“Don’t hate him because he’s beautiful,” she croons, watching Trevor with an appreciative grin, then turns to me. “Hey, and speaking of beautiful, Evan Beckman was asking about you the other day.”
Okay, so she lays this zinger on me, and then doesn’t even bother to look up to gauge my reaction? Evan is the director on her current feature, one that’s already generating major Oscar hype—including whispers of a nomination for Cat for her supporting role as a sexy Latin singer. All this before it’s even in the can, but that’s Evan’s reputation. He’s young and visionary and everyone in town is clawing to work with him.
“Evan Beckman? Now who’s that again?”
This time, the dark feline eyes raise to meet mine, narrowing to mischievous slits. “I told Evan that you’re looking great,” she answers smoothly. “That you should meet.”
“Is he looking for a new d-girl or something?”
Cat rolls her eyes in exaggerated agitation. “Geez, would you shut up already? I’m talking about your acting career!”
“Hey, you’re the one egging me on with these casual side comments of, ‘Evan asked about you.’”
“He did ask about you!”
“You know what I mean.” Then I lean close across the table, joining her conspiracy. “But tell me everything he said!”
Cat’s face lights up. “His words were, ‘I think she has something very interesting. Bring her around before we wrap.’”
“He didn’t really say that,” I ask, incredulous. “Did he?”
“I’m serious. Apparently he’s hooked on reruns of the show, and thinks you have…” She taps her forefinger against her head to dislodge some near-forgotten remark. “That you have brilliant comedic understatement. That’s exactly what he said.”
“But come on, Cat, who would hire—” I gesture at my face for emphasis, “—this? He’s Evan Beckman, why would he even think about hiring me?”
For a long moment she inspects me, her dark gaze roaming the whole of my features, and if she weren’t one of my dearest friends, I’d flinch beneath such close scrutiny of my scars. “Rebecca, you have a really remarkable look,” she pronounces gently. “And you’re still gorgeous. Some directors—smart ones like Evan—are looking for a distinctive look like that. I’ve been saying it’s time you got back out to auditions.”
“You do realize Bernie fired me?”
“So what?” She scowls in distaste. “He’s Jake-tainted anyway, and he’s not the only agent around.”
“Evan Beckman.” I sigh, contented just knowing he thinks I’m talented. Funny how that naive girl from Georgia, thrilled by rave reviews, can still come out to play even now.
Then my plucky optimism fades a bit. “I wonder if he wants to direct Julian’s movie?” I hate being cynical, but it’s the next thought popping into my head: that he’s hoping to attach to the project, and will use me to get it.
“Rebecca! This was last week, before anybody even knew about Julian’s deal.”
I smile again, feeling radiant inside. “Then I can be excited for about five minutes, right?”
“I think you can be excited from now on, girl.”
What a radical concept: I could actually act again. No agent, no job, loads of scars, but Evan Beckman is asking about me. At this rate, maybe I’ll even forget all those average days eventually.
***
While we’re waiting in the valet line, braving heat that’s still suffocating even this late in the day, Cat starts in with the Michael Warner survey. I notice that Trevor falls silent, and since that’s such an unusual occurrence, it catches my attention.
“Have you told her the full story?” he asks after Cat waxes dreamy about Michael for a while.
“What full story?” Her black eyes widen in curiosity.
“Trevor.” I smile, but my silencing glare telegraphs another message entirely. I hadn’t planned to let Cat in on that aspect of my new guy, at least not yet. I feel incredibly protective of Michael, and I don’t want anything said that might hurt him—or Andrea—later on.
“No, no, no,” Cat cries, grasping at my arm like the professional gossip-hound she can be. “I need to know. What full story?” The valet driver squeals up to the curb with her BMW, but she stands her ground, unwilling to move until she wrangles the truth out of me.
Folding his arms over his chest, Trevor sighs and looks away disinterestedly. Sometimes he’s such an ornery little priss, it really ticks me off.
“Ma’am?” the young valet driver calls, holding the door of Cat’s car expectantly.
“He has a daughter,” I allow, hoping to throw Cat off the scent. “An eight-year-old, a really precious girl.”