We sit back and marinate in our uneasy silence.
“I mean, it’s not like there was really any new information in there,” Daryl says finally. “So why do I feel worse?”
Amelia closes her eyes. “This is exactly why my mother told me to marry rich.”
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about. You practically run your department.” Turning to Daryl, I ask, “How long do you have left on your contract?”
“A year and a half.” She gives a real smile for the first time in an hour. “Let them buy me out, I could use some time off. What about you?”
Every agency does things a little differently, but at P&D we’re salaried with a bonus structure, and contracted for a certain number of years. This could not have come at a worse time. “Five months,” I say.
A lead ball of dread settles in my stomach.
I can tell that my friends never quite perfected their game faces because their expressions make my nausea roll more intensely. I would be very easy—and very inexpensive—to lay off.
Amelia quickly recovers. “Evie, you don’t have anything to worry about. It’s not the best timing, but you’ll be fine. You kick ass here.”
“But Brad?” I remind them. “He’d be overjoyed to have a reason to toss another vagina overboard.”
“At least, a vagina he doesn’t get to play in,” Daryl interjects.
I laugh, but it fades into a wary groan. “Or maybe he’ll just lord this over my head for the next five months and not renew my contract.” I slip farther into my chair. “Oh! Not to mention the whole Carter thing.” I rub my hand over my face. “I finally meet a guy I like—a guy who’s straight and doesn’t live with his mom—and he was downstairs, in that meeting.”
“What?” Daryl’s eyes go wide.
I nod. “He was at CTM, remember? And it looks like he made the first cut. He works with us now.”
Amelia is staring at me in amused shock, but Daryl quickly recovers. “Okay, first of all, let’s all breathe. Breeeeeathe. Second, the Carter thing will work itself out. Let’s see—”
Daryl stops, and I know exactly what she was going to say: Let’s see if you even have a job tomorrow to worry about.
“Let’s see how everything plays out,” she finishes instead. “And third? We don’t even know whether Brad still works here. Nobody knows where he is. Kylie is MIA, too. If he’s not here, your agency record—minus a few tiny bumps along the way—stands on its own. Don’t count yourself out yet. I have a good feeling about this.”
God. Please let her be right.
? ? ?
I can only assume Carter likewise polished off a bottle of wine by himself last night and that’s why I didn’t hear from him.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
Suffice it to say, I am not the best version of Evie on Tuesday morning. My mom, who reads Variety and Deadline religiously, called about seven thousand times yesterday. I finally answer her call when I’m picking up my morning coffee at Verve, after maybe two hours of restless sleep.
“Evie, baby,” she says. “I’m on my way over.”
“Mom, no. I’m not home right now.”
“I’ll meet you. Tell me where.”
I sigh, sitting down at a small table in the corner. I don’t even need to ask what she’s thinking to know exactly how her mind works. “I don’t want you to come do my hair.”
My mom has done hair in this town for almost thirty-five years, her crowning achievement being the episodes of Dynasty in 1984 for which she was personally responsible for Joan Collins’s wigs. According to my mom, there is no problem a good blowout can’t solve.
“It will make you feel better,” she says, and I can hear the familiar theme song to Good Morning America playing in the background. To my mom, nothing fixes a bad day faster than fresh hair, a scalp massage, and the confidence of stiff hairspray. “I could give you a little trim? Your hair’s gotten so long and you know it has a tendency to look a little raggedy at the ends.”
“It’s going to be fine. I don’t need a haircut. Cut Dad’s hair. I love you. I’ve got to get in to work.”
Even if I have no idea what that work might entail . . .
My phone rings again as I walk out of Verve, coffee in hand. I have to look twice for confirmation when I see the name illuminated on the screen.
Carter.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” he says, and if I’m not mistaken, he, too, is mildly hungover and in desperate need of caffeine. “How are you?”
I want to laugh at his tone. It sounds a little like I feel: calm layered over a hurricane. “I’m good. A little . . . tired.”
“Tell me about it,” he says, voice rough. “I wanted to give you a heads-up that I’ll be at P&D this morning. I guess everything’s already been moved over, the computers, the files. Apparently, they did it all in the middle of the night after informing us of the merge, and informing the first cut of the . . . cuts.”
“Wow, that sounds . . . harsh.”
“Anyway,” he says, “I just wanted to let you know. I realize this is weird, to say the least.”
My heart gives a little jolt in my chest. Carter is such a nice guy. It makes all of this even more twisty.
“Well, at least I’ll get to see you today, then,” I tell him. “How’s everyone handling it on your end? Steph said the crew at Alterman went into panic mode thinking they’d get sucked into this.”
“I talked to Michael Christopher last night and joked that I might need to move into his guest room if my position gets cut,” he says, and I want to reach through the phone and hug him. P&D is pretty small, and notoriously cutthroat. “You hear anything on your end?”
“Not really. There was a company-wide email last night, but it was basically a rehash of what we already knew.”
He sighs. “That’s what I figured.”
“What about you? You doing okay?”
“I’ve been better.” He lets out a tight laugh. “I mean, I’m assuming I still have a job? Unlike my assistant. Which is why she wasn’t at the meeting yesterday.”
“Oh my God, Carter. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks,” he says. “Honestly, Becca was amazing. I’d be lost without her on a normal day. I have no idea how I’ll navigate through all this.”
I feel a little sick for him, knowing how I’d feel if I lost Jess, especially right now.
“On a brighter note,” he adds, “looks like I’ll finally be meeting the illustrious Brad Kingman.”
A metaphorical trapdoor has just opened under my feet. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Brad Kingman.”
“He heads up my department—Features, not TV-Literary.”
“I know,” Carter says, and I can hear the shrug in his voice. “But that’s what it said when they told me where to go this morning. My meeting is with Brad.”
chapter eight
evie
At five to ten, my desk phone rings. I keep my eyes on the monitor in front of me and exhale in relief when, after a second ring, it goes silent. Good, I think, finishing an email. I don’t want to talk to anyone today anyway.