Lighter acquired, Ethan pulled a cigarette out of the pack with his mouth. He responded with a muffled “Mmm?” as he lit it.
It had been years since he’d been to Audrey’s office. They’d come up together, almost twenty years ago now; he and his best friend, Sam, had been two of her first clients. Their meteoric rise had helped propel her to the elite ranks of L.A.’s publicists, and she, in turn, had helped them stay on top. He had, thus far, resisted her regular attempts to drag him back to something resembling his old career, but for some reason he kept taking her calls. He hated to admit it, but she was the closest thing he had to a friend these days. A friend he paid to check up on him.
Which, now that he thought about it, pretty much described most of his relationships since Sam’s death.
Audrey’s voice snapped him out of his reverie.
“Well? What do you say?”
Ethan dragged on his cigarette, relishing the rush of the nicotine colliding with his booze-soaked brain.
“What do you mean, meet someone?”
“Does the name Grey Brooks mean anything to you?”
Ethan’s brow creased. “Is that the brand that makes those shoes I like?”
“Very funny. She’s an actress. A sweetheart. You’re gonna love her.”
Ethan closed his eyes. The wheels in his head were turning, slowly but surely. A memory was forming of a conversation they’d had last week, the blurry edges coalescing into something tangible. He groaned.
“Is this that fake girlfriend bullshit? I thought that was a joke.”
“It’s not bullshit. It’s the first step to getting you back on track. People want to see you stable. They want to see you happy.”
“I am.” Even as he said it, he knew he wasn’t fooling her.
“If you say so. But if you’re going to make a comeback, you have to be on the offensive.”
“Maybe I don’t want to come back yet.”
Audrey sighed. “When, Ethan? It’s been five years.” Her voice softened, dropping the hard-as-nails ball-busting publicist tone. “Don’t you want to work again? Don’t you want to see your girls more?” She paused, and Ethan could tell she was debating pushing it further. He was surprised to hear what sounded like genuine pain in her voice. “Aren’t you sick of wallowing yet?”
Ethan’s stomach turned. He did feel sick. Those fries weren’t sitting as well as he’d like them to. He pictured them in his stomach, tiny golden life rafts bobbing up and down in the ocean of bourbon he’d drowned them in. He crouched next to the wall, willing everything to stay down for the duration of the endless drive back home.
Audrey’s voice startled him. He had forgotten he was still on the phone with her. She spoke in that same soft tone, like she was trying to soothe an injured animal into submission before taking it out back and putting it out of its misery.
“It’s just one lunch. That’s all. You don’t have to agree to anything else.”
Ethan felt his mouth fill with saliva. He stared at his shoes, trying to fight off the building nausea.
“Fine. Friday. I’ll be there.”
Then he promptly threw up all over them.
GREY PULLED HER PRIUS UP to the intimidating Century City high-rise that housed Greenfield & Aoki Public Relations and took a deep breath. She resisted the urge to flip down the visor and check her reflection yet again before sliding out of the driver’s seat and handing the keys to the valet.
She’d tried not to let herself overthink things while getting ready that morning, attempting, as always, to walk the razor-thin edge between trying too hard and not trying hard enough. She’d braided her hair and pinned them in a crown around her face, leaving a few stray curls tucked behind her ears. At first, she’d planned on wearing her favorite floral peasant sundress, but once she checked herself out in the mirror, the overall effect was a little too Von Trapp Family Singers. She swapped it out for a crisp white Oxford shirt, unbuttoned to her sternum, sleeves rolled up, and tied at her waist, with high-rise vintage jeans.
As soon as she pushed her way through the revolving doors and felt the blast of air-conditioning hit her, Grey was grateful she’d changed into pants. Somehow she always forgot that the fancier the office, the more fridge-like the environment. Within seconds her nipples were hard enough to cut glass. She stepped up to the security desk and handed the guard her ID. As he double-checked it against the list on his computer, Grey surreptitiously glanced down to make sure they weren’t visible. Thankfully, they were camouflaged by the loose folds of her shirt.
The guard handed back her ID and pressed the button to release the electronic gate. Grey thanked him and walked over to the elevator bank, ten sleek elevators facing one another: one side for floors one through fifteen, the other side for sixteen to thirty. The employees and clients of the firms housed in the high-rise were far too important to be inconvenienced by waiting more than five seconds for an elevator. She pushed the “up” button on the sixteen-to-thirty side and a set of doors on the far end pinged instantly.
The mirrored walls in the elevator gave Grey one last chance to give herself a once-over. She preferred to go without makeup when she wasn’t on set in order to give her skin a break, but she also didn’t care to be consistently greeted with “Are you okay? You look…tired.” At least she wasn’t famous enough to have ever had an unflattering candid shot of her buying Diet Coke at the gas station published in a tabloid under a headline like Stars without Makeup: They’re Hideous—Just Like You!
She usually compromised with a few swipes of mascara and the holy trinity of tinted moisturizer, tinted lip balm, and cheek tint. Examining herself in the unforgiving fluorescent light of the elevator, she was satisfied that she’d achieved the desired look of “woman who is definitely alive and definitely not suffering from a wasting disease,” while still appearing charmingly low maintenance and makeup-free to the untrained eye. Grey batted her eyes at her reflection. Who, me? I woke up like this.
The elevator pinged again as it opened on the thirtieth floor. Grey felt her stomach drop like a cable had snapped and the car had plunged to the basement instead. For the first time, the full weight of what was about to happen settled on her (still uncomfortably nipped-out) chest. Focusing all her attention on her appearance in the hours leading up to the meeting had allowed her to forget momentarily about what she was trying to look good for. Or more accurately, who she was trying to look good for.
Or was it whom? Whatever.
Ignoring her racing heart, Grey approached the bored-looking receptionist and gave her name. Barely looking up, he directed her to sit in one of the ultramodern waiting room chairs. She shifted, trying and failing to find a comfortable position on the flat, angular seat that seemed to have been designed by someone with only a passing familiarity with human anatomy. Thankfully, Audrey Aoki quickly materialized, looking elegant as always in her trademark red lipstick and sky-high stilettos. Her glossy black hair was pulled back into a flawless twist— if any strand dared to fall out of place, Grey had no doubt it would have been fired on the spot. Something about Audrey’s immaculate appearance combined with her posh British accent always had a calming effect on Grey, as if nothing short of an alien invasion could faze her. And even in that case, Audrey would probably just walk up to the ship and hand them a business card.
She beamed at Grey.
“Grey! Thank you so much for coming in. Come on back with me.”