“Okay, I can do that Miss Ross. I’ll send you a draft of the article six hours before it goes to print and you can call up to two hours before publishing for any changes.”
“You’re the best Miss Carter,” she stood and shook my hand. She walked around the table and personally thanked all of the staff, signing autographs for whoever asked.
I locked the door to my office and flipped through Selena’s diaries. I flipped to the last page, dated for the past December: “Dear Journal, Matt and I have been dating for almost two years. I wish he would hurry up and propose. We would be so perfect together.
“Can you picture it? Two of Hollywood’s brightest stars at the altar? I really hope he proposes soon…I can’t believe I fell in love with him…This is the most amazing feeling in the world.”
I closed the journal. I didn’t want to read anymore until the day I started writing the article.
I sat in the doctor’s office, concentrating on the black and white Van Gogh painting on the door.
I heard the laser buzzing against my skin, but I didn’t look at it directly. I didn’t want to see. It was the last phase of removal, the last part of Sean I needed to get rid of.
Matt offered to pick me up afterwards, but I successfully lied and told him that Jen and I had plans. I didn’t want to see him.
I’d agreed to let him make me an “I’m sorry” dinner at his apartment later, and I was having second thoughts.
Sure, Matt was sexy, charming, and nice, but I was tired of hearing about his marriage to Selena—tired of smiling in his face and breaking down on the inside.
All the red flags had been there from the beginning: the over the top chase, his unwillingness to really discuss that “contract,” and the “crazy fiancé” he kept around for the press.
He just needed someone to vent to, someone to remind him that the world outside of celebrity culture still existed. He just wanted to temporarily feel “normal.”
Matt’s driver picked me up at seven o’ clock. He weaved through the light evening traffic and made small conversation.
I blinked away the few tears that welled in my eyes as we got closer to Matt’s neighborhood. I had to end this today.
When we pulled up to Matt’s condo, an enormous silver structure, the driver didn’t move to open the door. Instead, Matt himself came and opened it.
“Hey Melody,” he took my hand.
“Matt.”
“How was your day today?”
“Okay,” I looked away.
End this now!
We walked into the building in silence. He swiped a card at the elevator and stared at me as we rose to the top floor. I avoided eye contact when we stepped off.
“What’s wrong, Melody?”
“Nothing. I’m okay,” I stopped and took in his apartment.
From his windows I could see the moonlight dancing across the East river. Across his exposed brick wall was an enormous flat screen TV. Black leather furniture—a chaise, a loveseat, two plush chairs—guarded a large crystal table. A state of the art stereo system, protected by a wall of glass panels, completely covered the far right wall.
I couldn’t see any other rooms from where I was standing, and I didn’t really care to look.
“You know I can get it out of you,” he kissed my neck.
I stepped back. “I met with Selena today.”
“Oh. How’d it go?”
“It went pretty well. She wants me to focus on her walking down the aisle and kissing you at your wedding.”
“She would…”
“She also gave me her journals that detail how she felt about you while you two were dating.”
“What else?”
“What do you mean what else? She wrote about you in her journal, Matt! The last entry is from December and she says she was still in love with you then. That wasn’t that long ago! I can’t believe I—”
“Do you trust me?” he interrupted.
“I want to.”
“That’ll work. Let me show you something,” he took my hand and led me past the stereo wall and into a dining room.
He opened a drawer and pulled out a folder. “This is our updated promo plan, Melody.”
I sat down at the table and thumbed through the papers. There were appearance listings—“The View,” “The Today Show,” “Live with Regis and Kelly,” “Late Night with David Letterman,” “Late Night with Conan O’Brien.”
There were press releases with dates received and dates submitted. At the back of the folder was the thick contract with the OWN network. Right behind those stapled pages was a copy of a handwritten checklist.
I skimmed through the numbers and caught what was next to number twenty five: “Create journal for Selena’s past. Submit to The New York Appeal.”
I became more frustrated. “Why do you need such an elaborate scheme? Is all of this really necessary?”
“It’s part of the contract.”
“And you can’t afford to get out of it or you won’t get out of it?”
“I told you it’s complicated. I—” his phone rang and he accidentally hit the speaker button. “Joan?”
“Mr. Sterling, where are you?”
“I’m at home.”