Chapter 2
Chapter Two
There were perks to being an actress in exile. Loose linen, bare feet, and a pool nobody swam in.
Vivian del Castillo sipped her martini and watched the automatic pool cleaner make its rounds, hypnotic and aimless. Miami’s summer humidity made everything slower, suspended, like time itself refused to move forward.
The downside to exile was never noticing silence until it was a living thing wrapped around her skeleton and pushing in from all sides. Welp. No free lunches.
“Vivian,” Iris called, sliding open the glass door. She stepped onto the covered patio, cell phone in hand. “Harvey is on the line.”
In response, Vivian took another unhurried sip of her martini. Iris, who’d been with her since she fled Hollywood nearly twenty years earlier, stood there with the patience of a saint. Having moved far beyond an employer-employee relationship years ago, Iris had added telepathy to her many skills.
Iris knew, before Vivian opened her mouth, that she didn’t want to speak to her longtime producer. At six o’clock on a Friday, she’d finished with her work week. It was a truth universally acknowledged that Vivian wasn’t risking burnout for anyone.
“He said it’s important.” Iris picked up the small remote on the long teak table in front of the outdoor kitchen. With a button, she turned on the palm-frond-shaped overhead fans positioned every few feet, as if moving hot air around was the same as cooling.
Sitting cross-legged on the white canvas sectional, Vivian made no move to take the phone. “He can call at 8 a.m. on Monday.”
Because Harvey also knew Vivian well enough for predictions, Iris didn’t have to unmute the phone and relay the message. He’d anticipated her refusal.
“It’s about Magpies,” she replied.
Vivian paused mid-sip. She’d finished recording her portion of that audiobook weeks earlier. “Since when does Harvey call to tell me there are pickups to record?”
Iris pushed a gray strand of curly hair away from her sweaty face. Even after all these years, she’d never grown accustomed to the humidity. “I think you’d better talk to him.”
It wasn’t the advice that made Vivian set her glass on the coffee table; it was the way Iris delivered it. The way she rocked back on her heels ever so slightly when she was worried.
Without another word, Vivian held out her hand, palm up.
“This better be good,” she said when she answered.
“Well, I don’t know about good, but it’s important enough to bother you,” Harvey replied.
Vivian made a sound in her throat to signal that he had indeed disturbed her.
“Magpies.” He paused because he was physically incapable of spitting things out. “The author listened to it.”
“So?”
“We’re going to have to re-record.”
Irritation was a whip in Vivian’s hand, itching to unfurl at blinding speed. She tightened her grip. “Good thing I always keep backup files despite your insistence—”
“There’s nothing wrong with the actual files.” He cleared his throat. “It’s the recording.”
“Harvey, what the hell are you—”
“Yenni Montoya wants the book recorded as a duet rather than a dual.”
A sour bubble burned the back of her throat and sounded vaguely like a laugh. “What?”
“I know it’s unusual—”
“Why would Synergy Books ever agree to record the book again?”
“Your refusal to join socials is admirable.” Harvey sighed.
“Maybe if you were running the imprint instead of out-of-touch old men desperate for relevance, you wouldn’t have been swayed by her 8 million devoted followers.
I can only imagine that when they granted her unprecedented final approval rights, they didn’t expect her to use them. But she did, and here we are.”
Vivian leaned over, grabbed her glass, and gulped the rest in one go. Iris was already moving to the small freezer next to the outdoor wine fridge when she emptied the glass.
“I’m not flying to LA to record with Janet in real time.” She hadn’t left the East Coast in a decade, and she sure as hell wasn’t about to now.
“Well, that’s fine because Janet is off the project.”
“What?” Vivian straightened, trading her empty glass for a fresh chilled martini. “Why?”
“Ms. Montoya wasn’t… feeling it.” Harvey infused his words with an audible eye roll.
It was already unusual for a finished project to be scrapped on an author’s whim, but cutting a narrator with Janet’s pedigree on a vibe was shocking. Vivian had listened to Janet’s first chapter and thought it had been perfectly serviceable.
“Feeling it?” Vivian repeated before she took a swig. “What the hell does that mean? If she didn’t like what we did, why doesn’t she want to recast both of us?”
“Listen, I’m only repeating what her team said,” he warned. “Apparently you were her…” He cleared his throat and the sound of paper shuffling joined the whirl of fans. He read as if quoting directly when he said, “Vivian Taylor was her gay awakening.”
Of all the ways Vivian had been objectified since she was a teenager, gay awakening was the least offensive.
At least there was an inherent sweetness to it.
It wasn’t all crusty socks and stiff flannel sheets.
Even if she hadn’t been Vivian Taylor since she dropped Hollywood and her stage name, she accepted the compliment of sorts.
Buzzed, Vivian leaned back against the cushion. She hadn’t recorded a duet in years. The idea of being trapped with someone in a hot, sweaty booth and recording an audiobook simultaneously was nightmare-inducing.
“I know what you’re going to say,” Harvey continued without Vivian’s participation. “But Ms. Montoya forced the publisher to double your rate for the inconvenience and disruption to your schedule—”
“And the publisher agreed?” Vivian would have furrowed her brow if it weren’t for the fresh Botox. “Are we sure Montoya isn’t blackmailing someone with a corner office?” she muttered.
“I can put you in a studio on South Beach. A friend of mine has a beautiful space. You’re going to love it. It’s two blocks from Ocean Drive,” he added because, as a lifelong New Yorker, Harvey couldn’t fathom how unappealing it was to brave traffic and tourists for noise and sand.
God, the fucking sand. Even if she didn’t set foot on the beach, it would get all over the interior of her car.
And the salt would dry out her hair and turn the dyed blonde brassy.
The idea of so many people gawking at her made Vivian’s throat tighten as if she were wearing a starving python for a necklace.
Sweat gathered at Vivian’s temples and complete breaths were harder to come by.
She focused on the guesthouse on the other side of the pool where she’d built her own studio.
A much smaller replica of the Spanish-style home that had been her fortress for going on fifteen years.
High walls and a gated community where everyone minded their own damn business, where there weren’t hundreds of greedy eyes on her. Peeling away at her.
“No,” she heard herself say despite her pulse pounding against the roof of her mouth. “I am already familiar with my own studio.”
“Thought you’d say that,” he replied with an arrogant little chuckle. “I found you a wonderful up-and-coming talent. Montoya approved and she’s local. I think this girl—”
“Did Montoya change the story to YA, too?”
A pause. A recognition of internalized misogyny and deliberate infantilization of women.
“I think this woman,” Harvey corrected, “will be fantastic. Your styles will really complement each other.”
“Who is she?”
“Bryn Garbo,” he responded.
It took Vivian a beat to realize he was serious. Bryn Garbo was absolutely nobody’s real name.
“Did you vet her?”
Vivian shook her head when Iris pointed to her empty martini glass. Iris went home on the weekends. Being drunk and alone was rarely a good idea.
Harvey chuckled. “You want me to call the FBI?”
“Don’t be an ass,” Vivian grumbled. “This is my home—”
“It doesn’t have to be. I have a studio all ready to go on Monday if you say the word.”
Vivian’s pulse jumped again with a visceral no. “Fine. Tell her to be here at 8 a.m. on Monday and to use the side gate.”
After hanging up, Vivian immediately opened the web browser on her phone and searched: Bryn Garbo audiobook narrator. At least she had a website, but that was about all the professional polish to be found.
“Ten books?” she muttered to herself.
There was no way someone with such little experience had landed a project like this. Especially when every book she’d recorded was wildly different from the next. Bryn Garbo’s credits included a nonfiction travel book, self-help, middle grade, monster romance, and a smattering of legal thrillers.
Curious, Vivian clicked on the tab marked samples. She played the one labeled F/F Winning Her Back. The atrocious mixing couldn’t do a damn thing about Bryn sounding like she’d recorded in a cathedral bathroom, but Vivian pushed beyond the horrible audio.
Bryn’s voice was velvety warm, but earnest and hopeful. She sounded youthful, but not na?ve. When Bryn’s voice abruptly stopped, Vivian realized she had listened to the entire four-minute clip and forgotten about the shitty quality.
She hit the About tab and found a full-page photo. With red hair in a messy ponytail and bright blue eyes, Bryn looked like a sorority sister brimming with school spirit. Like she said “heck” unironically and apologized to inanimate objects. She looked… peppy.
Vivian stood and made herself another drink.