decided to leave that door unlocked.

  Billy: yeah, it’s great the way the door just slams open and there we all are, with scripts and water bottles. Bailey thought of laying down rehearsal “marks” on the ground right before he got there.

  I look up from reading Billy’s text to see what he’s talking about. There are little white T’s made of gaffers tape all over the floor. The situation is clearly a bunch of actors caught in the middle of rehearsals. It’s impossible not to laugh out loud at the look of sincere shock they all manage to fake.

  Me: That is genius. Remind me to thank Bailey. You all deserve Oscars for your performances. Jared was hilarious with his mad improv skillz.

  “But the never-say-die Nick Slants didn’t just give up there, no.” Back to the newscaster, clearly relishing this story. “He tries to interrogate Billy Fox, of all people. One of Hollywood’s, if not America’s, all-around good guys. Get a load of this.”

  The edit is back to Nick shoving the handheld mic in Billy’s face. “Wait, who the hell are you? And what are you even accusing me of?” The replay shows Billy giving a suitably confused and appalled expression to the camera.

  “I am Nick Slants, and I’m here exposing you as part of this illicit sex ring. I overheard you, Billy, at the Lion’s Den last night.” Nick is coming on strong, like the detectives on NCIS. Sitting in the cab now, I marvel at how willing Nick was to believe such a ridiculous story.

  “Wow… so you’re Nick Slants.” Billy begins to crack up laughing. “Hey, you guys—this is that sleazy reporter, that Slants guy. Wait’ll you hear what he’s come up with this time.” His voice is shaking with laughter, and the actors behind him snicker but don’t seem alarmed. You can hear Nick’s
camera guy trying to contain a chuckle as the camera shakes for a second. One dirty look from Nick, though, and the camera settles. I can practically see the steam coming from Nick’s ears. I smile in the cab. Even a hundred viewings later, this hasn’t gotten old.

  “There is nothing about this to laugh about,” Nick sputters, getting all morally superior. “How dare you make light of this heinous crime? You and your celebrity friends, hiring minors? Forcing drugs on them?”

  Billy sobers up quickly. “I’m laughing at you, Slants. Not the subject matter.”

  “So, you’re willing to protect your friends from this sex scandal, but not protect innocent teenagers from your disgusting habits?!”

  “Nick, you’ve lost your mind.” Billy shakes his head, looks around. “Hey, y’all. Nick Slants thinks we’re running some sort of illegal sex ring.” His drawl serves to emphasize the ridiculousness of the accusation. The camera pans around the empty room as the five actors gather gym bags. I see Bailey highlighting something on a script. They all react nonplussed at Billy’s announcement.

  “I heard you planning it at the Lion’s Den.” Nick just won’t give up the ghost. “A club notorious for its tolerance of illegal activity,” he adds to the pixelated camera streaming the whole incident live to Nick’s own website.

  “I know what you heard, Nick.” Billy turns back to the camera, finally seeming irritated. “While I’m not shocked that you were obviously listening in on my conversation in the men’s room, it’s a bit surprising how bad you are at getting accurate information.” I believe in chess that would be a check for Billy. The clip continues as Billy addresses the camera, as if Nick does not deserve this explanation. “I’m developing a new movie for next year. A really dark look at the prostitution and human slavery rings that are really going on around the world. It’s a terrifying global problem and I wanted to shed light on it. The studio and I have been pitching this idea around for a while now, and we finally got the full concept together. Nick seems to have overheard some key words and started leaping to pretty ridiculous conclusions.” The camera cuts to Nick, his mouth agape. “Perhaps you should try gathering real evidence before you start slandering people, Nick. Now, I’m no lawyer, but that is the only real crime here.” Checkmate.

  The news story ends with a bit of advice from a gleeful newscaster thrilled at bringing down this former rival. “Nick, as a professional reporter, all I can say is you need to learn a thing or two about journalism. It’s more than just a one-hundred-twenty-character tweet.” The news segment ends on a freeze frame of Billy’s charming smile.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  It’s impossible to describe how light I feel tonight. I look around at the smiling faces of Billy’s friends; we pulled this impromptu dinner together for a Sunday night victory celebration. Everyone is laughing, toasting one another, or recounting their part in our masquerade. Emma showed up. She brought Andy and a few discreet members of the Hillary P. crew whom I’d bonded with in my brief time there. It’s only been a couple of days, but as Andy recounts for me Monica’s abuse of the new makeup artist, it all seems so far away now.

  “I’m glad you’re free, Alex.” Andy raises his beer mug to clink with my wineglass. “What are you going to do now? Go back to California?”

  “I hope not.” Billy leans back to interject in our conversation. Glancing over my shoulder at him, I look back to catch some mysterious masculine look exchanged between them. I’d thought Billy was engrossed in his conversation with Sophie and her husband. How did he even know what we were talking about?

  “Never mind him,” I say to Andy, reminding myself that I’m seeing Sean first thing tomorrow morning. Then I can move on once and for all. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do now. Certainly, I think it would be best to keep off Hillary’s radar. But I think I’d like to stay in New York if I can build up some clients here.” Already Selma has asked if I can do her makeup for an event tomorrow night, so I’m feeling like I might just be able to make it work here in Manhattan. But there’s a lot left to sort out, like a place to live.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t help more.” Emma finally approaches me privately as I’m opening more wine bottles in Billy’s pristine kitchen. She’s been relatively reserved, and I’m surprised she even came.

  “I probably would have done the same thing,” I say quickly. As the words are still coming out of my mouth, they feel wrong. I don’t know for sure, but I’d like to think I wouldn’t turn my back on a friend in trouble. “You did what you had to do.” Which sounds closer to the truth. I’m not going to throw my drink in her face and make a Real Housewives–style scene over it. She was looking out for herself, and I understand that.

  “No. I was selfish. I was protecting my own ass. When you needed me most.” I’m surprised to see her usually calm face actually tighten up briefly. I’d like to blame the alcohol, but the moisture I see filling her eyes makes mine start to burn, too. “I will never forgive myself for not being there for you…”

  “Stop it, Emma,” I interrupt, and hug her quickly. “We’re fine. Really.” I look her in the eye, and she meets my gaze briefly before her eyes fall away. And after a few more casual words, I let her drift back into the crowd.

  I’M STILL THINKING about Emma later, helping Billy clean up from the spontaneous party.

  “It’ll be all right, you know. You two will get past it,” Billy says, heading to the kitchen with another load of wineglasses.

  “I said everything was fine. But it isn’t. It was so awkward. Like she was waiting for me to bitch her out. And when I said it was okay, that I understand, she wasn’t like, ‘Oh, that’s amazing, you’re the best friend ever’… God, it was like she was disappointed.”

  “Well, maybe she was.” Billy’s voice echoes through the now empty apartment. I follow the sound to find him putting away the cigar box he’d brought out earlier. His study is completely different from the rest of his place. Dark, overstuffed leather chairs are arranged on stained woodwork, and as I look up I see the cutout in the ceiling indicating a drop-down projector screen. “Want to watch a movie?” he asks when he sees what I’m looking at.

  “Ha, no. It’s pretty late. I just haven’t been back here. It’s different. Nice.” I sometimes still find myself awkwardly stammering in front of Billy. Even after everything we’ve been through, or maybe because of all that… it’s hard to feel comfortable with things so unresolved. Sometimes I feel like his girlfriend; clearly I’m someone he’s willing to stick his neck out for. And sometimes I feel like what I really am—a girl he’s been out with twice, whose life is a complete train wreck.

  “Okay,” he says easily, but his attention is on reorganizing his humidor. I like seeing him be a bit compulsive, just like me making sure every makeup brush is cleaned and put back exactly where it belongs.

  “What did you mean about Emma?” I ask, remembering what had brought me back here in the first place. “About her being disappointed?”

  Billy doesn’t answer right away. He puts the box back on the shelf and comes to stand in front of me. “You let her off the hook pretty easily. Maybe she needed you to rake her over the coals a bit. She certainly deserved it.” He shrugs, just stating facts.

  “She’s my friend. It’s over. I just want to forget about it.”

  “I get that, Alex. But that’s not really gonna happen, now is it?” His Texas twang is a little more noticeable after a few cocktails and his voice is even smokier from the cigars. “It’s gonna just sit and fester. What you gotta do is get it all off your chest. And she needs to hear it.” He lays his warm palm against my cheek and looks me in the eyes for a minute.

  “Clearly confrontations are not my thing,” I admit frankly. Though he probably already figured that out on his own. “I’m meeting Sean at the High Line tomorrow at ten. Maybe I can see Emma after she gets off work.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” He rubs his thumb across my lower lip, but then pulls away. “Good night, Alex.” Off he goes,
toward the master bedroom at the far end of the apartment. And I head to my guest room in the opposite direction.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “I brought you a cappuccino. One sugar.” Sean hands me the warm to-go cup with a satisfied smile on his face. I can tell that in his mind, he just chalked up another point for himself. I used to keep score too, reflecting back. But it’s time to let all that go.

  “How ’bout we walk a bit?” I’m starting to sound like Billy. Grinning inwardly, I gesture toward the High Line park stretching out in front of us, above the busy city streets. It’s an amazing bit of greenery growing up out of unused elevated train tracks. We walk for a bit down the path, passing New Yorkers lying out on lounge chairs. I still haven’t adapted to the weather. It’s sunny today, but still quite chilly, and yet the true locals take any opportunity to shed their winter gear. You can tell the true New York natives by the way they’re wearing T-shirts and even tank tops, just grateful for any vitamin D. I shiver in my lined trench coat just imagining it.

  “It’s so cold here, how do you stand it?” Sean asks, clearly noticing the same thing.

  “You get used to it.” I’m affirming it for myself as much as for him.

  “Well, good thing you’ll be back in sunny SoCal soon enough. I bet you’ll be glad to ditch the long johns, right?” I walk another couple of steps without answering.

  “It’s been almost a week… have you thought about what I said?” he finally asks. There’s definitely a change in Sean too, I notice. He would never have been so patient before.