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‘Larry will have you blackballed from the entire entertainment industry if you breathe a word about Liz Asgill. You think times are tough for you now? You think acting jobs are a little thin on the ground? Believe me, you won’t be able to get a job shovelling shit off the Chinese Theater walkway if you say one word against Liz or any of the Asgills.’
Tess thought back to her drink with Larry. The producer hadn’t been too impressed by the ‘deal’. He was the sort of man used to having all the bargaining control and had not taken too kindly to being manipulated by some twenty–something British broad. But he had admired her chutzpah and was also relieved that Tess’s form of blackmail didn’t actually involve the exchange of money. The richer they were, the meaner they were; that was something she’d noticed around many very wealthy people. Something she doubted Russ Ford would ever find out.
‘But I had a deal with Liz Asgill,’ he blustered.
Tess shook her head. She was playing the hardest of hardball and she knew full well that this strategy carried a high degree of risk. She was gambling on him wanting a career in the movies very badly, but she’d done her homework. Russ had a decent agent and had landed a few bit–parts in the soaps and sitcoms. He’d even had a lead in a pilot for a series that was never made. Russ Ford had tasted success on the tip of his tongue and she was gambling on him being hooked on the taste, hoping he was desperate to keep his acting dream alive.
‘No Russ, you had a conversation with Liz Asgill. She spoke to me and I spoke to Larry. If you ask me, you’re getting off lightly after a stunt like that. Blackmail is a felony. The Asgills could end your career right now.’
The look on his face, panic, disappointment, disgust, told her she’d called the right way.
He let out a long breath. ‘So what happens now?’
‘What happens is that if you keep your mouth shut we can pretend none of this ever happened.’
Russ simply nodded.
‘Oh, and Russ?’
She put ten dollars down on the table to cover the bill and stood up to leave.
‘See you in Hollywood.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Brooke was taking Eileen Dunne to lunch. As the author was coming all the way from her hometown of Baltimore, Brooke had booked a table at Gordon Ramsay at The London to make an event of it. She wasn’t sure how she was going to justify such extravagance to Mimi when she signed off her expenses, in fact it was probably safer to pay for the lunch out of her own pocket, but, as far as Brooke was concerned, it was worth it. Already Eileen’s magician book Portico was creating a buzz around the Yellow Door offices, and not just in the children’s division. A senior publishing director in adult fiction was already making noises about rejacketing it for an adult edition and getting it shelf space in Wal–Mart, which was the holy grail for a children’s book. Hell, for any book.
To her surprise, Brooke found that she was uncommonly nervous about this meeting. She preferred to meet an author before acquiring a book to assess their marketability and whether she would enjoy working with them, but in the scramble to sign Eileen, that just hadn’t been possible. She’d spoken to her on the phone, of course, but that never really gave you an idea of who the person was. So, for all Brooke knew, Eileen Dunne was a Ku Kux Klan sympathizer with a series of dead bodies in her deep freeze. You’re just being silly now, she scolded herself, but Brooke was still edgy. Eileen’s book was fantastic, but in today’s market, that wasn’t enough – they needed a story, preferably a weepie. Brooke was well aware that J. K. Rowling’s back story as a single mum writing stories in an Edinburgh coffee shop had been perfect for developing her image as the ordinary person rising above the odds. Similarly, Stephanie Meyer’s image as a downtrodden Mormon mother, who thought of the plot for vampire love story Twilight in a dream, had worked wonders in interviews. They needed something equally PR–friendly with Eileen or there was still a chance her brilliant book would sink without trace.
Brooke tried to settle down at her round corner table and watched the opaque glass doors anxiously. Was that her? No, the woman entering was wearing a DVF wrap dress – this season’s – and Jimmy Choos. Her heart jumped again – no, just the maitre d’. Calm down, Brooke, she told herself, taking a sip of her fresh orange juice. And then there she was – Brooke was sure of it. A red–haired woman about her age, dressed in black trousers, a sparkly top and a strange nylon windcheater. She looked as if she‘d been unable to decide whether she was going for a walk in the rain or for a night on the town.
Brooke felt a little deflated, but stood up and smiled as Eileen walked timidly to the table.
‘Nice place,’ said Eileen weakly, looking around. She looked as though she expected someone to eject her at any moment.
‘I love it here. They have a great bon–bon trolley,’ smiled Brooke.
Eileen sat down, carefully removing her coat.
‘Let someone take that for you,’ offered Brooke, waving to the waiter.
Eileen looked up with alarm. ‘I’d better keep hold of it; it’s my mother’s. Ralph Lauren.’
The woman flushed and for one moment Brooke wondered if she should have picked another restaurant. Eileen looked awkward, sitting bolt upright with her precious nylon coat draped over the arm of her chair. Was this all too intimidating for her? Brooke stopped herself. She was being patronizing. Still, when the waiter approached, she made sure she gave Eileen a little time to settle herself as they read the menus.
‘I’ll have the pork,’ said Brooke.
‘I’ll have the same,’ said Eileen quickly. Brooke poured their water and glanced at her new author. She wasn’t bad looking, quite pretty in fact, but she had terrible blue eye shadow and too–red lipstick. She badly needed a makeover to bring out her best. Yes – Brooke felt sure she could help her in that department, thinking of all the designer clothes, bags, and cosmetics she got sent daily.
Eileen caught her appraising look and her hand flew nervously to her face.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘Oh nothing, I just expected you to be older,’ smiled Brooke.
‘Is it the name?’ she winced. ‘It’s a family tradition you see. The oldest girl gets the same name as her grandmother. Anyway, I was expecting you to be more scary.’
Brooke giggled, thinking of the paparazzi photos that got printed in the tabloids magazines. Shots when she’d be sneezing or rubbing something from her eye or just changing expression and which always seemed to make her look in pain or miserable. ‘I get that a lot.’
