Susan Phillips - What I Did for Love

“No deal. Without a contract, the script and I are leaving together.”

“You think I’m going to sign just like that?”

“Yes. And you know why? Because I’m the only one who’s interested in you.”

“Who says I care?” He slapped the contract on top of the script. “If I wanted to go back into acting, I’d represent myself.”

“The actor who represents himself has a fool for a client.”

“I think that’s ‘lawyer.’”

“The sentiment’s the same. No actor can effectively sing his own praises without looking like an ass.”

She was right, and he knew it, but he wasn’t quite ready to concede. “You’ve got an answer for everything.”

“That’s because good agents know what they’re doing, and I intend to be a much better agent for you than I ever was for Georgie.”

He rubbed a thumb over his knuckles. “You should have spoken up.”

“I did-more than once-but then you’d frown at me and-presto, chango!-I’d remember my mortgage, and there went my courage.”

“People should fight for what they believe in.”

“You’re absolutely right.” She jabbed her finger toward the contract. “So what’s it going to be, Paul? Are you going to sit around feeling sorry for yourself, or do you have the guts to jump into a brand-new game?”

“I haven’t acted in nearly thirty years. I haven’t even thought about it.”

“Hollywood loves talented fresh faces.”

“Not so fresh.”

“Trust me. Your wrinkles are in all the right places.” She gave him her tough-girl look so he didn’t take her comment as the blathering of a menopausal female who hadn’t been on a real date in longer than she could remember. “It’s hard for me to believe an actor with your talent has never thought about getting back to work.”

“Georgie’s career had to come first.”

She felt a stab of sympathy for him. What had it been like to possess so much talent and do nothing with it? “Georgie doesn’t need you now,” she said more gently. “At least not for career advice.”

He snatched the contract out of her hands. “Go make your phone calls, damn it. I’ll look it over.”

“Good idea.” She stepped out onto the sundeck. Shady and sheltered, it was a great space for entertaining, but it held only a pair of unmatched metal chairs. She found it odd that someone so polished didn’t have more of a social life. She flipped open her phone and checked her office voice mail, then had a lengthy conversation with her father, who’d retired in Phoenix. As they spoke, she forced herself not to spy on Paul through the windows. Next, she called her sister in Milwaukee, but her six-year-old niece answered the phone and launched into a story about a new kitten.

Paul came out onto the sundeck, and Laura broke into her niece’s monologue. “He’s an amazing actor. Hardly anyone knows that he trained at Juilliard Drama. He also did some really interesting off-Broadway work before he put his career on hold to raise Georgie.”

“Who’s Julie Yard, Aunt Laura?”

Laura tugged on her hair. “You have no idea how hard I’ve worked to convince him that he needs to start focusing on himself. As soon as you hear him read, you’ll understand why I’m so excited about representing him.”

“You’re acting weird,” the small voice replied. “I’m calling Mom. Mom!”

“Great. I’ll give you a ring next week.” Laura flipped her phone closed. “That went better than I expected.” A drop of perspiration slithered between her breasts.

“Bullshit. You were talking to your voice mail.”

“Or my niece in Milwaukee,” she said, cocky as could be. “Or Brian Glazer’s office. How I do my job isn’t your business. Only the results I get.”

He waved the contract in front of her. “Just because I signed this damned thing doesn’t mean I’m going to auditions. It only means I’ll read the script.”

Had she really convinced him? She could hardly believe it. “It means you’ll go where I tell you.” She snatched up the contract and headed back inside, hoping he was following her. “This isn’t going to be easy, so you’d better start giving yourself one of those lectures you used to give Georgie about how rejection is part of the business and not to take it personally. It’ll be interesting to see if you’re as tough as she is.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“More than you can imagine.” She picked up her things. “Call me as soon as you finish the script. Oh, and I intend to advance your career by trading on Georgie’s good name.”

He flushed, angry. “You can’t do that.”

“Sure I can. She fired us, remember?” As she reached the front door, she stopped and turned back to him. “If I were you, I’d give her a call today instead of freezing her out.”

“Yeah. Because your ideas have worked so well in the past.”

“Just a suggestion.” She let herself out and headed for her car. She wanted to kick up her heels with excitement. She’d crossed her first hurdle, and now all she needed to do was find him work.

As she backed out of his driveway, she reminded herself that getting Paul a job wasn’t the only difficult task she faced. She also had to put her condo on the market, trade in her Benz for something cheaper, cancel her vacation in Maui, and stay out of Barneys. All potentially very depressing.

But for right now…She turned up the radio, bobbed her head, and sang her heart out.

Georgie lifted her head from the pillows as Bram came out of the bathroom from his morning shower. Two and a half weeks ago, the night after the quarantine had lifted, she’d been faced with the dilemma of whether to move back into the guest room or stay where she was. She’d ended up telling Bram that her old room had so many leftover cooties from Lance and Jade that she couldn’t go back. He’d agreed that some cooties were too contagious to risk.

She took a moment admiring him. The jet-black towel draped around his hips turned his lavender eyes to indigo. His hair was damp, and he hadn’t shaved for the past few days, giving him a rugged, virile elegance. Her imaginary baby stirred in her womb. She blinked herself back to reality. “When did you say you and Hank Peters were going to start auditioning actors?”

“The Tuesday after our wedding party, as you very well know.”

“Really? Only a week and a half away…” They’d gone into preproduction immediately because Hank Peters had a commitment to direct another film in November, and they didn’t want to lose him. She let the sheet slip below one breast, a wasted effort as it turned out, since he was already heading into his closet for the jeans and T-shirt that had become his producer’s work uniform. “And I’m still first up, right?”

“Will you relax? I promised you the first audition, and you’ll get it. But I swear to God, if you pin your hopes on this…”

“Hard to do with you telling me how unworthy I am.”

He popped his head out. “Don’t exaggerate. You’re a terrific actress and a gifted comic, and you know it.”

“But not gifted enough to play Helene?” She experimented with a smirk. “Remember this moment, Bramwell Shepard, because I’m going to make you eat those words.”

She wished she could be as confident as she sounded. She’d read the script twice more and begun creating a character log filled with ideas about Helene’s backstory and physical mannerisms. But she only had ten days before the audition, and this would be the most complex character she’d ever taken on. She had a lot more work to do before she’d be ready, and she kept losing her focus.

His gaze dipped to her breast. She’d had to force herself not to give in to the urge to shop for the sexiest nighties she could find. Instead, she’d stuck with her normal sleepwear, but her plain white cami and black boxers printed with pirate skulls now lay crumpled on the floor by the bed. She deliberately pulled the sheet up to her chin. “Don’t forget we have our last meeting with Poppy at nine.”

He groaned and headed back into the closet. “No way am I sitting through any more meetings about floral arrangements and Jordan almonds stamped with the family crest. What the hell is a Jordan almond anyway?”

“An almond that tastes like soap.” The general uneasiness that had been plaguing her since she realized that Bram now had everything he wanted propelled her out of bed. “The Skip and Scooter wedding extravaganza was your idea, and it’s only eight days away. You’re not dodging that meeting.”

“I’ll give you a hundred bucks and another back rub if you let me skip it.”

“I don’t need a hundred bucks. As for your back rubs…Study an anatomy book, pal, because what you’ve been rubbing isn’t my back.”

“And aren’t you glad?”

She had to admit she was.

He ended up staying for the meeting.

Poppy Patterson’s heavy perfume, exaggerated speech, and clattering charm bracelets drove them both crazy, but she was an imaginative and efficient party planner. She understood that the paparazzi’s helicopters would make it impossible to hold an outdoor celebration, and she’d come up with the perfect indoor venue-the magnificent 1920s Eldridge Mansion built in the same English manor house style as the Scofield mansion. With its luxuriously appointed ballroom, it could comfortably hold their two hundred guests, all of whom had been instructed to wear a costume inspired by the show.

Aaron and Chaz joined in as they sat around Bram’s dining room table to go over the final arrangements. They started with the decorations and ended with the food. Everything on the menu played a part in an episode of Skip and Scooter, beginning with the hors d’oeuvres: mini deep-dish pizzas; tiny, heart-shaped peanut butter sandwiches; and bite-size Chicago hot dogs-no ketchup.

The meal was more formal, and Chaz began reading the menu aloud. “Rocket and Parmesan salad, episode forty-one, ‘Scooter Meets the Mayor.’ Rum-glazed lobster tails with mango, episode two, ‘Nice Horsey.’ Black pepper-seared beef tenderloin, episode sixty-three, ‘Skip’s Lost Weekend.’”

“Rocket?” Bram yawned. “Sounds flammable.”

“It’s arugula,” Chaz replied. “You like it.” She eyed Poppy, who was dressed in a champagne knit St. John suit with goggle-size designer sunglasses pushed on top of her brunette socialite’s bob. “I’m glad you got rid of that foie gras mousse crap.”

From the beginning Poppy had let it be known she resented dealing with a currently purple-haired twenty-year-old who wasn’t a rock star. “It was mentioned in episode twenty-eight, ‘The Scofield Curse.’”

“When Scooter fed it to the dog.”

Bram’s eyes glazed over as the discussion went on. The past few weeks had been odd. Bram left for the studio early in the morning and didn’t return until late. She missed him in a way she couldn’t exactly define…just that life seemed flatter without their verbal sparring. Even their nightly sexual romps didn’t quite compensate. Their lovemaking was fun and exciting, but something was missing.

Of course, something was missing. Trust. Respect. Love. A future.

Except…She’d developed a grudging respect for him. She didn’t know another man who’d have taken Chaz in, and she loved the way he’d find the homeliest woman in the crowd and eye-smolder her until she felt like a supermodel. He’d also acquired a surprisingly strong work ethic. But fundamentally, Bram had always been out for himself, and that would never change.

Eventually, Poppy packed up her python bag, releasing a great puff of perfume. “I have a small surprise planned for the evening,” she announced. “Just so you know. One of the special touches I’ve made my trademark. You’ll love it.”

Bram snapped out of his preoccupation. “What kind of surprise?”

“Now, now. Spontaneity is everything.”

“I’m not too crazy about spontaneity,” Georgie said.

Poppy’s charm bracelets clattered. “You hired me to arrange a spectacular party, and that’s what I’m doing. You’ll be over the moon. I promise.”

Bram was impatient to get away, and he cut off Georgie’s protest. “As long as I don’t have to wear tights or drink lite beer, go ahead.”

Poppy left soon after, and Bram headed off to the studio.

Georgie wanted to edit more film, and she needed to work on her character log for Helene, but first she called April. They’d been working together long-distance on Georgie’s gown and accessories, and her last fitting was coming up. When their conversation ended, she jotted down some more thoughts about Helene, but her attention kept wandering, and she finally let herself go upstairs to look at the last footage she’d shot-a group of single mothers trying to make a living at a minimum-wage job. Hearing firsthand accounts of these working women’s lives once again reminded her of how privileged she was.