“Thanks,” I say. “Have a good weekend.”
“I intend to have a sinfully luxurious weekend—by sleeping in tomorrow. Then I’m going to work on my pitch.”
“You haven’t even finished the script yet.”
“True, but I want to have the pitch just in case. What if I run into a director who needs exactly what I’m working on?” Benedict hangs up.
His endless optimism is charming. Hollywood has a way of chewing you up if you aren’t careful. Although I give him shit, if he ever wins his Oscar, I’ll be the first to congratulate him.
I thumb through my Instagram feed idly. Lots of likes. Lots of comments. I ignore them—the point of Instagram is to post my pictures, not to interact with people.
My thoughts drift back to the pianist in Seoul. She should be calling soon. I have all those scripts to go over during the weekend, but I can shoehorn her in somewhere. Coffee, maybe, or lunch. Perhaps dinner. Everyone needs caffeine and food.
When the chauffeur stops the car in front of my mansion, I tip him three hundred bucks because that’s what he deserves for having to wait so long at the airport at this time of night. I also like the wedding photo he has taped on his dash. His wife looks like a nice woman.
I head into my home, which is deathly quiet. I stand for a moment, basking in the sheer silence after all the hours in planes and airports.
No more being on. When you’re famous, you have to do everything with a keen awareness of how it’s going to look on social media, because everyone’s carrying around a mini
camera in their pocket these days. A camera and a desire to have their post go viral burning in their heart. But here, in my home where I’m cut off from everyone, I can just kick back and relax.
The housekeeper has left the nightlights on. So I drag my suitcase to the master bedroom upstairs, then bring half the pile of scripts labeled “very promising” from the office to the nightstand. After my shower, I can start working on them.
Working makes me feel good. Work equals making money, and money means I’m going to be okay.
No more eating only the food that’s on sale because it’s about to go bad. No more wondering if I’m going to have clothes that aren’t sporting holes or are too short or too tight around my shoulders. No more feeling sad because the people I love the most are suffering due to a lack of money.
My only regret is that Mom died before I became successful. But I know she’s watching over me and is proud.
I look at the first script from the batch, feeling a tiny bit of tightness in my gut. The next few projects are going to be critical in establishing my career, putting me on the right path. Fame can be so fleeting, and just because your last movie or show did well doesn’t mean your next one’s going to.
Everyone in the business knows you’re only as good as your last project.
After speed-reading the first three scripts, all the travel catches up to me and I sleep for a few hours. When I wake up, the phone’s still quiet. I check the battery, wondering if it’s just out of power. But no. There’s still some juice left.
What the hell…?
Then I remind myself the pianist’s probably sleeping. Jet lag. Plus it’s early in the day.
She’ll call. Women always do.
But Saturday morning turns to Saturday afternoon, and then Saturday evening… By the time Sunday morning rolls around, the damned sun looking disgustingly cheery in the blue sky, I realize something.
She isn’t going to call.
Chapter Eight
Declan
By Sunday afternoon, I can’t decide if my mood is shitty or confused. Maybe it’s a little of both. Shittily confused.
Why isn’t she calling?
And why the hell am I wasting my time interviewing a woman I’m ninety-nine-point-nine percent certain I won’t hire?
But the questions seem like petty whining when everything is happening according to schedule and the way I want. It’s like the world is a well-oiled machine.
My coffee is perfect. My workout is fantastic, with a new personal best on bench press. My t-shirt is stretched nicely over my pumped-up chest and shoulders, and my black jeans are ridiculously comfortable and mold perfectly to my ten-out-of-ten ass. The same ass that’s graced a thousand billboards and got voted the Booty I Most Want to Lick—or was it Bite?—by the Women Who Know Best site.