“Madam! I must insist you come out now, or I’m going to have to come in.”
A few things happened in quick succession.
First, Monty panicked. Rather than waiting for me to say “three,” he shoved forcefully against his side of the door. Completely unprepared, my hands slipped off the handle and I had to catch myself against the next stall. As if on cue, the blond waiter rushed into the room, flanked by Sam-and-Max. Which of course was when the stall door sprang open and Monty flew out, gliding across the wet floor like he’d been shot from a cannon.
He tripped and sprawled onto the tiles, landing at the waiter’s feet. To his credit, Monty leaped up impressively fast. He was a sweaty mess, but he brushed his waistcoat down, smoothed his hair back, and tried very hard not to look like he’d just exited a women’s restroom stall at thirty miles per hour. He almost pulled it off.
“Sam, Max, what a surprise. I was just helping my assistant. Toilet troubles,” he said, sotto voice, gesturing to where I stood.
I turned so pink I blended in with the wall.
“Glad we caught you,” said possibly Sam, shock melting away as his default positivity took over. “Almost literally, eh? Ha, ha. We just wanted to chat about the addendum, as you promised you’d have it signed by today.” By today? How long had Monty been sitting on this?
Monty waved a hand as if it was nothing. “My assistant is handling it. She has a meeting with Ezra first thing Monday. He can’t wait to share the pages.”
I stared at him. I do? There had to be a mistake. NOB wouldn’t listen to me. For him, I had only two functions: 1) Book the meetings, and 2) Force him to attend them. After getting him there, my job was done, leaving Monty to swan in for all the expensive meals and drinking sessions he used to slip boring things into the conversation, like when might the script NOB had been paid to write actually materialize.
Monty’s smile was full of easy reassurance. For the producers’ benefit, not mine. “I’ve already got him to agree to sign, so don’t worry, it’s only the paperwork,” he said to me, the very image of a wise, benevolent agent placating a nervous underling. Part of this job was not reacting when your boss told a blatant lie. “All you need to do is hand him the pen.” His pale blue eyes flashed. “It’s all good practice for your next step.”
“Next step?” I repeated. Almost imperceptibly, Monty nodded. “Of course,” I said smoothly as my heart sped up. He’d been serious earlier. He might actually promote me. If the agency survived.
“Now, was there anything else?” Monty said, tugging at his shirt cuffs and giving Sam-and-Max his signature smile as if everything was settled.
“Just one more thing.” Sam-and-Max looked Monty up and down. “What’s that you’re covered in?”
Monty’s smile faltered as he looked down at his sopping-wet front.
The waiter picked up the empty bottle from the floor. It was squashed from being under Monty’s foot. “That would be body oil, sir.”
Silence followed this statement.
In the light filtering in from the restaurant, I could see a glistening snail trail leading from the toilet door to where Monty now stood, drenched in oil. Oh, no. I had picked up the wrong bottle. Why would a private members’ club have body oil in the rest—Ugh. I shuddered. Judging by the deeply uncomfortable expressions on Sam-and-Max’s faces, they were clearly a few steps ahead of me.
“You know what?” one of the producers said. “This looks like a bad time.”
At that, Monty recovered himself. “Then maybe next time,” he said, with as much dignity as he could muster, “you’ll call first.”
Chapter 3
NOB
EXT: A BEAUTIFUL TREE-LINED STREET IN SOUTH KENSINGTON—MONDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 8:55 A.M.
EVIE is holding two takeaway coffees in a tray as she squeezes past a gleaming red sports car parked across the pavement. She climbs up stone steps to a large dark green front door and glances back at the car, rolling her eyes. Her cheeks are flushed as she squares her shoulders, puts on a determined expression, and prepares to knock.
My fingers were left grasping air as the door flew open and the coffees lurched with the unexpected motion. I managed to steady them, expecting to see NOB, only for a tall strawberry blonde to stride out and stop just short of treading on me. I had a weird sense of familiarity, despite not knowing her, before my brain caught up with my eyes. She was Monica Reed, the Yorkshire-born Hollywood darling. My breath caught in my throat. She’d dated NOB on and off for the last few years—though God only knows what the attraction was. He was a boychild, and she was the woman who’d stormed into Hollywood demanding equal pay and diverse roles for women over the age of thirty-five. It was safe to say I was a bit of a fan.
I’d seen NOB’s various partners come and go over the years. His type was blondes in their early twenties. Monica was different. Regal, statuesque . . . older than him. Her yoga gear showed off her incredible figure, and her wavy shoulder-length hair gleamed rose-gold in the wintry morning light. She caught me staring and I blushed.
The tail end of an L.A.-inflected apology drifted down the hallway. It was the kind of voice that sounded well traveled, the voice of someone who had experienced more of the world than you ever would, and taken the pictures with sedated tigers to prove it. The vocal equivalent of a Tinder profile.
“Mon, babe, this isn’t another brushoff, I promise. There’s no one else. I have a meeting I can’t avoid. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
Of course NOB would call Monica Reed babe. The actress favored to win her second Oscar for her upcoming film The Con, a period piece set in a convent in which the nuns run an illegal gin distillery. I’d heard she’d become fluent in Italian just for that one role.
I smiled shyly at her.
She looked me over. “It’s okay, Ez, I believe you. It’s clearly just a work thing,” she called back to him.
Ouch. So maybe they were better matched than I realized.
“Then believe me when I say my agent’s assistant is a total pain in my arse,” NOB said from the hallway. He was rustling around for something. “She emailed about this meeting on Friday while we were at the club. If she ever got a life, I’d be able to enjoy mine.” NOB’s tousled blond hair came into view as he handed Monica a set of keys. “Oh, hi, Stevie.” He couldn’t have appeared less concerned about my overhearing, probably because that had been his exact reply to me at the time.
He’d chosen to wear pajama bottoms and nothing else for our meeting. If my heart skipped at the sight of his muscled chest, visible V, and ridiculous “just stepped out of a yacht catalog” good looks, then I decided to forgive myself. He might be an arse, but he was certainly pretty.