Cat high-fives me across the table. “Go girl,” she says. “Preach it, now!”
Trevor blows me a sulky air-kiss. “Yes, well Jules is about to make you, darling Rebecca, so you’re allowed no snarky innuendo about my celebrities.”
He’s right, of course; in fact, that’s why we’re doing the post-work drinks round up with Cat, a little mini-celebration of the Kingsley option.
As much as Golden Boy irks me on principle, his book is lyrical and brilliant and it’s the first time since my attack that I can remember feeling any kind of professional excitement at all. Maybe Mom was right about God bringing us our dreams in ways we don’t anticipate. All I know is I’m nearly as charged tonight as I was that day my agent phoned me with the role of Mary Agnes Hill on About the House. From the way Trevor and Cat keep grinning at me, I can tell that the joy of this moment must be written all across my face.
It doesn’t hurt knowing that Michael Warner’s in my life, either. As complicated as that relationship has the potential to be, he’s the most pure, sweet love interest I’ve had since leaving Georgia. It’s in how honest and true Michael is, something that makes him utterly unlike all the other guys I’ve met in this town. As the good ole boys back home would say, “he means what he says, and he says what he means.” And while all that truthful energy does kind of make me a little skittish, I know that what scares me most of all is simply me.
I notice that Trevor keeps checking his watch, and I lean forward, curious. “Hot plans later?”
“Oh, some Hollywood bowling league thing.” He brushes his fingers through his hair, leaning back in his seat to survey the scene. “Another fun night in the city of dreams.”
“That is so not fun.” I laugh. “See, that’s not even close to fun.”
Trevor gives my hand a sardonic pat. “Other people can appreciate a good night of sport, darling.”
“Other people aren’t professional hermits,” Cat interjects, grinning innocently at me.
“I am not a hermit.” I pop an olive from my martini. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m out right now. And I was at your birthday party a few weeks back.”
Trevor leans across the table confidingly. “She does have a new beau.”
“Thank you.” I smile in smug satisfaction. “Exhibit A. Michael Warner, my new boyfriend.”
“Oh, but you totally met him in your office, so that doesn’t count.” She waves me off, sipping her scotch. “I’m talking, literally right there, no?”
When I cry foul, they both just laugh at me. “Face it, Rebecca,” Cat declares, leaning in to kiss my cheek, “you’re the most reclusive person I know in Hollywood who actually manages to be successful. I don’t even get how you make that happen.”
Trevor leans back in his chair, studying me with an objective gaze, like he’s an investor sizing up my worth. “She’s bloody good at what she does,” he concludes, “otherwise she could never get away with it.”
“All right, guys,” I argue, “think about it. I do lunch every day, I’m at tracking breakfasts, agent parties. You name it. Oh, and don’t forget how much I read. I read absolutely everything.”
A sly smile spreads across Trevor’s face. “Including certain projects that I attempt to secret away in my desk. You can’t get anything past our girl,” he says, tipping his glass against mine with a hale salute of, “Cheers! Kudos to you on Julian’s deal, sweetie.”
“That’s right, Trev!” Cat slugs him playfully on the shoulder. “Make her step up to the plate. Credit where credit’s due.”
“Okay, okay,” I agree, holding my hands up in surrender. “I did the deal. I’m the master of the universe tonight.”
“Brava, darling,” Trev enthuses. “Brava, indeed. Soon we’ll make a regular egomaniac out of you—oh look, there’s Jeremy Rinzler.” Trevor indicates a secluded table on the far side of the bar. Jeremy, an executive at New Line, lifts his drink in salutation and I wave back. Thankfully, Trevor agrees to do the meet and greet gig on my behalf.
Watching Trevor’s easy manner, the way he laughs and leans in to make obviously clever remarks as he pumps Jeremy’s hand, I envy him. Without a doubt, he’s the most effortless person I know. Effortlessly funny, effortlessly smart, effortlessly handsome. From his Kenneth Cole shirt to his Alain Mikli wireframes to his meticulously tousled hair, he’s the image of sophisticated perfection. And yet, I’ve seen behind the curtain enough to realize that’s merely an impression.
“Will you look at him?” Cat observes appreciatively, sipping her scotch beside me. “That boy’s got the gift, my friend.”
“The gift of what precisely? Of being natural at everything?” I whine in a fit of momentary spitefulness toward my best friend. Maybe Jeremy Rinzler’s gay.