Since I’m carting a flower arrangement, I decide to blow off the second coffee. I’m almost to the door when I hear Monica call out, “Jamie Archer.”
I turn. “You know Jamie?”
“Weren’t you at The Rooftop bar about a month ago with her? One of Garreth Todd’s parties?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Well, so was I!” She says it in the kind of excited tone I’d expect if we’d both just pledged the same sorority.
“So you’re a friend of Jamie’s?”
She waves her hand in dismissal. “I barely know her. But I was at an audition with her once, and I remember seeing her there. And you, too. But I think I’m mostly remembering you from the newspapers.”
“Great,” I say dryly.
“That stuff they said about you was shit,” she says earnestly. “Except the part about a reality show. If that’s true you should totally take it and make as much money as you can and tell them all to go to hell.”
I laugh, because as much as I do not want a reality show, telling them all to go to hell sounds like a grand plan.
My phone rings, and I balance the flowers on top of the condiment bar so that I can retrieve it from my purse.
Monica taps a fingertip on her screenplay. “I better get back to this. But I’m so glad I figured it out. Maybe I’ll see you again. I come here all the time.”
“Sure,” I say, as I answer the call.
“Well, Texas? Are you a proud new business owner?”
“Evelyn! Hang on a sec.” I wave goodbye to Monica, then tuck the phone under my chin and pick the flowers back up. I use a hip to push out the door, then start off down the wide sidewalk back toward my office. “Can you believe it?” I ask. “I feel all grown up.”
“I’m proud of you,” she says. “And I mean that in a totally non-patronizing way.”
“In that case, thank you.” I actually preen a bit from her words. I fell in love with Evelyn Dodge the moment I met her. She’s tough and no-nonsense and says what she thinks. I’ve pretty much decided I want to be her when I grow up.
“So tell me about the place.”
I describe it to her in detail, then mention that Giselle is going to come by later to talk art.
“I probably owe you an apology for that,” she says. “I know she’s not high on your list these days, but she seemed pretty intent on making it up to you.”
“No, no,” I say. “It’s fine. I’ve got my jealousy all reined in, and I know she feels bad about what happened.” To be honest, I can’t help but wonder if she didn’t let the truth about the painting slip to someone else who then shot off their mouth to a reporter. I don’t mention my theory to Evelyn, though, because I’m afraid she might float the possibility by Giselle. And if it’s true, I don’t see the point in making her feel worse than she already does.
“So when can I see it?” Evelyn asks.
“It? You mean the office?”
“You’re there now, I assume?”
“On my way back from Starbucks.”
“Good. Give me the address. I’m in the area. I’ll be right over.”
She arrives less than twenty minutes later, bursting into my office after being announced by the building’s very efficient receptionist. “Not bad,” she says, looking around. “Not bad at all.”
“You’re completely transparent, you know,” I say. “There is no way that you were in the area. Sherman Oaks? You? Sorry. Just not buying it.”
“Busted,” she says with a grin. “No, the truth is I had a meeting with a director friend, and he’s doing reshoots all day at Universal. But I would have come to see you, anyway. We have business to discuss, Texas, and I’m damn sure not letting someone else steal my thunder as your very first client.”
“In that case,” I say as I ease behind my desk, “pull up a chair and let’s talk about it.”
We end up going down the street to a deli where we spend a full two hours chatting and eating and—at least on Evelyn’s side of the table—drinking our way into the afternoon.
“I talked to Charlie today,” she says as she stabs at the piece of cheesecake we’ve ordered to split for dessert. “Couldn’t get him to give me the details of why he’s still in Munich, but he did mention that Sofia’s on the loose again.” She shakes her head in exasperation. “I swear, it’s a wonder that girl didn’t drive Damien out of his head ages ago.”
“So she’s always been like this?”
“Oh, yeah. Smart as a whip, that one. Reminds me of you in a lot of ways. But she doesn’t have your backbone, she’s never learned to cope, and she runs instead of fighting.”
I’m shaking my head slowly. Backbone? Coping? Who the hell does Evelyn think she’s looking at?
“Don’t you pull that with me,” Evelyn says, eyeing me knowingly. “You’re a survivor, Texas, and we both know it. I never played the bullshit card with my clients, and I sure as hell don’t do it with my friends. And it’s a damn good thing you’re a survivor, too. Because no one else could last a week with our boy.”
That makes me grin. And, honestly, so do her words. Because the more I think about them, the more I realize how true they are. Yes, I’ve got some ginormous issues, but I’ve been tackling them. And for the most part, I’ve been beating them.
“I can tell you the exact way it’ll play out when she finally turns up, too. Damien will head over to London to make sure she’s okay and get her admitted to yet another facility. And the press will start speculating that Damien’s tossing Sofia aside in favor of you. Or vice versa.”
“Tossing her aside? But they’re not together. Damien told me they haven’t been together since they were kids.”
“When has the truth ever bothered the press? Every time they’re photographed together, the London papers practically have them engaged. It’ll be more interesting this time around, now that you’re in the picture.”
“Interesting isn’t the word I’d choose,” I say dryly.
“If you can’t make them stop, at least let them entertain you,” she says. And I have to admit, that’s probably good advice.
“Speaking of speculation,” she continues, “the rumors are also flying that I’m returning to agenting.”
“Are you?”
“Fuck no,” she says, with a sound that is somewhere between a guffaw and a snort. “But my old firm’s been doing the full-court press, trying to get me back behind a phone and a desk. And you know what? Who knows. Maybe if they sweeten the pot enough I’ll reconsider. Right now I’m just amusing myself watching them run around talking up potential projects. Like yours,” she adds with a wicked grin.
“Mine? My what?”
“Take your pick, Texas. There are producers salivating to get you on reality TV. And there are at least half a dozen companies looking to hire you to do product endorsements. Want to be the face of a makeup line? I could arrange it like that,” she says with a saucy snap of her fingers.
I just shake my head. “This is the weirdest city.”
I turn. “You know Jamie?”
“Weren’t you at The Rooftop bar about a month ago with her? One of Garreth Todd’s parties?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Well, so was I!” She says it in the kind of excited tone I’d expect if we’d both just pledged the same sorority.
“So you’re a friend of Jamie’s?”
She waves her hand in dismissal. “I barely know her. But I was at an audition with her once, and I remember seeing her there. And you, too. But I think I’m mostly remembering you from the newspapers.”
“Great,” I say dryly.
“That stuff they said about you was shit,” she says earnestly. “Except the part about a reality show. If that’s true you should totally take it and make as much money as you can and tell them all to go to hell.”
I laugh, because as much as I do not want a reality show, telling them all to go to hell sounds like a grand plan.
My phone rings, and I balance the flowers on top of the condiment bar so that I can retrieve it from my purse.
Monica taps a fingertip on her screenplay. “I better get back to this. But I’m so glad I figured it out. Maybe I’ll see you again. I come here all the time.”
“Sure,” I say, as I answer the call.
“Well, Texas? Are you a proud new business owner?”
“Evelyn! Hang on a sec.” I wave goodbye to Monica, then tuck the phone under my chin and pick the flowers back up. I use a hip to push out the door, then start off down the wide sidewalk back toward my office. “Can you believe it?” I ask. “I feel all grown up.”
“I’m proud of you,” she says. “And I mean that in a totally non-patronizing way.”
“In that case, thank you.” I actually preen a bit from her words. I fell in love with Evelyn Dodge the moment I met her. She’s tough and no-nonsense and says what she thinks. I’ve pretty much decided I want to be her when I grow up.
“So tell me about the place.”
I describe it to her in detail, then mention that Giselle is going to come by later to talk art.
“I probably owe you an apology for that,” she says. “I know she’s not high on your list these days, but she seemed pretty intent on making it up to you.”
“No, no,” I say. “It’s fine. I’ve got my jealousy all reined in, and I know she feels bad about what happened.” To be honest, I can’t help but wonder if she didn’t let the truth about the painting slip to someone else who then shot off their mouth to a reporter. I don’t mention my theory to Evelyn, though, because I’m afraid she might float the possibility by Giselle. And if it’s true, I don’t see the point in making her feel worse than she already does.
“So when can I see it?” Evelyn asks.
“It? You mean the office?”
“You’re there now, I assume?”
“On my way back from Starbucks.”
“Good. Give me the address. I’m in the area. I’ll be right over.”
She arrives less than twenty minutes later, bursting into my office after being announced by the building’s very efficient receptionist. “Not bad,” she says, looking around. “Not bad at all.”
“You’re completely transparent, you know,” I say. “There is no way that you were in the area. Sherman Oaks? You? Sorry. Just not buying it.”
“Busted,” she says with a grin. “No, the truth is I had a meeting with a director friend, and he’s doing reshoots all day at Universal. But I would have come to see you, anyway. We have business to discuss, Texas, and I’m damn sure not letting someone else steal my thunder as your very first client.”
“In that case,” I say as I ease behind my desk, “pull up a chair and let’s talk about it.”
We end up going down the street to a deli where we spend a full two hours chatting and eating and—at least on Evelyn’s side of the table—drinking our way into the afternoon.
“I talked to Charlie today,” she says as she stabs at the piece of cheesecake we’ve ordered to split for dessert. “Couldn’t get him to give me the details of why he’s still in Munich, but he did mention that Sofia’s on the loose again.” She shakes her head in exasperation. “I swear, it’s a wonder that girl didn’t drive Damien out of his head ages ago.”
“So she’s always been like this?”
“Oh, yeah. Smart as a whip, that one. Reminds me of you in a lot of ways. But she doesn’t have your backbone, she’s never learned to cope, and she runs instead of fighting.”
I’m shaking my head slowly. Backbone? Coping? Who the hell does Evelyn think she’s looking at?
“Don’t you pull that with me,” Evelyn says, eyeing me knowingly. “You’re a survivor, Texas, and we both know it. I never played the bullshit card with my clients, and I sure as hell don’t do it with my friends. And it’s a damn good thing you’re a survivor, too. Because no one else could last a week with our boy.”
That makes me grin. And, honestly, so do her words. Because the more I think about them, the more I realize how true they are. Yes, I’ve got some ginormous issues, but I’ve been tackling them. And for the most part, I’ve been beating them.
“I can tell you the exact way it’ll play out when she finally turns up, too. Damien will head over to London to make sure she’s okay and get her admitted to yet another facility. And the press will start speculating that Damien’s tossing Sofia aside in favor of you. Or vice versa.”
“Tossing her aside? But they’re not together. Damien told me they haven’t been together since they were kids.”
“When has the truth ever bothered the press? Every time they’re photographed together, the London papers practically have them engaged. It’ll be more interesting this time around, now that you’re in the picture.”
“Interesting isn’t the word I’d choose,” I say dryly.
“If you can’t make them stop, at least let them entertain you,” she says. And I have to admit, that’s probably good advice.
“Speaking of speculation,” she continues, “the rumors are also flying that I’m returning to agenting.”
“Are you?”
“Fuck no,” she says, with a sound that is somewhere between a guffaw and a snort. “But my old firm’s been doing the full-court press, trying to get me back behind a phone and a desk. And you know what? Who knows. Maybe if they sweeten the pot enough I’ll reconsider. Right now I’m just amusing myself watching them run around talking up potential projects. Like yours,” she adds with a wicked grin.
“Mine? My what?”
“Take your pick, Texas. There are producers salivating to get you on reality TV. And there are at least half a dozen companies looking to hire you to do product endorsements. Want to be the face of a makeup line? I could arrange it like that,” she says with a saucy snap of her fingers.
I just shake my head. “This is the weirdest city.”
