I squeeze her arm gratefully. “Thank you.”
“So what else do you have going on this week?” she asks, stippling foundation onto my face in a way I find so relaxing, I’ve been known to fall asleep sitting up.
“Tons of prep, mostly. I have production Zoom calls coming out of my ears. Oh! I meant to show you…” I pull out my phone, scrolling through my inbox until I find the email from my publicist. “Avery sent over some of the photos from theVanity Fairshoot.”
“Ooh,” she says, zooming in on a couple. “Scar, these turned out fantastic! You look gorgeous.”
“Thanks to your handiwork.”
She preens, passing the phone back to me and resuming her sponging. “When’s the profile coming out?”
“Next week, I think,” I say, hoping I don’t regret granting the in-depth interview, the first I’ve sat for in quite a while. The profile is meant to be a rebranding of sorts, showcasing my transition from likable actress to serious producer, a professional pivot I’ve been working toward for years. At this point in my career, I don’t do much press; I’ve earned the right to guard my privacy. I’ve always felt that the less people know about me, the more believable I am as an actress. Not to mention, it’s a delicate dance to deflect questions about my personal life without coming across as cold, evasive, or ungrateful to my fans. Still, there’s so much riding on this film that I gave my publicist permission to book a few high-profile interviews, and I’m crossing my fingers that my industry evolution will be taken seriously, that it won’t be dismissed as a vanity project.
“Headline guesses?” Kendall queries, and I grin. It’s a game we like to play, to see if we can predict the puns and double entendres magazine editors love coming up with for their clickbait-y—and often cringeworthy—headlines.
I think for a minute. “ ‘Hollywood’s Double Agent Doubles Down.’ Or maybe, ‘Scarlett Spies Her Next Horizon.’ ”
Kendall snickers. “Not bad. I’m going with, ‘All Rhodes Lead Here: Inside Scarlett’s Most Daring Role Yet!’ ”
“These almost make me miss ‘Happy Everhart After,’ ” I say with a groan.
There’s a gleam in her eye. “But nothing tops—”
“Don’t say it—”
“ ‘America’s Sweetest Sweetheart,’ ” we say in unison, and Imake a retching noise. It’s my least favorite headline of all time, and Kendall loves taunting me with it.
“There are worse things in life than being universally beloved,” she reminds me, motioning for me to close my eyes. I oblige, and a moment later, I feel the cool mist of the setting spray.
I wish I could say she was exaggerating, but in Hollywood, they actually have something called a Q Score, which is essentially a likability index that measures your audience appeal to determine how bankable you are (see perennial high-scorers Sandra Bullock, Tom Hanks, and Meryl Streep, to name a few). My Q Score is impressively high, a fact my agent insists on reminding me of at every opportunity in hopes of deterring me from any major missteps or public meltdowns. Fortunately for her, I’ve managed to stay scandal free, save for the unavoidable social media rumor mill every celebrity must contend with. I rank particularly high for “relatability” and “girl next door”—that is, if the girl next door lived in a twelve-million-dollar Malibu mansion Barbie could only dream of.
Kendall’s just begun taming my brows when my phone rings in my hand, and when I see it’s my agent Joanne, I answer on speaker. “Hey, Jo.”
“Hi, Scarlett. Where are you? Are you busy or do you have a minute?” I catch Kendall’s eye, and she smirks at me.
One thing to know about Joanne is that she’s always in a hurry. She’s also allergic to small talk and wasting time, and I love her for it. Her ability to multitask is on another level. I once witnessed her negotiate several sticking points of a tricky contract on a conference call, only to learn at the end that she was on her way to the hospital with a sliced finger. When Iasked her why she didn’t just reschedule, she said she didn’t see the point.
“I’m in my kitchen with Kendall, and we’re currently debating which eye shadow palette would get me into Studio 54.”
“Hi Joanne,” Kendall calls.
“Send me progress pictures,” Joanne makes her promise, and Kendall agrees.
“So, what’s going on?”
Joanne clears her throat. “Well, an opportunity’s come up that we need to discuss.” There’s a pause. “Please notice that I used the word ‘opportunity,’ which is how I’d like you to look at it.”
Uh-oh. “Now you’re making me wish I screened your call,” I quip. Kendall motions for me to close my eyes again, then starts penciling on eyeliner.
“I got a call today from Reid Sterling over at Paramount. Apparently, September marks the ten-year anniversary ofThe Lost Letter.”
My eyes fly open and Kendall’s hand freezes mid-stroke, her gaze darting to meet mine. It’s incredible how just hearing those words kicks my heart into high gear, like I’ve been given a shot of adrenaline straight to the vein.
“It’s been ten years already? Wow, I feel old,” I say haltingly, trying to mask my reaction with a joke. “So why was Reid calling?” I ask, hoping I’m adequately modulating my voice.You’re an actress. Act unaffected.I twirl my finger in a circle, motioning for my sister to carry on.
Joanne clears her throat. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the damage Seafolly sustained from Hurricane Rachael.”
I make a noise of assent, my heart heavy as my mind spools through all the horrible images I saw splashed across the news: the quaint cottage homes destroyed, the historic hotels and restaurants lining the town’s main street storm-ravaged and empty, the rows of stately old oak trees downed and tangled in power lines, entire streets washed away like they were never there. Seeing the devastation wrought by the catastrophic storm made my already melancholy memories of the place I’d once loved so much all the more bittersweet.
