client. Needs plenty of attention.'
'Who?'
'You know our policy, Carol. No names.'
'Oh, come
on
, you can tell me.'
'Fraid not.'
She was about to say something, thought better of it, and went back
to pouring him more coffee.
Smart girl, Carol. Knew when
not
to push it.
By the time Taylor arrived at Oliver's it was past noon. She'd
planned on a morning visit, but it was not to be, too much stuff going
on that she had to deal with. She was on the board of several charities
and - because of her position - they were always asking her to do
something. 'Can you get us Ricky Martin to perform at an upcoming event
honouring Tom Hanks?'
'How about a signed script from Steven Spielberg for our auction?'
'Would Larry be willing to donate a walk-on role in his next movie?'
Stupid requests. But she was who she was, and occasionally she was able
to oblige.
Sometimes in the morning she joined Lissa and her private yoga
instructor. Today she didn't have time because a facial, manicure and
pedicure were definitely more important. Not to mention a Brazilian
bikini wax.
When she finally arrived at Oliver's, he was on his cellphone pacing
up and down in front of his beach-view window,
speaking animatedly. He waved her away when she attempted to hug him,
which kind of pissed her off. He should be kissing her ass, because not
only did they have great sex, but she was paying him to work on her
script.
It looked like he'd been entertaining, there were empty bottles of
beer everywhere, several overflowing ashtrays, and empty pizza boxes
piled high.
She watched him as he talked on the cellphone. He was clad in a torn
USC T-shirt and dirty khaki shorts. His outfit didn't matter, he still
looked hot.
Idly she wondered how risky it would be to check into Shutters At
The Beach and spend some quality time together. Not to mention clean
sheets and a working shower.
Too risky. Much too risky.
This morning, before leaving for the studio, Larry had asked what
her plans were for the day. She'd answered him vaguely.
'No more visiting writers in bad neighbourhoods,' he'd admonished
sternly. 'In future have them come to the house. You can use my office.'
'Thanks, sweetie,' she'd said, imagining herself naked in her loving
husband's office, making crazed, passionate love to a horny,
out-of-work screenwriter.
Now here she was at Oliver's, impatiently waiting for him to get off
the phone.
'It's, uh… like friggin' unreal,' Oliver said into the phone. 'I'll
be there pronto.'
'Be where?' Taylor asked, as soon as he clicked off.
'You're not gonna friggin'
believe
this,' he said
excitedly.
'What?'
'My agent sold my spec road-trip script for a million friggin'
bucks!'
* * *
Concentration was everything. At least her parents had taught her
one
useful lesson.
Work hard and don't expect thanks
. Well, yes,
she worked hard all right, but she got
plenty
of thanks. Her
fans loved her. They adored her. They
never
let her down.
Unlike her parents, who had no idea of the success she'd achieved.
Or maybe they did, and had no desire to contact her. It made her
angry and sad when she thought about them, so she tried not to do so.
Lissa easily outpaced her dancers at rehearsal: she had enough
stamina to keep going all day without a break.
'You're the bomb, honey,' her sleek black female choreographer
informed her admiringly. 'Dunno how you do it.'
Hard work. That's all it takes.
She kept going until six, then lingered at the rehearsal studio
going over stuff with her publicist. Max had all kinds of television
and magazine interviews lined up for her. She said yes to some, nixed
others.
She knew she should inform Max about her impending break-up, but
somehow she couldn't bring herself to mention it. Another divorce made
her feel like such a loser, and yet she knew that wasn't true. Gregg
was the loser, not her.
When she finally arrived home, there was a message from Gregg saying
he'd be working late again. She was relieved. If only she'd known,
'Who?'
'You know our policy, Carol. No names.'
'Oh, come
on
, you can tell me.'
'Fraid not.'
She was about to say something, thought better of it, and went back
to pouring him more coffee.
Smart girl, Carol. Knew when
not
to push it.
By the time Taylor arrived at Oliver's it was past noon. She'd
planned on a morning visit, but it was not to be, too much stuff going
on that she had to deal with. She was on the board of several charities
and - because of her position - they were always asking her to do
something. 'Can you get us Ricky Martin to perform at an upcoming event
honouring Tom Hanks?'
'How about a signed script from Steven Spielberg for our auction?'
'Would Larry be willing to donate a walk-on role in his next movie?'
Stupid requests. But she was who she was, and occasionally she was able
to oblige.
Sometimes in the morning she joined Lissa and her private yoga
instructor. Today she didn't have time because a facial, manicure and
pedicure were definitely more important. Not to mention a Brazilian
bikini wax.
When she finally arrived at Oliver's, he was on his cellphone pacing
up and down in front of his beach-view window,
speaking animatedly. He waved her away when she attempted to hug him,
which kind of pissed her off. He should be kissing her ass, because not
only did they have great sex, but she was paying him to work on her
script.
It looked like he'd been entertaining, there were empty bottles of
beer everywhere, several overflowing ashtrays, and empty pizza boxes
piled high.
She watched him as he talked on the cellphone. He was clad in a torn
USC T-shirt and dirty khaki shorts. His outfit didn't matter, he still
looked hot.
Idly she wondered how risky it would be to check into Shutters At
The Beach and spend some quality time together. Not to mention clean
sheets and a working shower.
Too risky. Much too risky.
This morning, before leaving for the studio, Larry had asked what
her plans were for the day. She'd answered him vaguely.
'No more visiting writers in bad neighbourhoods,' he'd admonished
sternly. 'In future have them come to the house. You can use my office.'
'Thanks, sweetie,' she'd said, imagining herself naked in her loving
husband's office, making crazed, passionate love to a horny,
out-of-work screenwriter.
Now here she was at Oliver's, impatiently waiting for him to get off
the phone.
'It's, uh… like friggin' unreal,' Oliver said into the phone. 'I'll
be there pronto.'
'Be where?' Taylor asked, as soon as he clicked off.
'You're not gonna friggin'
believe
this,' he said
excitedly.
'What?'
'My agent sold my spec road-trip script for a million friggin'
bucks!'
* * *
Concentration was everything. At least her parents had taught her
one
useful lesson.
Work hard and don't expect thanks
. Well, yes,
she worked hard all right, but she got
plenty
of thanks. Her
fans loved her. They adored her. They
never
let her down.
Unlike her parents, who had no idea of the success she'd achieved.
Or maybe they did, and had no desire to contact her. It made her
angry and sad when she thought about them, so she tried not to do so.
Lissa easily outpaced her dancers at rehearsal: she had enough
stamina to keep going all day without a break.
'You're the bomb, honey,' her sleek black female choreographer
informed her admiringly. 'Dunno how you do it.'
Hard work. That's all it takes.
She kept going until six, then lingered at the rehearsal studio
going over stuff with her publicist. Max had all kinds of television
and magazine interviews lined up for her. She said yes to some, nixed
others.
She knew she should inform Max about her impending break-up, but
somehow she couldn't bring herself to mention it. Another divorce made
her feel like such a loser, and yet she knew that wasn't true. Gregg
was the loser, not her.
When she finally arrived home, there was a message from Gregg saying
he'd be working late again. She was relieved. If only she'd known,
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