“I do. And I’m quite fond of her. But wait. Is she a friend of the bride or groom?”
I flashed him a smile. “Neither. She happens to know a private detective.”
“What a helpful private eye,” he added.
“He’s very helpful. And very handsome. He’s criminally handsome.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And she’s dangerously pretty, and I can’t wait to see her tomorrow.”
THURSDAY
Weather: 70 degrees, Sunny
Chapter Four
Jess
Early the next morning, I printed copies of the photographic evidence, then saved all the files on my hard drive and my online backup. With that done, it was time for my morning ritual of Hollywood brain exercises. I clicked over to my favorite entertainment news site and read a piece about who might be playing the Gretchen Lindstrom role in the remake of We’ll Always Have Paris. I scoffed at all the suggestions of too-young starlets. It was an affront that the classic movie–a true example of silver screen perfection–was being redone at all. But yet, I had to be conversant in the parlor talk of who should play the landmark role of the female lead. I jumped over to a story about The Weekenders, noting that Avery Brock–philandering toad, I mouthed as I read–was doing one more rewrite. That script must have been a hell of a trainwreck for him to make changes this close to shooting.
I stared at the photos I’d shot one more time. The guy was a cheating scum and I hoped the real lesson learned would be to stop messing around. But then again, if people like Brock cleaned up their acts I might not have a job. We were all bottom feeders, needing each other in our sycophantic, symbiotic way.
I made a living off scum like him. His toad-like ways made my job possible.
My phone beeped, and a smile lit through me when I saw a note from HBG.
Just in case you were wondering, I’m glad it’s tomorrow right now.
I quickly replied: Me too.
But then, a sliver of worry touched down in my belly. I didn’t know what I was doing with William, or why I was risking getting closer to him. I knew the dangers, I knew the stakes. The more time I spent with him, the more control I relinquished, like it was slipping through my fingers. If I kept letting go, would I spiral into a zone I’d clawed my way out of?
Maybe I could resist him romantically, I told myself. Maybe I could spend time with him planning for the wedding without liking him more and more.
But I was too logical to believe that line. I did like him more and more. So much more that my heart was dancing as we made plans to meet outside the hospital when my shift ended.
My mind was no longer occupied with the director. Good guys like William had a way of making bad guys like Brock fall from my head.
* * *
Keats had secured a table on the deck at Rosanna’s Hideout, I spotted him as I walked down the promenade, his mirrored shades covering his eyes. He seemed to relish playing the role of young businessman about to close a deal at lunch, like the rest of this whole town. At the entryway of the restaurant, a large potted fern had been conveniently placed. The owner of Rosanna’s Hideout must have known that the restaurant would benefit if paparazzi had an easy hideout from which to snap photos of the stars seated at the tables.
I told the high-cheek-boned maitre d’ presiding at the podium that I was joining Keats Wharton.
“Right this way,” the handsome and sure-to-be-aspiring-something man said, and led me to Keats’ table. Keats stood up, beamed knowingly, and held out a hand. An eager fellow, he gave me a big, gregarious shake. I’d texted him last night with a report on the success of the mission.
I sat down and Keats gestured to a menu.
“Oh, I’m fine,” I said.
“I was going to order a pear-and-walnut salad, hold the walnuts. Are you sure you don’t want something?”
“I ate on campus,” I said, lying, but not caring. I had an energy bar in my backpack, but I was also skilled in holding out when it came to food. I could easily wait until I returned to my apartment that evening. Besides, you never knew who was watching, and I didn’t want to wind up like any of my subjects.
No eating on camera. No tables turned here, thank you very much.
When the waiter came by, Keats ordered his nut-free bed of lettuce and a glass of seltzer water, and I asked for an iced tea.
“Lunch of champions,” Keats remarked after the waiter left. We chatted about the restaurant and L.A., then he rubbed his hands together and grinned again. “But enough of that. I’m dying to see what you have.”
“I believe you’ll be pleased.” I unzipped my backpack, and reached for the manila envelope with the printouts of the photos I’d taken. “Just a little sampler for you. I also have a draft saved in my email of the file transfer link. I’ll send it to you as soon as we’re all set.”
He undid the clasp on the envelope and gingerly pulled out the photos, looking around to make sure no one else was copping a peek at his $10,000 investment. As he surveyed the images, his eyes widened and his lips curved up. His reddish cheeks grew even brighter. “Nice,” he said as if he were salivating on the word. He emitted a brief laugh, the sort of satisfied chuckle you hear in a movie when a hit’s been carried out properly and to completion.
“I believe we are all set, Jess.”
It was my turn to smile. A satisfied client was the only kind I wanted to have. “Great. I’m glad you’re happy.”
He tucked the prints back in their home as the waiter brought my iced tea and his seltzer water. He opened his tablet case, removed an envelope, and handed me the rest of the bills. I said a quick thanks out loud, then a silent hallelujah in my head, before I tucked the money into my backpack. I emailed him the link to the rest of the photos.