Simone’s mouth clamps shut. She glares at Brett, clearly unhappy about my stance and his support of it. But she also knew what it was before coming here. She must have thought she could sway me.
My mother seems to have found her tongue and her nerve. “For what it’s worth, I think my daughter is doing the right thing by keeping Brenna away from the spotlight, and if Kate Wethers wants this interview to go ahead, you had better let her people know not to try to go against Cath’s wishes.” She reaches for her purse. “I have to pick up Brenna. It was so nice to meet you.” She smiles first at Brett, and then Meryl.
But Meryl rushes over to take her hand graciously. “We’ll see each other again. I’m sure of it.”
My mom purses her lips and nods. She’s trying to keep her cool. I wonder if she’s going to call her girlfriends the second she’s out the door and shriek like a thirteen-year-old girl at a One Direction concert. I almost wish I could be there to witness that.
“Keep an eye out for any reporters tailing you home from Brenna’s school,” I call out after her as she makes her way out the door.
With that, she’s gone, and Simone’s lips are puckered as she looks for another angle. “Do you have any family pictures you’d be willing to put up? You, and your parents, your brother and sister . . .” Simone pushes. “We really need something. A personal, family-oriented touch.”
The woman is relentless, but I have to believe she knows what she’s talking about.
“I have a few old ones in a shoe box. I could dig them out.”
Simone’s phone starts ringing. “Great, let’s do that,” she says, seemingly appeased, answering her phone with a clipped “Simone Castagan.” Donovan trails her as she heads out the front door to take the call.
Leaving Brett, his mother, and me alone.
Meryl starts emptying the plastic bag of paper cups and lids and creamers—and I lose myself staring at her for a long moment, because for just that moment she appears to be any other ordinary mom and human—before I remember myself. “Here, let me get some real cups, at least.” I rush for the cupboard, searching for my best mugs, the ones that aren’t chipped or cracked or covered in tacky slogans. Basically, anything that doesn’t say, “garage sale find.”
“You have a very nice place.”
I barely keep the snort down. I live in a hovel compared to what they’re accustomed to, and I know because I found pictures of their Malibu house online. She’s just being polite. “That’s kind of you to say.”
“I mean it. It’s so quaint and . . . cozy. You’ve made a lovely home for your daughter.”
When I turn back, I see her eyes wandering over the space. She has such a honest way about her that I almost believe her. But then I remind myself that she’s an award-winning actress.
“May I?” she asks, suddenly moving in beside me and gesturing to the soap, her diamond ring sparkling, even under my dull lights.
“Yes. Of course. Make yourself at home.” I silently thank my mom for insisting I run an SOS pad over the sink.
“And Brett, darling, please sit. You shouldn’t be on your feet,” she adds over her shoulder in that airy voice.
“I’m fine, Mom.”
“No, you’re pale, and the doctor told you to stay off your feet. Sit.” She softly chastises him, wandering over to drag a rickety chair out for him.
He is sort of pale. But still drop-dead gorgeous.
He offers me a sheepish look before easing himself in, grimacing in pain.
Guilt overwhelms me. I shouldn’t have pushed him to get this done right away. He shouldn’t be here. “I’m sorry, we should have waited a few weeks to do this, until you’re better.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Did you take your pills?” Meryl asks.
“I will after the interview. They make me sleepy. You know that,” he says in an overly patient manner, as if he’s anything but.
“You should get some food in you.” Meryl peels back a lid and pulls out a plate and cutlery from the plastic bag. I’m guessing they’re disposable, but they’re nicer than the porcelain dishes I have in the cupboard. “Egg salad, right?”
Brett’s face pinches, and she shakes her head at herself, chuckling. “It’s your sister who loves egg. I always get you two mixed up. Here, ham and cheese. And some carrots on the side.” She plates everything for him and sets it in front of him, like a doting mother would do for her small child.
When he looks up, when he sees me pressing my lips together to try to hide my smile, his face breaks into a wide grin. “You’re thinking about how you do this for your five-year-old, aren’t you?”
I can’t help it, I burst out laughing.
Meryl winks at me, then kicks off her fancy heels and demands, “Eat! Before I have to hand-feed you like I would a five-year-old.”
Something about watching them interact—the all-powerful and glamorous Meryl Price treating her son like a regular overbearing, worrying mother would; the sexy, strong Brett Madden scrunching his nose at eggs—puts me at ease for the first time since before the accident.
“Let’s have you sit back all the way . . .” Rodney peers through the lens of the camera that’s angled on my ugly floral couch. It’s one of two cameras, the other poised to record Kate Wethers, who will sit in one of my rickety kitchen chairs to the left of us. The one that’s been glued back together several times. I swear, they chose the worst one intentionally.
The crew arrived in a Suburban with a THE WEEKLY decal on the side forty-five minutes ago and have since turned my living room into a stage.
I follow Rodney’s instructions, scooting all the way until my back hits the couch.
“Okay, good. And I want you to turn your body into Brett.”
Turn into Brett? I’m practically on top of Brett. This love seat feels more like an armchair now that he’s sharing it with me. They’ve insisted that they want us beside each other for the interview, though.
“More. Let’s have your knees touching.”
I offer him a nervous smile as I nudge his right knee with mine. If the close contact bothers him, he doesn’t let on. He leans back in my couch, the picture of calm, as if he’s done hundreds of these interviews before. He probably has.
“Yeah, that’s perfect. Jess? I need the screen adjusted a half inch my way.”
His assistant scurries to shift the shiny silver screen as directed. Brett explained that it helps angle the light to avoid unflattering shadows and glares. “Good?”
Rodney gives two thumbs-up. “Just like the studio. Aside from the mikes, we’re all set. Katie, how much longer do you need?”
Kate Wethers, the prime-time news celebrity and striking brunette who I’ve seen gracing the television screen for years, stands beside my kitchen table and chats with Meryl as if they’re old friends—and maybe they are. Or maybe it’s just that Meryl is so easy to talk to.
“Give me ten.” She waves over the makeup girl, though I don’t know what more she needs done, given that she looks camera-ready.
I’ve already been dusted and rouged. Brett just laughed and shook his head when she tried to minimize his bruising.