think you can walk on water but…”
The woman : “Twenty-four hours. At this point you’ve got nothing to lose.”
The man : “So help me…”
The woman : “Ah, just grow a pair, wouldja?!”
Miles’ face was grim. The assistant tapped on the door nervously and the voices paused.
“What?” yelled the man, stress dripping from the single syllable.
The assistant opened the door warily as if afraid she might need to duck quickly.
“Mr. Stephens and his friend are here, sir.”
“Friend? Who the fuck?!”
Miles surprised me by striding in purposefully. I trailed behind, wondering if I should wait in the corridor. But no: Miles needed me.
He surprised me again, his voice was cool and steady. “Mr. Hyde, Rhonda: you wanted to see me.”
“Who’s your friend, Miles?” said Rhonda, icily.
Instead he turned to me.
“Clare, this is Rhonda Weitz, my agent, and Donald Hyde, the head of Dark Moon Productions: my friend and assistant, Clare Milton.”
You could have knocked me down with a feather – he sounded so calm!
“I see,” said Rhonda, her eyes measuring me. I was sure I was glaring at her. “Well, we have something of a situation here, Miles. The Press have gotten a hold of the news that you’re playing Nuriel – and they want your balls on a plate.”
“But why?” I couldn’t help butting in.
She spoke slowly, as if to a particularly dim child, while her glacial eyes remained fixed on Miles. “Because he’s a Brit and the role is American; because fans have a preconceived idea of how Nuriel should look – and the photos that the papers have gotten hold of are less than flattering.”
For the first time I caught sight of the newspapers scattered across Hyde’s desk. Miles blanched when he read the headlines:
‘Back off, Brit!’
‘Miles Behind!’
‘He’s No Angel!’
There was an old publicity still from one of Miles’ minor theatrical roles – oh, they would pick the one where he played a drug addict.
“So the sitrep is this, Miles…” Rhonda’s tone was businesslike and unemotional, as if she was a vet talking to the owner of a dog she was about to put down. “We have to manage the negative output. First, we’re going to get the author of Dazzled to throw her support behind you; and secondly, I’ve been able to get you a slot on Ellen . Charm her, which you will, and half the battle is won.”
“Does the author really support me?” Miles said, quietly.
“I have no idea,” Rhonda replied, bluntly, “but she will. Don’t worry about that – I’ll take care of her. Right now you have to prepare for Ellen .”
“Who’s she?”
“Jeez, Miles! Are you really that clueless?” she snapped, her calm mask falling away. “Ellen de Generes’ talk show is one of the most watched in the continental US of A. We’re talking 2.74 million viewers with more on the internet later.” She took a breath and spoke in a more measured tone. “Filming will be at Burbank this evening. And Miles, it goes out live, so don’t fuck up.”
My stomach lurched unpleasantly. How the hell was Miles going to cope with that? How would anyone? His face looked blank with shock. I thought I was going to be sick on his behalf. What were friends for, right?
He looked at Rhonda. “What do you want me to do?”
A small smile chipped her concrete expression. “Suited and booted, Miles. I’ll have Bradley send over another outfit. Now, we need to run through the probable questions.”
Miles
In less than ten minutes, I was going to be going out on national television – American national television. I was so far beyond stunned that it seemed incredible my lungs continued to fill with air and blood still circulated in my veins.
I’d spent the day being prepped by Rhonda and the studio’s PR team. Clare had been holding my hand, metaphorically speaking, but even she looked dazed and had little to say other than repeating the words, “You’ll be great.” I wished she was a
The woman : “Twenty-four hours. At this point you’ve got nothing to lose.”
The man : “So help me…”
The woman : “Ah, just grow a pair, wouldja?!”
Miles’ face was grim. The assistant tapped on the door nervously and the voices paused.
“What?” yelled the man, stress dripping from the single syllable.
The assistant opened the door warily as if afraid she might need to duck quickly.
“Mr. Stephens and his friend are here, sir.”
“Friend? Who the fuck?!”
Miles surprised me by striding in purposefully. I trailed behind, wondering if I should wait in the corridor. But no: Miles needed me.
He surprised me again, his voice was cool and steady. “Mr. Hyde, Rhonda: you wanted to see me.”
“Who’s your friend, Miles?” said Rhonda, icily.
Instead he turned to me.
“Clare, this is Rhonda Weitz, my agent, and Donald Hyde, the head of Dark Moon Productions: my friend and assistant, Clare Milton.”
You could have knocked me down with a feather – he sounded so calm!
“I see,” said Rhonda, her eyes measuring me. I was sure I was glaring at her. “Well, we have something of a situation here, Miles. The Press have gotten a hold of the news that you’re playing Nuriel – and they want your balls on a plate.”
“But why?” I couldn’t help butting in.
She spoke slowly, as if to a particularly dim child, while her glacial eyes remained fixed on Miles. “Because he’s a Brit and the role is American; because fans have a preconceived idea of how Nuriel should look – and the photos that the papers have gotten hold of are less than flattering.”
For the first time I caught sight of the newspapers scattered across Hyde’s desk. Miles blanched when he read the headlines:
‘Back off, Brit!’
‘Miles Behind!’
‘He’s No Angel!’
There was an old publicity still from one of Miles’ minor theatrical roles – oh, they would pick the one where he played a drug addict.
“So the sitrep is this, Miles…” Rhonda’s tone was businesslike and unemotional, as if she was a vet talking to the owner of a dog she was about to put down. “We have to manage the negative output. First, we’re going to get the author of Dazzled to throw her support behind you; and secondly, I’ve been able to get you a slot on Ellen . Charm her, which you will, and half the battle is won.”
“Does the author really support me?” Miles said, quietly.
“I have no idea,” Rhonda replied, bluntly, “but she will. Don’t worry about that – I’ll take care of her. Right now you have to prepare for Ellen .”
“Who’s she?”
“Jeez, Miles! Are you really that clueless?” she snapped, her calm mask falling away. “Ellen de Generes’ talk show is one of the most watched in the continental US of A. We’re talking 2.74 million viewers with more on the internet later.” She took a breath and spoke in a more measured tone. “Filming will be at Burbank this evening. And Miles, it goes out live, so don’t fuck up.”
My stomach lurched unpleasantly. How the hell was Miles going to cope with that? How would anyone? His face looked blank with shock. I thought I was going to be sick on his behalf. What were friends for, right?
He looked at Rhonda. “What do you want me to do?”
A small smile chipped her concrete expression. “Suited and booted, Miles. I’ll have Bradley send over another outfit. Now, we need to run through the probable questions.”
Miles
In less than ten minutes, I was going to be going out on national television – American national television. I was so far beyond stunned that it seemed incredible my lungs continued to fill with air and blood still circulated in my veins.
I’d spent the day being prepped by Rhonda and the studio’s PR team. Clare had been holding my hand, metaphorically speaking, but even she looked dazed and had little to say other than repeating the words, “You’ll be great.” I wished she was a
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