CHAPTER 17
REID
I arrive at the restaurant with Richter and one of the production assistants. “Reservation for Richter, party of eight,” she tells the ma?tre d, whose eyes widen when he sees me. Waiters scramble to get our table ready as Graham and Brooke come in, followed by Emma and her parents. Her mom is hot.
At a circular table, Emma takes the seat between her dad and Laura, the PA, and I sit next to Brooke. Graham is on her other side, of course, and she leans pointedly away from me and towards him.
“Hi, I’m Chloe, Emma’s stepmother.” She drops into the seat next to me.
“And I’m Reid, her costar. Nice to meet you.” I extend a hand and she giggles. I shake her dad’s hand as well, smile at Emma.
“Emma,” the PA says. “Ready for tomorrow?”
“Yep, all set.” Her smile is nervous, and I wonder why until half an hour later when Chloe is on her third glass of wine, talking to me. My mother would say Chloe is not familiar with using her inside voice. Or any discretion whatsoever.
She rests her chin in her hand, elbow propped on the table, and leans close. “So what’s the wildest thing a woman has ever asked you to autograph?” With her free hand, she’s playing with her distractively flashy earring, after which she rests her hand on my forearm a beat or so too long—classic flirt mode. She couldn’t be more Emma-opposite.
I lean closer. “Well, I once had a beautiful woman ask me to sign her panties.”
“You’re kidding me!” Chloe’s laugh is loud and a little high-pitched, and when I glance at Emma, she looks ready to bolt. Her pulse quickens at her throat and her wide eyes flick to Richter, Laura, Brooke.
And then Graham. I register the fact of eye contact between them, though I can’t see his face from this angle. She inhales slowly. Her expression becomes more composed.
Hmm.
Richter asks her a question about her last movie, some holiday made-for-television crap about a deaf woman whose hearing daughter teaches her to play the violin. Chloe’s conversation with me, meanwhile, gets raunchier by the minute (“Was she wearing them at the time?”), and Emma’s doing everything she can to ignore it. If it was anyone else, I’d be amused at the way she’s letting this get to her. As it is, I find myself wanting to shield her, but I have no idea what to do. The concept of using a personal filter in public escapes this woman.
Brooke eyes Chloe briefly, then leans to Graham and whispers something. Straightening, she laughs. “Don’t you think so?”
Without replying, Graham refills her wine glass and then Emma’s, whose hand is clenching a fork as though she’s considering its effectiveness as a weapon. Or a suicidal device. Her eyes connect with Graham’s for a split second and she calms visibly, again.
I don’t like this at all.
*** *** ***
Emma
This evening is a nightmare. When I look at my father, he seems tolerant of his wife’s behavior rather than mortified. I’ve never understood their relationship, and I guess I never will. Towards the end of the meal, Chloe bats her lashes at Reid, loud and effusive over something he’s just said. His expression is veiled, but not enough for me to miss the fact that he’s regarding Chloe the way a scientist would examine a strange new species. Oh God.
What does a panic attack feel like? I can’t breathe, and my heart rate is erratic, it’s all over the place, I wish I was dead. My director is sitting here, and my costars. Everyone is staring at her, staring at me. I look at Graham, and he’s watching me, again, his eyes sympathetic and calming. I take a deep breath. Tell myself that this night has to end eventually.
Then Reid announces that he’s meeting Quinton and the others for a night of club hopping along 6th Street. “Emma, you’re coming, right?”
Before I can reply, Chloe says, “Of course she’s going! Oh, Connor, can we go, too?” She does her wind-up monkey clap as my father shrugs and agrees. I want to strangle him.
I pull my phone out in the taxi while Chloe blathers to my father about how cute and sweet Reid is.
Me: FML. Chloe is coming clubbing with us. Where is my invisibility cloak?!?
Em: OMG. When do they come home?
Me: Thursday. The buildings here are not tall enough to leap from!
Em: DO NOT SAY THAT. I’ll cross my fingers that she breaks an ankle. Or her pelvis.
Emily’s text gives me an idea, and I when we arrive, I manage to convince everyone that I sprained my ankle running this morning and can’t dance. Biding my time, I perch on a barstool and tip the bartender ten bucks to give me water refills. The first chance I get, I am so gone. My chance comes when Chloe and Reid move to the dance floor, right after my father slips away without me—one more strike against him, as far as I’m concerned.
The hotel is only two or three well-lit blocks away. Despite the semi-buzzed crowd and a few typical hey-baby comments, I feel fairly safe. But when a hand grips my upper arm lightly from behind, I spin around, ready to shove the heel of my palm into some guy’s nose.
“Whoa, hold up.” Graham releases my arm, hands up in surrender.
“Ohmigod, Graham.” I wait for my heart to slow as the crowd parts around us.
“I thought your ankle was critically injured.” He smiles down at me as we begin walking towards the hotel, side by side. I didn’t see him at the club, though I spotted Brooke and Quinton dancing.
“Well.”
“Ah, creative subterfuge,” he says, removing a cigarette and lighter from his pocket.
“Did you leave just to get a smoke?”
He cups his hand over the cigarette and flicks the lighter. “I probably left for the same reason you did.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
“Oh?”
Please, do not make me say it. I look at Graham, willing these words into his brain. He nods, holding the cigarette to the tiny flame and taking a drag, turning towards the street to exhale. The smoke trails behind him.
“Graham... I assume you wouldn’t like to be thought of as hypocritical?”
He gives me a puzzled look. “Correct…”
“So if you’re going to call me on my compulsion of constantly saying ‘huh,’ then I think it’s only fair that I call you on a little addiction called nicotine.”
“Uh-oh.” He takes another drag, stubbing it out before we enter the hotel. “Yeah, I know you’re right.”
Wow. That was easy. “So what are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know. I’ve tried quitting a couple of times. Didn’t go so well.” He runs a hand through his hair as we wait for the elevator. “A miserable failure, in fact.”
“Well, you’re helping me quit saying ‘huh’ every five seconds, so maybe I can help you. How did you try to quit before?”
“Cold turkey.” The elevator opens, and we get on. He jabs the 4 button.
“I’ve heard cold turkey doesn’t work so well.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I, um, Googled quitting smoking.” We walk down the hallway, reaching his room first.
“Really,” he says, smiling. “So, what does work? According to your research.”
“Well, the patches and gum increase your chances of success, also quitting with someone, or having a support group. And anti-depressants help; but you’d need a prescription for those.”
“You looked this stuff up for me? To help me quit?” There’s a small crease between his brows, and I wonder if this is over-the-top interference.
“Yeah…”
He peers at me, his mouth pulling up on one side. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
He pulls out his wallet, removes his key card. “Do you want to come in, watch a movie or… induce another cake coma?”
“God, no, I couldn’t eat anything more today.”
“Oh. Okay, well, I’ll see you in the morning, maybe?”
“Yeah, sure.” I realize then that I’d only meant to turn down more food, not his company. I turn to walk to my room, opening my door when he says, “Emma?” His gaze wanders over me. “I like your outfit. Kinda gypsy. Suits you.”
Maybe this night wasn’t a total waste.