Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
CHARLOTTE
Two weeks later, I’m in Los Angeles, and Aiden has not called.
Not the day after our hook-up. Not the week after. I’ve stopped hoping for a text.
The small apartment that has been rented for me is in the Westwood area, in a condominium filled with short-term rentals, mostly occupied by students. A small living room, an even smaller bedroom, and a minuscule kitchen. It’s clean, though, with only nominal wear and tear from the people who had lived here previously.
I pause, running my hand over the the small wooden table. There’s a fake bouquet of tulips in a vase.
This place reminds me of the cast accommodations during the LA press junket ahead of the release of The Gamble . Small, impersonal, clean.
I hate that.
It’s been almost ten years since The Gamble . Ten years since I was a naive nineteen-year-old and too-hopeful to know what I was getting into when I signed onto the reality show.
Nearly a decade since I’ve been back in LA.
I grab the fake tulips and shove them into the back of a kitchen cabinet. Tomorrow I’ll go buy fresh flowers or a potted plant. A throw blanket for the couch. Anything to make this space feel just a little bit less generic.
The round dining room table is covered with a stack of papers for this job. The job I still know almost nothing about. Not even the name of the subject. All I know is that it’s a man and that he runs a big company. But that’s it.
I signed the contract today, and Vera told me that she would send over the packet with the information ASAP. That was hours ago, and she still hasn’t. My editor at Polar Publishing is usually on top of things. We’ve worked together for almost five years at this point, ever since she scouted me as a young, independent, freelancing ghostwriter. Jointly, we’ve produced almost a dozen memoirs and biographies over the years.
She promised me that if I hit this next book out of the park, we’d talk about getting me on a contract for a non-fiction book under my very own name. Investigative journalism on a topic that we’ll brainstorm together. Not someone else’s story; but, a tightly woven narrative about the lives of many.
The carrot—dangled.
The stick? This memoir. It has a hard deadline and is shrouded in secrecy. Two months, that’s all I have before I need to submit the first draft.
I’ve worked on short deadlines before. But nothing quite like this. Three signed NDAs and no information about the subject.
As night falls, I crawl into bed in my tiny, impersonal, Westwood apartment. A place that’s likely seen a student living here before.
My cracked window is humming with sounds. Cars driving by, cicadas chirping, distant voices. And the heat. It’s comfortable here right now, but we’re heading into a hotter season. I lie on my side and listen to it all. Breathing through my unsettled nerves, I contemplate murdering Vera for not emailing me as she should.
I never get the chance to.
Morning comes, and so does an email from Vera, sent somewhere around one a.m. I’m bleary-eyed but excited until I read: I’ve been stuck at JFK since last night. The flights were delayed because of the storm and now I won’t make it in time. Heading back into the City now. So sorry!!! I’ve told my coworker Jesse to email you the packet. You got this. Hope it goes well!
No email in the inbox from Jesse. I call the office and get put on hold. Great. Just freaking great.
I’m outside my small condo building at the time Vera’s car is supposed to pick me up. The car arrives, sans Vera, and I get in.
We eventually pull to a stop at the entrance to a large office building in Culver City. It’s not that far from my tiny rental, but the LA traffic ensures that it takes plenty of time to get there. The exterior of the building is all glass. Elegant, expensive, and entirely anonymous. This entire assignment is shrouded in so much secrecy, it’s unreal. I’ve never experienced so much hush-hush in my life.
I’m supposed to call up from the lobby. Give my name and be escorted up. It’s rare that my editor isn’t there for the initial meeting, but I guess rescheduling with this businessman wasn’t a possibility, either.
It takes ten minutes for someone to come down to get me.
Into the lobby walks a thin man with Southeast Asian features, including black hair slicked back from his forehead. He’s wearing red-framed wire glasses and in an impeccably tailored navy suit.
His gaze lands on me immediately. “Ah. Charlotte. You’re here.”
“I sure am.” I extend a hand. “You’re Eric Yuwachit?”
“Yes, that’s me,” he says and gives my hand a quick shake. “Mr. Hartman’s executive assistant.”
Hartman. My brain whirls, trying to think of the famous corporate leaders I know. Hartman… Hartman… It rings a faint bell.
“Come with me,” Eric says. His voice is brisk. He looks like a man who runs an impeccable digital calendar and brokers no-nonsense. “A shame your editor from Polar couldn’t be here.”
“Yes, I know she wishes she was here, too. But with a storm that intense…” I give a light shrug and smile at him. He might not be my subject, but the charming starts here.
I’ve collaborated with subjects who had assistants before. Eric here is the gatekeeper.
“No, of course.” He calls for an elevator, clicking his heels together. “Have you been briefed this morning?”
A thread of unease rushes through me, there and gone again. That’s what Vera or Jesse should have done. I’ve been waiting for that packet email with the brief on the client since I woke up at seven this morning.
But it never arrived.
“No, not quite,” I say. “I’ve been kept out of the loop on the finer details of this project. I only signed all the documents yesterday.”
Eric nods again, and we step into the elevator. “That’s right. There are certain… sensitivities in this matter that require discretion. Mr. Hartman will explain further.”
“He’s the subject,” I say. It’s a guess, but I phrase it like I’m certain.
The elevator starts to move. Up and up, toward the top floor.
“Yes, he is,” Eric says. The doors slide open. “He’s the CEO of Titan Media.”
I falter. “Sorry?”
Eric looks over his shoulder at me, a faint furrow between his brows. “Titan Media. It’s one of the largest production companies in the country.”
“I know of it.” It takes effort to start walking again. To keep my face pleasantly neutral. The hallway is long, and the white walls stark.
Eric nods at a few people as we pass. He walks like a man on a mission, and I have no choice but to follow him. My mouth feels dry.
Titan Media CEO.
They have no idea who I am. And how could they, based on reading my resume? I switched to my mother’s maiden name eight years ago. Charlotte Richards, the blonde who stepped off the set of The Gamble, is gone. Charlotte Gray is a brunette with a mission.
Titan Media was in charge of producing The Gamble , the reality show I was on when I was young and dumb, and I’ve spent almost a decade running from.
And I’ve already signed the paperwork. Vera had told me this would be a challenging assignment. But it has a huge potential, Charlotte, she’d said. Huge potential.
I repeat the words in my mind as I follow Eric. There have been plenty of formidable subjects throughout my career.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
I’ll have to strategize later.
We stop at the large door made from frosted glass; bright natural light shines through it. “He’s through here,” Eric says.
The door swings open.
I’m faced with a large, brightly lit office where the floor-to-ceiling windows let in the bright Los Angeles sun.
There’s a wide desk at the center of the office.
And behind it stands a man. He’s in a pair of black slacks and a neatly tucked gray button-down, the fabric starched and wrinkle-free. No tie. The top two buttons are undone. He’s broad-shouldered, and his arms are crossed over his chest.
Thick, black hair pushed back from his square forehead in a controlled mass. Tanned skin. Sharp eyes.
He’s clean-shaven this time. It makes him look much younger, and also harsher somehow, his jaw is square and his eyes that unusual green.
And he’s staring straight at me.
“This is Aiden Hartman,” Eric says beside me. He makes a small urging sound, and only then do I realize that I’ve come to a dead stop at the threshold of the office. “The CEO of Titan Media, and the subject of the memoir.”
He looks almost like a stranger, silhouetted by the LA sunlight. But he’s not a stranger. No, he’s not a stranger at all… he’s someone I slept with and gave my number to.
And then he never called me.
He smiles. “Come on in, Ms. Gray.”