Hi!
New month, new Sunday, new chapter!
Alice's White Rabbit, Midnight Cougar, and SunflowerFran wield the red pens. RobsmyyummyCabanaboy and Deh are my plot coaches and shoulders to cry on. I am a tinkerer, though, so any errors left are my own boo-boos.
General consensus seems to be that Marcus is, indeed, a wanker. On with the show :)
BUSINESS CLASS GIRL – Chapter 36
Edward
Our whole week in Rome is a blur.
A blur of red carpets, interviews, too many flashing lights in our eyes, and too many questions we can't evade anymore.
The following week back in Los Angeles is even more of a blur. Sending the promo tour off with a bang got quite close to its literal meaning. In more ways than one.
Between my stunt at the BBC soundstage in London, being spotted rushing through Fiumicino airport, and strolling hand in hand in downtown Rome for a leisurely after-dinner walk along the Tiber, our plan for plausible deniability has sunk like the Titanic. We knew going in it would be tough to pull off, and it would have an expiration date. It worked … until it didn't.
So for once, instead of glaring at photographers and walking out on interviewers, Bella and I are back in L.A. after the promo tour, sitting down with Angela and Maggie to agree on a game plan. It took some convincing on her part, but Bella made me see the light and reminded me that I—we—call the shots.
"The man of the hour returns, and he's even fifteen minutes early," deadpans Angela from her perch behind her massive desk, lifting one of her groomed eyebrows at yours truly.
"Come on, Ang, I've not been late once …"
"Since last November, Cullen. You're welcome."
Bella sits down on a chair next to me without a word, all the while giving Angela the stink eye.
"Oh, Ang, quit it. I still have the Colonel on speed dial, you know …"
"You wouldn't …" She trails off, regaling Bella with an incredulous look I don't think I've ever seen etched on her face.
"She would, too, Ang. Or you would never have hired her to straighten me out. Thank you." My girlfriend doesn't make idle threats. This I do know.
Maggie—whom I'm meeting in person for the first time since she started while we were on the road—gives a perfunctory wave and a cough from a chair next to Angela.
"All right, all right, Murph. Let's get this party started," Angela replies, giving Maggie the floor.
"First of all, media enquiries. I know you guys value your privacy and want your personal life to stay private, but at this point …"
"We have to give those sharks something or we'll be screwed," interjects Bella.
"Precisely. Control the narrative. Give a statement. Easy, factual, to the point. I've emailed you both a couple possible drafts. It's going to blanket the airwaves for a bit. Edward has a slew of post-premiere interviews scheduled, so it will become one of the standard questions, yadda, yadda …"
Maggie has this all figured out. Pretty boilerplate, but that's why we—I—pay her the big bucks. To stay on top of this crap.
"And by the time I'm on another red carpet in a few months, someone will have had the good grace to split up, have a nervous breakdown, or screw the nanny, and we'll be old news. Hopefully."
Bella turns to me and squeezes my hand. She's handling this far better than I am. The mere thought of more photographers hounding her or the media harassing her as a way to get to me has bile rising in my throat. I haven't been easy to live with the last two weeks. I've been snapping at everyone—from the damn photogs to the press to Ang. Hell, in Rome, I even pushed away a couple fans who were getting too close to Bella for my comfort.
The latest premiere—last night here in L.A.—risked going south fast because some bimbo from E! made a snooty comment about Bella's dress behind her back, which I heard loud and clear. It took a stern look from my BCG and Em hauling me to the open bar to get me out of my funk before I could fly off the handle.
Today's meeting had been already on the books for next week, but after last night, Bella called an intervention … and here we are.
With her shark-like instinct for blood in the water, Angela is on to me. Probably because I may or may not still look green around the gills, and my expression is still locked in the dark scowl I sported last night for the whole blogosphere to see.
Thanks, Just Jared. And TMZ. And Perez. I hate you all.
"Now, Cullen, listen to me carefully. We can put out an ironclad statement, and B here can be as professional and kickass as she always is, but you have to get a handle. On. Your. Fucking. Temper." She punctuates every word with clipped hisses.
I huff. I know she's right. It's easier said than done.
"I don't give a flying fuck if they talk shite about me, Ang. God knows they've gone all the way to Wackoville a few times in the past already."
"Yeah, we've got some stuff for the record books here," quips Maggie from behind her stack of papers. Does the girl miss anything, ever?
"Did you have a point in between the layers of your whining, Cullen?"
Angela is going to make me say it. Time to get a hold of my balls and backbone and put them to good use.
"I don't want Bella subjected to any crap. Cheap shots. Snooty bitches. Handsy reporters. Crazy forum comments."
"Tall order, Cullen."
"Hefty list, Edward."
Angela and Maggie are so coordinated they sound like Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee. A fierce version of Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee. With nail polish on top.
"I already told you it's an unrealistic expectation, Edward."
Bella squeezes my hand again, and her voice washes over me like a caress. It still does little to dispel my sullen mood and soothe my frayed nerves. I've turned into an overprotective, whiny sod. But I won't have her harmed, or molested, or badmouthed. In any way. She didn't sign up for this. I did.
"You're getting a security detail. 24/7. Non-negotiable."
Angela's eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. Maggie hides behind a copy of GQ with my face on the cover.
"No. That is not going to fly. I'm not the godforsaken Secretary General of the UN. Either Eric or Tyler drive us around everywhere anyway. If I'm not with you, I'm with Emmett. They're welcome to mess with him."
I knew Bella wouldn't go for it. But I had to try.
"If they're that stupid." Did Maggie just crack a joke?
"Let's pick a damn statement and put it out then." I call the shots. We call the shots.
Maggie hands Bella and me printouts of the drafts she's prepared.
"These both look good, Maggie. Thank you," Bella says, then turns to me. "What do you think?"
I consider the drafts for a moment. One is a standard press release announcing B and I are in a committed relationship, and we'd like the matter to be considered private. The other expands a little too much into who Bella is and what she does and goes so far as mentioning her prospective writing career and details about the upcoming auction.
"I'd rather leave out all this info about Bella's book. Maggie, I know you and Angela are looking out for both of us, but that info would just fuel a further media frenzy into Bella's career, and maybe right now isn't the time. Plus, we wouldn't want to give the impression that either one of us is riding on the other's coattails. Maybe stick with the barebones version? What do you think, love?"
Bella nods. "Yeah, now is definitely not the time for it. The two issues are separate."
"I still want to look into additional security for Bella, Ang. Get back to us with options on it, please."
Bella throws me a sidelong glance. Maggie raises her eyebrows again. Angela cuts to the chase.
"Look, Edward, your concern for Bella here does you credit, but don't let the worry cripple you. You have a job to do. Take a page out of her book—she's coming to terms with this better than you are. So, since she clearly wears the pants in this relationship, listen to her. Got it?"
I nod without a word. If I talk back, she'll just chew me out some more. Plus, if I'm being honest with myself, she has a point. I know I'm overreacting, but I can't help it. Then she turns to Bella.
"B, just keep doing what you're doing. And please inject some of your wisdom into the nervous wreck formerly known as Edward Cullen.
"You both have tentative schedules for the next quarter. Maggie will be first port of call for media and run any essential stuff by you. Get back to me on those scripts, some are in a time crunch. Edward, again, get a grip, a massage, a blow job, or whatever relaxes you. The next few months—Vancouver included—are crucial. If additional security concerns arise, we'll address them. Keep your eyes peeled in the meantime. You both know what to do and what not to do. Class dismissed."
Bella and I have barely made it to the door when Angela calls her back.
"Not you, B. Stay back. Cullen, go sign fan mail or something while I talk to your girlfriend."
This is different. Why would Angela want to talk to Bella without me?
"Anything you have to say, Ang, you can tell her to my face. We have no secrets."
She raises an eyebrow—again—and slowly shakes a manicured claw at me.
"Wrong. Not when she's my client. Run along now."
Angela just pulled the client confidentiality card against me. It must be about business, not about commiserating on my antics behind my back. I sigh, defeated, and turn to Jessica, who's standing by her desk in reception, holding out a steaming cup of coffee.
###BCG###
BCG
"That was harsh. He's barely holding it together as it is," I blurt out, plopping back on my previous seat. Maggie is nowhere to be seen and probably has long scurried away through the connecting door between their offices.
"The boy needs a harsh dose of reality, pronto. He ain't getting any coddling from me. That's your job. Off the clock clearly." She's as nonchalant and unapologetic as ever.
Angela does have a point about Edward's latest tantrum. If I wasn't worried, the whole situation would be ironic. I'm the one getting bashed in the tabloids and fan forums, and he's going berserk about it. The roles have been reversed. Now I'm the blasé one.
"Your intimidation techniques aside, what can't you tell me in front of him? I bet he's out there pacing a hole through the pristine hardwood floors of your reception area. The Colonel would be proud."
She sobers up, by a faint margin, and rests her face on her steepled fingers.
"Never mind him for now, B. It's your time, too. We never had a chance to catch up after the whole Goldsmith fiasco. Are you okay?"
"Can't you ask me after five p.m. when I can tell you while legitimately sipping multiple cocktails? I need booze for this."
"Uhm."
Angela at a loss for words is not an ordinary occurrence. Speaking of Marcus seems to elicit this kind of response from her of late. Uhm indeed.
"But it's done. He should be done annoying the crap out of me."
"I'm asking for two reasons. One, you're my closest and oldest friend, and the idiot hurt you. I still feel sort of responsible for putting him on a collision course with you. Please, forgive me."
I wave her away. We've been over this. "There's nothing to forgive, Ang. You were doing your job. You had no way of knowing."
She shrugs while balancing a pencil between her fingers, her gaze fixated on nothing in particular. I can tell this really bothers her because she keeps bringing it up. It's not like her to revisit any business she considers finished.
"Still. And two, it's my job. You're also my client, and I need to know if this needs to be addressed or escalated through official channels. I can't, with a clean conscience, send business their way if they can't keep a lid on their commissioning editor's temper. Not when it's borderline criminally relevant."
My turn to shrug. Escalating this would put Marcus's career in serious jeopardy. He'd be labelled as unprofessional and difficult to work with. A liability. It could even cost him his job. Or worse.
I might have been furious with him—it's been fading over the course of the last week or so—but I'm not a vengeful harpy. If he keeps his distance, I'm good with that. It's not like we move in the same circles. And he lives across the country. Besides, I have a feeling this was about me in particular. We had a past he wouldn't let go of. I have no reason to believe this could be part of a pattern of behaviour.
"No, Ang. If he keeps his nose clean and off my career, I have no complaints. Anything else?"
She drums her pencil on her weekly planner for a few seconds and scrutinizes me with an intense gaze. She's trying to ferret out if I mean it. Before long, she lets go of the pencil and nods. "Very well. Now, we are also at crunch time. I can't really bring an unfinished manuscript to auction. Well, I can. Synopsis and sample chapters would still fly. But the nanosecond after the gavel falls on the winning bidder, the manuscript needs to be finished and ready for editing. Things will start to move quickly right after that. It will be insane. Are you ready for this? Most importantly, is the damn book finished?"
Momentous questions.
"I have notes and outlines for the last three chapters and epilogue. I thought I'd faxed those over to you from London?"
She nods with a snicker and starts rifling through one of the massive piles of files that litter her desk. "You did, and I can't help wishing you joined the twenty-first century already and typed and emailed me your crap like everyone else," she answers in a deluge of words.
"Since when am I everyone else? Emails get hacked all the time. No emails with work in progress. Ever."
She grumbles something I have no wish to decipher, but the words "paranoid authors and their quirks" stand out while she keeps leafing through pile after pile of papers.
"Found it!" she exclaims with a triumphant look. And I thought Jasper's non-existent filing methods in his pre-Bella days were abysmal. She takes the cake.
My own fleeting snicker dies on my lips when she starts skimming through the pages. Sure enough, it's the stuff I faxed her from London, with an oblique assist from my tech-averse father, who still insists on having a fax machine wherever he lives, including Montagu Square.
My breath hangs suspended in time, my heart beats too loud and rings hollow in my ears. Beside Edward's, Angela's opinion on my writing is the one that matters. Her judgment is going to make or break me. And with that thought weighing over me like storm clouds about to erupt, I force myself not to look at her while she's reading. I can't stare and analyse every single change in her countenance, or any words she may mouth without thinking, or all the pointing and waving she always does with her hands when she's engrossed in something.
"B? You in there?" Her voice finally shakes me out of my downward spiral of performance anxiety.
I have no coherent words to offer though, so I just nod and motion for her to continue. Time to face the music.
"You can breathe, you know," she says with a sly smile. Other than that, her mien is unreadable.
"Easy for you to say," I grumble under my breath.
She sets the faxed notes on her desk and removes her eyeglasses.
"This," she begins, using her specs to tap on the notes, "is solid. Go for it. I think it's the bomb."
I can finally a) breathe, b) form a string of cogent thoughts, and c) cobble them together in words that make sense.
"You do?" Baby steps. Even the Gettysburg Address was only some 250 words.
"Yes. I'm not going to waste your time—and mine—by kissing your ass. That's not the way I do business. You should know that by now," she counters. I can't help but notice her voice takes on a mildly irritated slant.
"I know. It's just … this is different. This is me."
She waves me away with a flick of her spectacles. "Yeah, yeah. It's your baby. I get it. Now summon all your brainpower and get this shit done. I mean it. You need to put some serious time into this. No distractions. No stolen half-hours here and there while Edward works. No all-nighters. And if you don't do it to finish writing this book, you'll have to do it for the editing process."
She's not spelling it out. She doesn't need to because I can read between the lines. It gets closer and closer—the time when the demands of my day job at Edward's side will no longer gel with the demands of my budding career as a writer, with my dream.
In a corner of my mind, I've been thinking about how to tackle this to the mutual satisfaction of all parties involved. My only hesitation is—will both parties involved really be okay with my solution? Or will one of them end sulking in a corner with a full-blown pout? Time will tell.
"I know, Ang. I've given it some thought already."
"And?"
"I have a plan."
She flashes me a hint of a smile. "Lover boy on board?"
"Well … I need to sell it to him first."
She purses her lips, at the same time tapping her nose with an elegant index finger decked in purple polish to match the frame of her specs.
"You go do that. If he whines, bribe him. This is a 'whatever it takes' situation. I mean it. As your friend, not as your agent."
"He's being supportive, it's not …"
She's assuming he'll be difficult about this, and I feel the need to defend him. He wouldn't be a dick about it, not per se, but a part of my brilliant plan might not be to his liking.
"If he's supportive, it's his time to prove it. Period. If he still whines, send him to me."
"I might need your help with a part of my plan."
Her smile now turns devious. "Girl, tell me more …"
###BCG###
Two weeks later, it's a rare day off in my—and Edward's—schedule. It may or may not be because it's a Sunday. It's also moving day.
Luckily, my earthly possessions fit in about a dozen boxes. Make that a baker's dozen. And that's just the books and assorted knick-knacks.
Em and Edward aren't touching my home office or my computer. I'm going to dismantle both of those, including cables and stuff while the muscle hauls the boxes next door to Edward's place. Our place. That'll take some getting used to.
Next on my plate, dealing with my clothes. I've accumulated quite the wardrobe since I moved to L.A. Between Alice's freebies and my work-related attire, I'm staring at the closet of a fashion victim.
"Dude, you're beating even Rosie's closet on the catastrophe scale!" a familiar voice booms from behind me.
"Shit, Em! You scared the crap out of me!"
"You don't say, sis?" He flashes me a smug grin as he wipes sweat from his brow with his T-shirt.
An equally sweaty, out-of-breath Edward appears beside him armed with a couple water bottles. Emmett filches one, tipping his head at Edward. "Thanks, man."
"Does this count as a workout for next week?"
Em snickers at him from above the neck of the water bottle. "Hell, no!"
Edward walks over to me, displaying the trademark Cullen pout. "Your brother is worse than a drill sergeant."
"Tell me something I don't know," I reply while he leans into me from behind, perching his head on my shoulder.
"What's next, boss?" he asks, planting a somewhat sweaty kiss on my collarbone.
"I'm the boss now, aren't I?"
"Today you are, even though I should be pissed with you. The pair of you," pipes up Emmett from his new perch on my now bare bed. Former bed. I figured I'd get it stripped and washed prior to moving day. Get another work surface and avoid another mess or two.
"Quit the whining, big bro. We're two doors down. Still within baking and grilling distance."
Besides—not that he knows it yet—if Rosie does get any of the jobs she's angling for, he'll be grateful he has the house to himself again before long.
"Fine, fine. What next, your tech gear?" he asks again while his hands hover in dangerous proximity of my MacBook and other assorted gadgets of geekdom.
"Get your filthy paws off my laptop now!"
He makes a show of stepping away with his hands up in defeat to the mirthful soundtrack of Edward's poorly controlled snickers.
"Not the tech, mate. Leave that alone. If you care about your fingers."
"Thanks for your support, boss. Now, back to business. I'm going to deal with the tech myself later. First, I have to sort through my clothes and box them so you can cart them next door, then I have a few boxes in the garage, and then …"
My torrent of instructions, rattled off while I enumerate them on my fingers, gets interrupted by the distorted opening chords of "Miss Murder."
"Why is my butt vibrating? Please tell me I'm not sitting on your vibrator, sis?"
"No, you idiot. You're sitting on my phone. Hand it over!"
My shoulder is also vibrating with laughter—Edward is still chuckling at Em's antics when my phone appears in the corner of my eye. Emmett is holding it with two fingertips, à la toxic waste.
"If that's the lovely Ms Weber, I'm outta here. I need sustenance. Come find me in the kitchen when you're done."
I nod and accept the call. Edward makes no move to leave his perch pretzeled around me.
"Ang, you're on speaker."
"I'm contractually required to tell you to take me off speaker."
It takes a minute for her words to sink in. Edward remedies my momentary speech impairment faster than that.
"Do you need me to leave, Ang? It's just B and me here now."
"Mr Cullen, nice to hear from you. Is my other client still with us?"
Turning around to face me, Edward pats my cheek and winks at me. This seems to restart my synapses enough for me to conjure words.
"I'm here."
"She speaks!"
I suppress a scoff. She knows what I'm doing today.
"What's up, Ang? And do I really need to …"
She cuts me off. "Noooo," she draws the single syllable out in a dramatic stage whisper. Or as dramatic as it can get over the phone.
"He can stay, can't he?"
"Yes, yes. The kid can stay. I guess he's the first soul you're going to tell anyway."
"All right. We're still both here. Fire away."
"You both decent? Sitting down?"
"Sitting down, yes. Decent, debatable."
"Spare me the sordid details, kids. Be decent and here in an hour."
"We're moving my stuff to Edward's today, you perv. And where is here?"
Some indistinct sounds filter through the speaker with Ang's hushed words thrown in for good measure. Other than that, no reaction from Ms Weber. Edward, who has meanwhile plopped down on my bed beside me, lifts an eyebrow and taps his temple with one finger. I suppress a laugh in case Ang joins us again without warning.
"B, you there?"
"Yeah."
"Right. Moving day. Sorry about that. I forgot."
Angela forgot something? That's a new one.
"No prob. So, an hour? Where?"
"Right. The office, where else? Your power suits already packed?"
Weird question. I throw Edward a sidelong glance and tap my own temple with my finger, echoing his earlier assessment. He nods emphatically.
"As a matter of fact, not yet."
"Perfect. Wear the cobalt blue D&G. Leave Mr Cullen at home, if at all possible. If not, get him to clean up as well and be quiet and inconspicuous. An hour."
Click. Angela Weber has left the building. Phone. Line. Whatever.
"What in bloody hell was that?" asks a frazzled Edward.
"Beats me, but you heard the lady. An hour. Go, grab a shower, and look pretty. I'll try to do the same."
"With that suit?" he quips, pointing his thumb at the corpus delicti. "You won't be trying, love. You'll be knocking them dead. Whoever that is. Should I call Tyler to drive us?"
"Nope. No time. I'll drive us in the Viper. Faster."
"You're going to be the death of me, woman."
"So you keep saying. Go shower. See you here in twenty."
"Yes, boss. I love you. You got this. Don't freak out," he repeats like a mantra, leaning in to kiss my forehead before sauntering out of my soon-to-be-ex bedroom.
There's only one reason for Angela to summon me to the office post-haste on a Sunday afternoon.
AwkWard (thank you NimNimBojangles - I LOVE IT!) battles with the media, almost goes off the deep end, and BCG and Angela bring him back down to earth. We know he's prone to exaggerating, he's overprotective, and more than a tad nervous. Angela may be blunt to the point of rudeness, but a) she's always been like that and b) coddling Edward is not her job. What do we think? More importantly, why is Angela summoning BCG to the office on a SUNDAY?
We'll find out next week.