“If by saying that he meant someone who has the capacity to read, then Mr. Sterling probably has this dilemma in real life as well. Hopefully one day he’ll hire someone in his entourage who is capable of knowing a dud script when they see it.
“I digress. Halfway into the film, Mr. Sterling flashes his claim to fame, his set of perfectly oiled abs—a mere foreshadowing of what’s to come: He takes his shirt off while walking down the street. He takes it off while shooting “difficult angles.” And yes, he takes it off when he first wakes up in the morning. In fact, the best actor in this film is his T-shirt. Even it knows that the key to escaping mediocrity is getting away from Matt Sterling.
“Someone who isn’t so lucky? Natalie Portman. Her character has the daunting duty of falling in love with him.
“If you must see Summer Nights, see it when it finds its way into a $1 Red Box rental machine and not a second before.”
“Let me guess. Melody Carter?” I sighed.
“Yes sir.”
I hated Melody Carter. She was the worst type of movie critic—the type that interwove my personal life into her “professional” reviews, the type that found a way to get under my skin every single time. Although she was extremely rude and crass, the movie-going people of New York City took her drivel very seriously.
I’d once wondered what she looked like. I googled her but only her work appeared, no pictures, no Facebook.
She’s probably hideous…and fat. That’s it! She’s fat and ugly and she just wants everyone to be as miserable as she is! I ought to pay her a visit and put her in her place!
“Get me a meeting with Melody Carter please,” I sat up.
“Sir, it’s well known that Miss Carter hardly meets with anyone in the industry. She doesn’t even attend premieres or advanced screenings.”
So she IS fat and ugly!
“Well, could you at least get me the address to her office?”
Chapter 5
Melody
I hugged my parents before turning away and walking into Memphis International. I knew they wanted me to stay another week, but I needed to get back to work.
I rolled my eyes when the desk agent said “Have a safe flight Mrs. Scofield,” but I didn’t correct her. Instead, I typed a note into my phone: “Get Melody Carter put back on license and credit cards. Make sure marriage license is annulled.”
This time I was wearing matching shoes, cheap Old Navy flip flops, and I was proud of myself for being slightly more functional. I didn’t bother staying up to listen to the flight attendant’s safety speech or watching any other passengers.
I drifted into a deep sleep and didn’t awake until the flight attendant let me know that I was once again, the last passenger on the plane.
I took my time walking around La Guardia airport, stopping inside of several news shops, buying books I had no interest in reading. I sat down at McDonalds, forcing myself to eat a box of chicken nuggets, making myself do something that didn’t remind me of Sean.
“Miss Carter! Miss Carter! Over here!” I heard Sophie’s voice as I walked past baggage claim. I looked over my shoulder and saw her long brown curls bouncing as she jumped up and down.
“Sophie?” I tried to sound polite. “What are you doing here?”
“Mr. Maxwell told me to get the town car to take you home when you landed.”
I don’t have a home to go to…
“I need to go by the office first.”
“Mr. Maxwell insisted that you go home and rest for a day. Those were his exact words ma’am,” she turned red and nervously darted her eyes back and forth.
I didn’t say a word. I looked Sophie up and down, folding my arms and giving her the coldest look I could manage. She withered under my glare, averting her eyes to the floor and shifting her weight from foot to foot.
I hated being mean to Sophie. I gave in. “Fine. Tell the driver to take me to Trump SoHo.”
Sophie frowned and nodded her head. “Follow me.”
I knew Mr. Maxwell was trying to make sure I was completely sane before returning, but I was annoyed. I needed to return to work to not only catch up on some projects, but to make hotel reservations for the next few weeks. I’d sold my condo months ago, and I needed a place to stay while I shopped for a new one.
When we pulled up to Trump SoHo, the driver opened my door and extended his hand.
“Thank you sir,” I said.
He tipped his hat and closed the door. Sophie rolled the window down and smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Miss Carter.”
I walked inside and saw that the hotel’s lobby was more intimate than I remembered: The towering ceiling gave way to chocolate colored columns that were flanked by warm light-boxes and soft brown furniture. There was a slight glow in the room, accentuated by dark wall panels and slender windows.
Though no other guests were waiting at the front desk, all of the agents were busy talking on the phone.
A bellman stepped in front of me. “How may I help you Miss?”
“I need to speak to the general manager. It’s an emergency.”
“Certainly,” he said and signaled for me to follow him down a long hallway. “What is your name Miss?”