Chapter 12 - Rich and Powerful and Necessary

Striding along the fifth floor corridor towards her room, Violet's heart pounded, her face flushed. While her fists remained clenched, there was an unbearable pressure on her tear ducts. Cry or punch the wall? Either option seemed just as likely.

Is this how it's meant to be?

Game playing and… innuendo.

That wasn't innuendo. You couldn't get more obvious than that.

"…probably left it on my bed," a voice spoke behind her, floating around the corner from the direction of the lifts she had just left. "You go down. I won't be moment."

Violet lifted her keycard to the reader on her door, wanting to escape into her room before Timothy Killaney saw her; she recognised his voice. But he entered the corridor just as she swiped.

"Violet!" he said, his lips stretching wide. She shot him a quick glance as he approached. "Are you coming to—" His smile faltered. "What's wrong?"

The light on the card reader clicked red. Violet bowed her head, exhaling sharply.

"You have to do it slowly," Tim said, coming up beside her. "Do you want me to try?"

"It's not… the fucking… card."

He appeared to freeze beside her. Perhaps he'd never heard her swear so ferociously before. In good humour, yes. Mild frustration, definitely.

Violet swiped again—slowly this time—and the reader clicked green.

"Are you…" Tim began again, tentatively she noticed, as Violet pushed open her door, "… coming to dinner?" Violet entered her room, holding the door open as she turned to answer Tim. "I just have to get my phone," he continued, gesturing along the corridor. "At least, I think I left it in my room." He seemed to study her, as if he thought she was a ticking time bomb.

"Can I talk to you for a moment?" Violet asked, her tone considerably calmer. "I…" Her throat began to close over, but the last thing she wanted to do was to burst into tears. "I think I've fucked up something."

Her eyes misted over and she turned and left the doorway, assuming Tim would follow her in.

"Sure. You can talk to me about anything," he said.

"That you, Vi?" Mandi called from the bathroom.

Violet sank down onto the sofa. Tim hesitated before taking the armchair opposite. He looked up as Mandi entered the room.

"How was the meet…. Oh! Hi, Tim."

"Mandi!" he said, immediately rising and making his way to Violet's P.A. "You look exquisite!"

Mandi blushed furiously as Tim gave her a peck on the cheek. She thanked Tim for the compliment. Violet resisted the urge to roll her eyes. He's fucking gay, she wanted to say to Mandi. Why couldn't the world know this?

"Vi had a meeting with Hersch Gleitzman," Mandi gushed to Tim as she dropped to the sofa next to Violet and he resumed his position opposite. "How'd it go?" she asked Violet.

Violet's heart rate hadn't quite returned to normal. Her pulse continued thudding in her ears.

"I'm not sure it was a meeting," she said, and she explained to Tim and Mandi how Gleitzman's P.A. had met Violet in the bar downstairs to advise her that Gleitzman could only see her in his hotel suite.

At this point, Tim sat up straighter, the spark of warm humour normally residing in his eyes extinguishing.

"Oh, that happens all the time," Mandi said, waving a dismissive hand. "As Marcia said, he's such a busy man. I bet he spends half his life having meetings away from his office."

Because of Mandi's flippant attitude, Violet kept her gaze on Tim as she began to detail her encounter with Hersch Gleitzman.

#

Twelve minutes earlier

"Go ahead," Marcia said, pushing the door inwards and gesturing to Violet to enter the room ahead of her.

When Marcia went to step back into the corridor, a cold hand gripped Violet's heart.

"Aren't you coming in?" she asked the P.A.

Marcia waved her phone around as she had done downstairs.

"I have to book Hersch's flight and I can't do it in the room while you're having a meeting. He hates the background noise. Go in for God's sake. He's expecting you! Hersch is on a very tight schedule here. You're very lucky."

For fuck's sake, thought Violet, as the door clicked shut behind her. I didn't call the fucking meeting.

The suite was similarly decorated to Violet's downstairs, but larger with an extra door possibly through to an adjoining room. The lights were dimmed and music played low.

Jazz.

Ugh.

All muted trumpets and piano tinkles. Violet never cared for it, probably because she didn't understand it. Nick had once taken her to a jazz bar in the basement of… somewhere. They'd gotten uproariously drunk. Violet recalled staggering along the street in fits of laughter as she tried to explain to Nick how much she hated jazz.

Oh, God, why was her mind scrambling for old memories?

Violet could hear Gleitzman's voice through the open door to what she assumed to be the bedroom. Obviously, he was taking a phone call. Scanning the room, she folded her arms in front of her, finishing on a painting above the sofa.

A beach, blue sky and surf and… Oh, dear God, she thought, her breath coming in short bursts.

Get a grip, Violet!

What am I doing here? I'm in a strange man's hotel suite, all alone.

Are you stupid or gullible or both? Sherlock asked her in her imagination. Not that he would use those words in reference to her.

Would he?

Oh, yes, he would, replied Mandi.

Marcia will be back soon, Violet told herself, hugging her elbows just that little bit tighter, her gaze locked on the painting.

"Won't be a sec," Gleitzman said behind her.

Violet emitted an almost imperceptible gasp and turned towards him. Her eyes widened at the sight of him. He was making his way back into the bedroom, phone pressed to his ear. Water beaded on his hairy shoulders and back.

He's wearing nothing but a fucking towel, Violet, spat Sherlock. Half naked, dimmed lighting, mood music, and look over there… did you see it when you entered the room?

She had seen it. A champagne bucket with two glasses.

He's wearing a fucking hotel-issued bath towel, Sherlock said again.

Stop swearing! You don't swear when you make observations, Sherlock.

This is you, remember, Violet. You're making the observations. You're just using my voice.

Violet sighed.

Nice observations, though, he added. And Violet could just make out the half smile he'd sometimes gift her with. His eyes would be twinkling with pride, too. Her heart twinged.

When the bedroom door eventually closed, Violet sighed with relief.

There, Sherlock, stop worrying. He's obviously getting dressed now. I just surprised him by arriving early.

Bollocks.

And I never worry.

I'm always in control of everything.

Then what's he going to do next, if you know so much?

He's going to—

The bedroom door opened, and Gleitzman stepped out wearing a bathrobe.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

"Sorry about that," Gleitzman said, walking over to the table where the champagne bucket sat. "Rodney from BIF. Do you know him?"

"No, sorr—"

"Banks Independent Films?" Gleitzman said, his back now to Violet as he lifted the champagne bottle. "Well, he's a cunt anyway."

Pot. Kettle.

Sherlock, be quiet!

"I'm not familiar with his work," Violet said, forcing a smile into her voice.

"You will be. Have a seat."

He's wearing a bathrobe, Violet.

Shh!

Gleitzman gestured towards the sofa with one of the champagne glasses he now held. Since she was nearest the sofa anyway, Violet took the two steps towards it and sank down.

No!

Oh, dammit. Should've sat in the armchair.

You know the rules: never sit on a couch when there's a lecherous man around.

I know.

Yet you sat anyway.

I wasn't thinking.

Clearly.

It was almost like shooting a scene where they'd already rehearsed the blocking. Violet had seen it all in preview a split second before it happened. Gleitzman rounded the coffee table and took his seat on the sofa next to Violet, his form taking up the rest of the two-seater.

Bathrobe!

Stop it! He's just… eccentric.

Violet had already sat close to the edge, so she had no sofa left to move to. Gleitzman handed her a glass of champagne.

"Sorry," Violet said, holding up a hand in protest. "I never drink when I'm working."

"This isn't working."

"I mean… on set, tomorrow. It's a physically demanding role. I have to be in peak shape."

Oh, for fuck's sake, Sherlock said, as Gleitzman's eyes scanned Violet from breast to hip as if she'd just invited him to.

Feel that shiver running down your spine, Sherlock observed for her, a fight or flight response. If you don't leave now, I'll be forced to headbutt him for you.

There's a time and a place for physical violence, Sherlock.

"My trainer will know and there'll be hell to pay," she added, with a sweet smile she knew didn't quite reach her eyes. "I must refuse."

Yes, very British, very polite. But is it enough to dissuade him? He is American after all.

Don't be so prejudiced!

"Suit yourself," Gleitzman said with a shrug. He placed both champagne glasses on the coffee table then leant back into the sofa with one armed resting along the back of it. In Violet's imagination, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Glitz and Gomorrah," Gleitzman went on. "You're perfect for Mary Pickford."

Violet's mouth ran dry. This was a lead role!

"I… I heard they were looking at Asha Steeple for Mary," she remarked.

Gleitzman idly waved his hand.

"Asha's in everything. Over-saturation. The audience won't buy it."

Mary Pickford. The silent movie star. She was Hollywood. America's sweetheart. But why did this gift of a role have to come wrapped in such repulsive packaging?

Oh, you think so too?

Stop it, Sherlock!

"It sounds amazing," Violet said automatically.

Gleitzman suddenly straightened up and reached for the champagne before taking a swig.

"But we can talk about that later," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "Rodney interrupted me in the shower with his last minute panic. If you don't mind, I'd like to finish it."

Oh, God, Violet. You know what's coming.

He wouldn't dare.

As if in slow motion, Violet watched, in ever-growing horror, as a large hairy hand found a home on her knee.

"And you should join me."

Time ground to a halt. She stared into that massive face—the monstrous unshaven jawline, the small, beady eyes—her heart dropping heavily into the pit of her stomach. His sickly moist hand froze on her leg in the bubble of time she had hidden herself away in.

This wasn't happening.

You know it is, Violet. May I tell you what I see?

Please do.

Sherlock's sharp intake of breath preceded the rest, which was spouted at a manic pace.

I see a fifty-eight year old man, way, way, way past his prime—if he ever had one. Business talent far outweighs his charm. Youngest boy in a family of all girls. Father abandoned them all at a young age. Clearly had no male role models, nobody to show him how to respect women. Or anyone, for that matter. Ugly both outside and in, low self-esteem, no relationships of any real depth, even his wife and children despise him. He has to abuse his position of power to influence young actresses into performing sexual acts on him. Yes, on him, because he's far too selfish to contribute. Morbidly obese, halitosis, small, small, small penis.

Am I right?

It had all taken place in the blink of Violet's mind's eye, but imagined or real, Violet could only react the way she normally would in the wake of a brutal yet accurate deduction of Sherlock's.

Violet Hunter burst out laughing.

It was the absurdity of it all! Against the backdrop of original, vibrant, creative storylines from films produced by his company, he came up with this… this unoriginal, cliched, laughable scene.

The laughter continued bubbling inside her, but it was a joyous laugh, one that was punctuated with a tiny snort and brought tears to her eyes, because, once again, Sherlock Holmes had grounded her, even in his absence. He reminded her to see this situation for what it was. A sad, lonely, inexperienced man-child, trying to grope an attractive young woman who was supposed to be entranced by his mesmerising personality and enthralled by the power he wielded.

As her shoulders shook with mirth, she wondered how she now looked to Hersch Gleitzman—her eyes bright and moist from humorous tears, her hiccuping laughter continuing on, unabated.

And strangely enough, Gleitzman began to laugh, too, a low, closed-mouth rumble, though he sounded a little unsure. Violet took this opportunity to commence her escape.

Still chuckling, she patted his hand twice and quickly stood so that it slid from her knee.

"That's so funny!" she said. Gleitzman's own laugh stopped abruptly. Making her way around the coffee table, Violet added, "Oh, well, I won't keep you then. I know you've got a flight to catch—Marcia was just booking it." Gleitzman opened his mouth, but Violet powered on as she shifted towards the door. "It's a shame our meeting was cut short, but I'll look forward to your people contacting mine. Sounds like an exciting project." Grabbing the door handle, she reefed open the door. "Have a lovely evening. Goodnight!"

#

Violet looked from Tim to Mandi, then back again.

"Thank God he was only joking," Mandi remarked, rising from the sofa. "I don't know who Mary Pickford is, but I s'pose I'll hear from Marcia at some stage. Well, we'd better go. Everyone will already be there."

Violet narrowed her eyes at Tim as Mandi exited the living area for her handbag. Did he miss everything of importance, too?

"What do you think?" she asked him. "Is his behaviour normal? I don't think he was joking. I made him think I took it as a joke."

"I know."

"So… do you think he's angry with me now? Is the role in jeopardy? I don't know if I'm supposed to report him to somebody. Am I?"

Timothy heaved out a weary sigh.

"Violet, Asha's got the part. She's already signed on for it. We share the same U.S. agent. That's how I know. I don't think he was serious about the role. It was just a…"

Mandi breezed back into the room at that point. Violet exchanged a look with Tim. She understood. The man had dangled a carrot in front of her, to get her to do his filthy bidding. There had never been a role in Glitz and Gomorrah for her.