Hi, y'all!
Happy Mother's Day to all who celebrate.
As usual, 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.
Now, why oh why did Angela summon BCG to the office on a Sunday? We're about to find out. See you on the flip side.
BUSINESS CLASS GIRL – Chapter 37
BCG
An hour later, on the dot, Edward and I are at Angela's office on Wilshire. For some mysterious reason, Edward keeps fidgeting like the Energizer bunny on crack while I'm stock-still. A salt statue. At least I haven't wrinkled my killer outfit, which Alice also approved via text message after berating me for donning the competition's frocks.
Before we have a chance to ring the bell, Angela open swings the door, releasing a cold air-conditioned blast in our baffled faces.
"Good. You're here."
Laconic and to the point, as usual. Although …
Something doesn't look quite right. Her spectacles sit askew on the bridge of her nose. Her make-up looks tired, her lipstick almost smudged away from her lips. Her hair, normally spun tight in intricate updos, frames her face in a handful of stray tendrils. There are circles under her eyes as if she didn't get her usual beauty sleep, and her ivory silk blouse hangs rumpled from her shoulders. No suit jacket or blazer in sight.
Angela Weber went through the wringer and was hung out to dry wet.
And yet …
The glint in her eyes sparks with so much crackling intensity it's almost alive. It's victorious.
"Well, people, don't stand there like statues. Come on in; you know your way around."
Edward covertly lifts an eyebrow my way, angling his body so Ang can't see him.
"Yeah, we've been around this joint a couple of times. I like your style, Weber," he counters with a faint snicker as he ushers me inside with his hand at my elbow.
"Shut it, Cullen. This isn't your party. Go sit tight in my office. Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe until we come for you. You hear me?"
"Yes, ma'am," he replies with a mock salute, turning to me. "I love you. You got this. Don't freak out." He recites the newly minted mantra again, pulls me into a hug, and after a kiss to the top of my head, slinks away into Angela's fortress of solitude.
"Let's get this show on the road, girl. After you," Ang announces.
I'm still trying to wrap my head around her atypical—and less than unflappable—appearance and what it could mean for the next sixty minutes of my life.
She leads me into the conference room. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Wilshire wrap around half the walls in the room, setting the stage for the black crystal top of the boardroom table. The other two solid walls showcase movie posters, all starring this or that talent from Angela's stable. Branding is carried out throughout the whole space the same way a decorator would carry a trim or a pattern.
Two figures sitting at one end of the table turn our way after Ang has closed the door behind her. They immediately stand and approach us.
Angela draws a sharp, quick breath beside me—as if steeling herself for what's to come. Then she switches back to her professional persona, dripping confidence from every syllable she speaks.
"Isabella, meet Benjamin Cheney and Victoria Chamberlain, respectively CEO and Editor in Chief of Fireblaze Publishing."
On autopilot, I extend my hand to them and allow my eyes to scope them out as covertly as I can. They reciprocate my greeting, and then the guy turns to Ang with a warm, dimpled smile.
"Angela, what did I tell you? It's Ben to you and your client. We're not so formal around here, are we, Vic?"
"That would be a resounding no," "Vic" replies. She throws a sly wink in my direction from one of her resplendent sapphire eyes while the haphazard cloud of her Titian red hair bounces around with her every move.
Meanwhile, Ang still hasn't uttered another word of reply to "Ben," who's pulling out a chair for her. Could the not-so-formal Mr Cheney be the cause for Angela's newly emerged flappable condition? Food for thought.
While I ponder this, I also can't help but scan the recesses of my brain because Victoria Chamberlain's name does ring a bell with me. I've heard of her before; I just can't place where or why.
Ang shakes me out of my musings by taking control of the meeting with typical "Ang in charge" M.O.
"The reason I unceremoniously summoned you here on a Sunday afternoon, Isabella, is because the deadline to open bids for the auction was yesterday at six p.m., as you know, even if your presence was not formally required. We opened all five valid bids. The lawyers and the notary did their thing, and Fireblaze was certified as the winning bidder. There's time to go over the fine print …"
At this point, I do butt in—after my brain has unscrambled itself and processed all this. I did it. Someone bought my manuscript. I'm one step closer to proving to myself I'm not a fraud.
"Can I have my lawyer go over the fine print, too?"
Ang smirks. She knows I won't budge without Jasper's seal of approval—even better, one of his people who actually practices entertainment and intellectual property law.
At my words, Ben Cheney smiles from ear to ear and Ms Chamberlain bestows an approving nod my way.
"We'll let our lawyers and yours argue over syllables and clauses, Ms Swan. I'd like to think we have more substantial things to concern ourselves with," Ben starts, just before Victoria stops him, tapping his arm with her blood-red Montblanc pen.
"And more fun, Isabella … May I call you, Isabella?" Victoria asks.
Right. Not so formal. "Bella, please."
"Bella, then," she replies with another nod and a smile. "As I said, more fun. But, regardless of what my CEO or your agent says, this is your rodeo, Bella. This is on your terms. So, you show every damn scrap of paper to a murder of lawyers until you are happy with it."
I'm going to like this firebrand. "I'm glad we're on the same page, Ms Chamberlain."
"It's Vic to you, Bella. We're not so formal around here, are we?"
At that, laughter erupts around the table.
"Vic," I begin again, trying it on for size, "forgive the question, but … your name sounds familiar. Where have I heard it before?"
She flashes me a blinding, perfectly whitened smile. "Someone did her homework. I used to be the Commissioning Editor at LB Books. I left three years ago to strike out on my own."
That's where I heard it. Marcus was hired when she left. Poetic justice at its best. Vic continues her story.
"Ben is the numbers guy. I'm not left-brained at all. I handle the creative side. The fun stuff, as I said."
I'm tempted to reserve judgment on what her definition of "fun" might entail until I do get to work with her, but her no-bullshit attitude is a good omen so far.
Angela's words from a few weeks ago come back to haunt me though. It's time to work my butt off, to put my "brilliant plan"—as she called it—into motion, and I'd like to know what that would entail.
"I'm sure Bella would like to know what the process going forward will look like," Angela offers, always on point with her ninja-agent skills.
Ben jumps on it, regaling Angela with a dimpled smile that leaves her as wide-eyed as a barn owl in the English countryside. "Fair concern. The first step, but by no means a hurdle I expect, is to get the paperwork and fine print straightened out. The winning bid we were lucky enough to submit is only a list of bullet points to meet the auction requirements. It takes a bit more mumbo-jumbo and a few autographs to make it legal. I trust you've been advised of the terms?"
His question is addressed to me, but he turns to Angela without fail. She blinks in rapid succession like a barn owl, opens and closes her mouth a few times, but no words come out. And then she blushes. I've never seen Angela blush. The Iron Lady Angela Weber must have it bad for Mr Cheney to the point that her work performance is taking a mild hit. I'll give her a pass because it's adorable and entertaining to watch, and it makes invaluable fodder for blackmail; plus, let's face it, she just delivered the goods anyway. And Ben, his dimples, and his sparkling grey eyes are an excellent excuse to drop the ball for a moment.
"The terms. Right. Bella, in a nutshell: worldwide English language print and e-book rights, options for two sequels, market standard royalties plus five percent if you hit sales targets to be determined, and a 100,000-dollar advance."
My turn to be speechless and slack-jawed. 100K? Sequels? Two sequels? Sales targets? Holy shit. I have to psych myself into taking a deep breath just to prevent my traitor brain from going into overdrive. "That is … that is … amazing. Unexpected. Wow."
Vic extends her hand across the table to pat my arm.
"I'm usually more articulate than this."
"Oh, we know, Bella. We've read your work. You deserve every cent of that advance. But first, we have work to do."
I nod. Vic is switching gears. I'm ready for this.
"The paperwork is boring as hell, but it's a necessary evil. Once that's done, I want to meet with you so we can get to know each other better and start finessing that manuscript of yours."
Ben throws a look in Vic's direction, and without a word, she lets him continue. They have a fine-tuned dynamic going, and it speaks volumes about the way they do business. For all of Vic's claims of not being left-brained, she oozes business savvy. Otherwise, she would have drowned long ago in this industry.
"Just for our info, who're the legal people you'll have on this? We'll have a draft ready in the next few days and …" Again, Ben is looking at Angela, and this time, he might think she has the answer. Little does he know …
"Ben, if it's all right with you, someone from White, Devlin & Hale will be handling this."
"White, Devlin & Hale? Not one of the usual Tinsel Town law firms …"
He has a point. But I know Jasper insisted on having a couple entertainment law guys here in the L.A. office; it'd be foolish of them as a firm not to tap into a huge potential business in this town even if it's not one of their long-standing core practices. I wouldn't trust another firm or lawyer to spin me a huge yarn.
"No, but I have connections." How, and with whom, I'd rather keep it vague for now.
"What Bella means is she used to work for one of the name partners in their London office." Or not. Thank you, Ang.
"Really? Your little tale starts sounding more and more autobiographical by the minute." I knew Vic would pick up on it.
"Some of it." Keep it vague for now. Some of it is still my life.
"Well, I think we've got all our bases covered for now. Go get your anxious boyfriend back, B. I can wrap things up with Vic and Ben here."
Sure you can, Ang. Sure you can.
Still floating on a 100K-shaped cloud, I flit out of the boardroom—luckily without faceplanting anywhere—and go retrieve my Edward from his Angela-imposed timeout.
###BCG###
Edward
I still don't quite know how to form words. Well, I do. In theory.
I congratulated the shit out of her already. In my own way. Right there on the pavement outside Angela's office. Smack-dab in the middle of Wilshire Boulevard.
I heard the tell-tale click of flashes before I could stop or find it in myself to care. So I just didn't. I kept kissing Bella with everything I had.
This is her dream. And it's finally here. She did it.
A nasty corner of my brain can't contain a healthy dose of gloating towards Marcus Goldsmith. It appears he fucked up so badly his company didn't even dare submit a bid. Serves the wanker right.
"EC? You're awfully quiet. You all right?"
Typical. It's her big day, and she's concerned whether I'm doing fine.
"I guess I'm just speechless, my lovely."
"Tell me about it."
I've been looking out the window since we made it back into the Viper. I don't think I could handle Bella in her curve-hugging power suit, driving the Viper, after the contact high her news has given me. The last thing we need is to end up pretzeled around a lamppost because the driver is unduly distracted.
"I'm proud of you, love. So damn proud."
Fucking finally. Words. Thank you, brain, for joining us today.
She throws a bashful glance my way now that we're trapped at a red light. "I still can't quite wrap my head around this."
"100K takes some getting used to," I concede.
"Says Mr Seven Figures."
My shrug is almost a Pavlovian reaction. I rarely sit down and count my loot. It's not what I'm in this for, but financial security certainly helps me avoid a lot of the more mundane worries. Neither Bella nor I have ever been destitute, but this has to be a different league for her.
"It's still more than I earned for my first role."
"Yeah, but mine is an advance. If the book tanks …"
"Blasphemy, love. Pure blasphemy. Not with Ang in your corner. And that redheaded publisher of yours seems rather fierce, too."
We're finally speeding out of downtown, and after a while, I notice she's not heading back home.
"Have we missed the turn-off for Venice Beach, love?"
"Not technically."
Fucking lawyers, their assistants, and their lingo. "And practically?"
"Practically, you can't miss a turn-off if it wasn't your destination to begin with."
Ah. This clears it up. Good to know. "Can a guy ask what the destination is, then?"
She winks at me. "I figured we could go out to celebrate. I texted Em that we'll be back tomorrow at his place for the rest of my boxes," she replies, turning north onto the Pacific Coast Highway in the direction of the Palisades.
Suddenly, the dots start connecting. "Gladstones?"
"See, you're not just a pretty face. How about some celebratory chowder?"
"I'm more irritated I didn't plan on this myself. But it's Sunday night …" I'm thinking of crowds, reservations, long waits, people with smartphones and Instagram accounts.
"I may have asked Ang to put in a reservation in your name. You don't mind, do you?"
As if. "Bollocks, no, love. That way I can at least pretend I didn't act as a substandard boyfriend. I should be wining and dining you, for fuck's sake."
She snickers a little just as we pull up at the restaurant. I can't tell if the bloke who catches her keys at the valet stand is ogling the Viper or Bella more. For good measure, I scowl at him until he freezes, a flash of recognition in his eyes.
"Mr Cullen, sir."
"Not a scratch on the car, understood?"
He gulps, still frozen in place. There's a line forming, but he can't be bothered. "Not a scratch, sir," he manages to reply when his fingers clutch the bills I hand to him.
I wrap my arm around Bella's waist and lead her inside. The hostess, who looks barely legal, looks me over with a blasé expression and nary a glance at Bella. It's more professional than outright flirting and fawning, but I still hate it when people dismiss her like this. This girl is my whole life, and all these strangers assume she's just the hired help. A hanger-on. They have no fucking idea I can barely find my own arse in the morning without her telling me where to look.
The hostess leads us to our table, still refusing to acknowledge Bella. Her attitude is starting to rub me the wrong way, so I draw Bella a little closer and nuzzle her hair. Maybe the hostess will get a sodding clue I'm not here alone?
"Just think, this time next year we'll be booking a table in your own name, love, and nobody will give two shits about me."
She turns to me with a dazzling smile. "Highly unlikely. But thanks for the vote of confidence, Edward."
####BCG###
Two hours and too many bowls of clam chowder later, we're lounging in our bed at home. Our bed. Our home.
Sometimes, I wonder if we've thrown ourselves into this too fast. If our circumstances are contrived, rendered artificial by the kind of life we lead. If we'd still be moving in together after barely six months had we been dating like any other ordinary couple. Dinner and a movie. Meet the parents. Holiday dinners. The whole nine yards.
Then I remember that—if I admit it to myself—she's been in my life longer than six months. I've loved her longer than six months.
Also, fuck other people's timelines.
"There's something we need to discuss."
Her words break through my musings and stall my movements from tracing idle circles on her naked hip with my fingers while she cuddles into my side.
Those tend to be ominous words in the English language, but I take heart noticing she's deliberately avoided the canned, ultra-cursed, four-word version of that phrase, "we need to talk." So I hold off panicking. For now.
"Anything you need, love. Tell me."
"You know how you've always offered me some … work flexibility so I could write?"
"And you always rebuffed my gracious offers." She did. But I don't mean to throw it back in her face.
Shut up, Cullen. Let her speak.
"Because I've always been able to make it work so far. But now …"
"Now it's real, right?"
She turns her face up to look me in the eye, but it's an awkward posture, so she disentangles herself from my embrace to lie on her side. I follow suit to mirror her stance, but draw her back into me, circling my arm around her hip again.
"Yes, it's real. I hate to do this to you, baby, but …"
Now it's time to panic. Is she walking out on me?
"Are you quitting?"
"God, no. Not quitting. Not indefinitely. But I do need time off. The editing process is going to be brutal. On a break-neck schedule with non-existent deadlines. There's no way I can humanly juggle … and you'll be filming in Vancouver for eight weeks at least so … Fuck. I'm rambling."
Okay. Not quitting. Disable the panic button. As long as she's not quitting, I can deal with the rest.
"What do you have in mind, then?"
She takes a deep breath. She's thought about this, clearly. For a while—she has her strategy face on.
"I will need four to six weeks off the job."
That's all? Hell, if I'm in Vancouver the whole time, and she stays behind in L.A., I can be back here and in her arms every weekend. "Anything you want, love. We can work the rest out."
She exhales a deep breath again. There must be more to this plan.
"I know how I get when I'm 150 percent focussed on something. I get trapped in my own bubble. And I need to be on my own."
"Well, if I'm in Vancouver anyway, you'll have the whole house to yourself. Maggie and Ang can run point job-wise. I can be back here whenever I have a break. Every Friday night. It's a three-hour flight."
She starts shaking her head. My hand grips her hip tighter, and I draw her closer to me still. Will it ever be close enough?
"I can't be here, Edward. I know myself. I know the way I work. I won't have weekends. I won't have breaks. Too much is riding on this. Too much … and you can't go back to the way things were before. There's too much crap Ang or Maggie can't be expected to deal with and …"
And she's rambling again. From the looks of it, she's terrified I won't like this plan of hers. I'm trying to be mature and give her the benefit of the doubt, but any plan that contemplates being without her for any length of time doesn't rank high on my list of favourite things.
"Bella, love. Just tell me. Maybe I won't like it, but there's hardly anything I wouldn't do for you. You should know that."
"Okay. Here's the deal. You need a temp assistant while I'm away."
No. No-one can take her place.
"I said temp, Edward. Don't scowl at me."
"Only as long as you're … let's say … on lockdown? Not a day more?"
"Yes, that's the definition of a temp."
"Will she be as amazing as you?"
And will the media go berserk if it looks like I'm dicking around behind Bella's back because I have a new assistant?
"No." Bella's monosyllabic answer stops me dead in my tracks.
"Uh?"
"He will try to be as amazing as me."
"He?"
"Don't be a chauvinistic pig. It's the twenty-first century."
After my initial shock, I have to admit I'm sort of glad. No possible tales of infidelity will be spun by the rabid elements of the blogosphere.
"Sure, sure, I just …"
"You assumed it'd be a she?"
Busted. "Kinda. Sorta. But can anyone be even as remotely as good as you?"
"Fair concern. He'll try, and he will be, if I train him."
"Can I at least meet the guy?"
"Of course. He'll be shadowing us until I leave to get up to speed with things, and he'll travel to Vancouver with you. He's done this before, and he's Weber-approved. You'll like Seth. He's a cool guy."
"If you say so." I can deal with the temp guy. I think. But … "Where will you be, love, when you leave … and leave me in the clutches of the temp guy?"
"In a galaxy far, far away. Moor Lodge."
I've heard the name. I've just never been told what and where it is. "The infamous Moor Lodge?"
"Yes. My dad's family's country house. On the edge of Dartmoor, by the sea. It's within easy driving distance of Dartmouth so …"
"… the Admiral can keep an eye on you?"
She makes a dismissive gesture. I resist a shudder. I just mentioned the Admiral while I'm in bed with his daughter. And we're both naked.
"Not my main motivation for going there. It's isolated enough to be peaceful, but not utterly cut off from civilization."
"Uhm. Still, I like the idea he can look in on you if you're out there by yourself. I don't completely like this plan, but …" She tries to interrupt, but I silence her with a kiss. "But I … we … are in this for the long haul. There are going to be times when we end up at the opposite ends of the earth. It's still going to suck, but we'll make it through. We'll work through it. You're worth it."
"No, we're worth it."
"God, B. I love you."
"Always, EC. Always."
So, they moved in together and ... Oh boy, so it looks like Bella's getting published!
Details of her contract and of the bidding process are fictional, btw, but one former fanfic author, Anna Todd, did get a (further undisclosed) six-figure advance when her first book (a former 1D fanfic) was published.
Looks like AwkWard is getting a new PA. Enter Seth Clearwater, stage left. How will Edward like this transition away from BCG? It's anyone's guess, but we'll find out next week :)
Talk to me, people! And remember, teasers go up on Thursdays throughout FB and in my group, LaMomo's Lair (type the name in the search bar).