JUST A FRIEND
Jude
When I was a teenager, I dreamed of phone calls from agents. I’d imagine my mobile ringing, then my agent saying in a clipped, crisp tone: “Jude, the James Bond producers want to cast you as the new 007. Can you head over to the studio straight away? Tux will be ready, and we’ve got a martini glass too.”
Now, at the ripe old age of thirty-one, I know that agent calls can leave me feeling anywhere from fireworks to smacked in the stomach with a wrecking ball.
Since I woke up an hour ago to another damning photo from The Hollywood Scoop, I’m already dressed in a pressed black button-up and trim jeans when Holly calls to talk about how we handle a wrecking ball.
“Hi, Holly,” I say, putting on a good show. “At least it wasn’t a sex tape, right?”
She chuckles. “That’s certainly one way to look at things, love. Can you meet me at my favorite café?”
“The one next to your office, with the lavender Earl Grey you adore?”
“You know me so well.”
“Which is why I’m already hailing a taxi.” I leave my apartment ready for damage control. I’ll do whatever Holly asks. The last thing I want is to lose her.
* * *
There are spin jobs, and then there are spin jobs. The Hollywood Scoop’s photo of me kissing my supposed ex will require an industrial-sized washing machine and a few gallons of bleach.
When I reach the café, my goal is to convince Holly to keep me as a client. She single-handedly turned my career around after it stalled for two years, like a Peugeot stuck in the Blackwall Tunnel underneath the River Thames.
Holly knows the café’s owner, so we grab a table far in the back, away from prying eyes and ears. “I’m not even involved with him,” I say as I point to the risqué shot slapped across the home page of The Hollywood Scoop. “I can’t believe The Scoop says we’re an item.”
“Well, the photo does make it seem that way,” Holly diplomatically says as she settles at the table with her tea. “You left the Luxe Hotel with him.”
“But I’m not with him,” I insist, though I sound a little too the lady doth protest too much, even to my ears. “You believe me, right?”
She waves a hand airily. “I don’t need to know who you shag.”
I sigh. I’m not annoyed at her. I’m annoyed with the Hollywood rumor mill, which chews gristle it finds on the side of the road. “Holly, I’m not.”
She tucks loose strands of blonde hair behind one ear then the other. “Love, I don’t care who you bang or don’t bang. Your sex life is yours, and you can bang a banana for all I care, as long as you do it behind closed doors.”
“I don’t bang bananas. Or even eat them.” I stab the tablet screen again, pointing to the supposedly incriminating evidence of how the two of us allegedly rock-starred the hotel room, destroying first the minibar—after devouring the contents—then a couple of lamps and a mirror. The truth? I wasn’t even in the room with this guy. I came to save his ass. “And since there were banana Gummi Bears on this five-figure bill, that should prove this wasn’t my eat-everything-and-destroy-the-minibar-too episode.”
“Of course it wasn’t. But the point is, you paid this bill for him. You left the hotel with him. You were affectionate with him.” Seems she can’t even say his name either. “These photos aren’t what you need right now.”
“But isn’t this bill proof of what I’m saying? He’s a friend! He’s only ever been a friend.” I try desperately to make my point. “I paid it as a favor. To help him. He was in a right state, and I needed to get him home. I don’t eat any of this stuff. Candy, pretzels, and crisps are not on my meal plan.”
“This bill is total rubbish. Slade, the new PR guy, will sort it out when he talks to Rikki Finch later today.”
I shudder at hearing the name of the woman who single-handedly runs The Hollywood Scoop. The most powerful blogger in Hollywood, she’s broken story after story. She has sources everywhere. “What is your agency’s publicist going to say?”
“That he’s a friend.”
“He is!”
She deals me an I’ve-got-this smile. “We’re going to make you look all shiny and new. We’ve got a plan. Because here at CTM, we pride ourselves on looking out for our clients’ best interests. These pictures are not in your best interests, so we’re going to brainwash them away.”
I can’t imagine that’ll be easy since The Hollywood Scoop has recently run several allegedly salacious photos. First, Rikki ran a pic of me heading into the guy’s home late at night. For the record, I went to his house to check on him. The site ran a shot of him backing his car into his neighbor’s garage. That was fucking grand. And now this hotel sequence, capped off with him kissing me outside the entrance when I’d only gone there to help him. Yep, it sure looks like I’m entangled with the world’s worst boyfriend.
“But I can explain,” I say, and once those words escape my lips, memories race back. TJ once implored me with those same words, but I barely let the man I’d fallen for explain a thing.
That fight with my American almost-boyfriend haunts me. But then, TJ’s parting words do too. This isn’t what I wanted when I came to LA, he’d said.
I wince, then shove away the painful memory.
Holly shakes her head. “We’ll handle the explanations. You and I will join Slade at the office shortly to review the plan.”
“You’re not going to drop me, then?” As the world’s biggest and most successful talent agency, CTM prides itself on its squeaky-clean rep. Holly’s part of CTM now, and I can’t bear the thought that she’d ditch me.
She gives a pfft. “We’re certainly not going to drop you when you’re the talk of the town. Thanks to If Found, Please Return.”
I translate that as if you weren’t nominated for an Oscar, we’d probably drop you over these pics.
My world’s been a whirlwind since the original star of the flick broke his leg skydiving midway through the shoot last spring. The indie studio scrambled to hold auditions for a replacement. I won the lead, a broken-hearted drug counselor who lost his wife to addiction, and after a twenty-six-day shoot in Vancouver, the film was fast-tracked into theaters late last year.
Now, here I am, a little amazed at the turn my life has taken and a bit shocked at how quickly the press has turned on me because of my friend’s troubles.
“Good,” I tell Holly with a smile. “Because you’re the best agent I’ve had.”
Holly pats my hand. “It’s not a tough competition.”
“True,” I say, since it’s not hard to beat Harry. “But at least you and I have different taste in men.”
“Yes, and I like my men in the rearview mirror and far away from the Pomander Walk apartment—which was the best thing I got in the divorce settlement.”
“It is quite pretty,” I agree. I saw it when she invited me to a dinner party shortly after arriving in New York.
Evidently, wrecking balls come in pairs—this second one of the day slams into my gut.
I’ll have to pretend I’m in love with the man who destroyed my heart.
Though I can only imagine how TJ will feel when he sees photos of me wrapped up with William.
When I look down the hall, I don’t have to wonder how TJ feels.
He’s headed my way right now, and I can see for myself. He hates me.