Chapter 8
8
Janet Waterman lives in Brentwood, just on the border of Bel Air. The area, made up of jutting hills and sprawling canyons, is dotted with vast estates and their old money inhabitants. We may not be able to smell the ocean from the winding roads that snake toward Janet’s tucked-back cul-de-sac, but we’re close enough to Malibu that we can sense it. And when we arrive at what’s sure to be an expansive property, I’d bet good money we’ll be able to see the coastline from a scenic overlook.
When we pull up to a tall security gate, Angelo rolls down the window to his Model X and presses the call button on the little black box. Within seconds a disembodied voice crackles over the intercom. “Good morning. How may I help you?”
Angelo clears his throat. “Hi there. I’ve got Ella Simone, Angelo Espinoza, and Rodney Jenkins here for a nine a.m. with—”
“Very good,” the voice cuts in. “You’re our first guests to arrive. Ms. Waterman is expecting you, so please pull ahead.” A buzzer sounds, and then the gates click and slowly begin to creep open.
“We’re first to arrive,” I ask, leaning forward between the headrests. “Who else is she expecting?”
Angelo and Rodney both turn and look at me, simply shrugging . “Beats me,” Angelo says. “I was only given an address, a time, and told to deliver the asset.”
If Angelo hadn’t once saved me from a short stint in an international prison—long story—I’d have a lot more questions right now. If I didn’t trust both of these men with practically my whole life, I’d think they were dropping me off at one of those black-site CIA interrogations with all this feigned ignorance. Then again, with the amount of bad press last night’s gaffe has already generated, going into witness protection might not be a bad idea after all.
Once we’ve parked and exited the car, we head up to a grand white oak door, where we’re greeted by a kind-eyed, middle-aged man who’s dressed in smart casual attire. “Welcome to the Hernandez-Waterman estate,” he says, and I know that voice from moments prior on the security intercom. “My name is Bruce, and I’m pleased to show you to Ms. Waterman’s home office.”
All three of us fall into step behind Bruce as he leads us down a long, brightly lit corridor. With walls painted in Chantilly Lace white and wide plank flooring in a light stain, our path is lined on both sides with ornate art pieces that stand in stark contrast to the otherwise neutral palette.
Rodney leans in close. “Did I just peep a Basquiat?”
“It’s a dupe,” Angelo whispers. “All her originals are on loan at the Getty.”
“Mm-kay…so you’re saying these are basically bougie posters?” Rodney asks, gesturing from one painting to another.
Angelo laughs. “In a criminally reductive way, yes.”
Torn between feeling confused by their nonchalance in my time of crisis and fascinated by this new dynamic I’m witnessing in action, I roll my eyes and focus the nervous energy on guessing the point of this meeting. When we reach an oval-shaped blue-green orb of light on a wall at the end of the hall, likely a James Turrell, I’ve come up with no plausible possibilities. Bruce turns toward a hidden door and knocks twice.
After a few seconds, a buzzer sounds, releasing the latch, at which point Bruce gently twists the knob and announces, “Ms. Waterman will see you now.”
Between this, the long walk, and the light orb, I’m beginning to feel like we’ve come all this way to see the Wiz. But once inside, it’s only Janet seated behind a sleek marble desk. She stands when we enter. “Ah! You’ve made it. Welcome,” she says, her resonant voice booming off the walls.
Rodney leans over and whispers in my ear, “Gucci from head to toe on a Monday morning…I love her already.”
“Before we sit down,” Janet says, “can Bruce get anyone a drink? Coffee, tea, water? He can whip up a Bloody Mary, too, if you’re in the mood for a little hair of the dog?”
I feel judged. But I mask the burn. I did hit it pretty hard last night, after all. Each of us politely declines her offer, and then we stand steeped in awkward silence.
“Well how about we sit, then?” she finally suggests, and we all follow suit. “I guess last night couldn’t just be a casual evening with no headlines now, could it?”
Janet drums her fingers on one knee, like she’s purposefully delaying whatever it is she called us here to discuss. Then I notice the way she’s eyeing Angelo, as if gauging which of them should speak first. My skin tightens with renewed suspicion.
“It certainly was an eventful night,” Angelo finally says, nervously rubbing his palms over his knees. And when he fails to follow it up with anything of substance, Janet’s exasperation is clear.
“Okay, folks, I’ll just come out with it. Since Plan A—and to refresh your memory, that was supposed to be you laying low and avoiding scandals—has jackknifed off a bridge, I think it’s time we lean in .”
“Wait. I’m sorry,” I jump in. “Why do we have to abandon Plan A? We know how this works, it’s one news cycle and people are bored. They’ll move on! Besides, what is it exactly that we’re leaning in …to?”
“Miles Westbrook.” Her answer is very matter-of-fact, and she skips over everything else I just said. I should know by now not to ask her compound questions. Beyond that, if it’s possible to choke on air, I’m probably doing it.
“The optics on that stage last night were, as you’ve no doubt discovered by now—less than ideal,” she explains. “And whoever wrote your lines did you no favors—they were dripping with innuendo. Honestly, your publicist should have been more vigilant. Already this morning, TikTok is cluttered with Miles Westbrook workout videos set to your music. Not to mention all the memes of him looking ready to snap Elliot like a toothpick when he grabbed you. Or how the camera panned to his date’s scowl in the audience. I mean…this is a feast the blogs can dine out on for weeks to come. If not months.” Finally, she pauses for a beat. But only a brief one. “But enough of my babbling. I believe Angelo has something to tell you.”
At this, my head swivels so fast I nearly throw out my back. I open my mouth to speak but he beats me to the punch.
“Before you rail at me,” Angelo says, both palms raised defensively, “please just know that none of this was my idea and I am only the messenger.”
“A messenger who pretends to know nothing, apparently,” I add saltily.
“Mmm. Touché,” Rodney says, and Janet and Angelo both cut him dirty looks. Rodney merely purses his lips and admires the ceiling.
Angelo takes a deep breath. “The label has cast—” He pauses, as if shoring up the strength to proceed. “Miles Westbrook for the lead in your next music video.”
“Ha!” The laugh spurts out of me on a strong gust of air. Next, that’s all I can utter. “Ha. Ha. Ha. You said my music video? As in…the one I fly back to New York to shoot at the end of the week?”
Everyone has the gall to nod their heads in confirmation. So I continue the manic chuckle as my gaze bounces from Rodney to Angelo to Janet, then back again.
“This…is a joke, right?” I am pleading as much as I am asking. Rodney shrugs. Now Angelo’s become preoccupied with something on the rug. Janet simply looks at me with pity.
“Well, obviously Miles turned it down,” I offer. Desperately. Then Angelo and Janet fix me with pointed stares, each wordlessly affirming that no, Miles did not turn the offer down.
“Okay. But we’re all on the same page here that this can’t happen, right?” I am standing now, without a plan for where to go or what to do. “It plays directly into the media’s narrative…Elliot’s too!” I’ve started pacing, arms flailing—am pretty sure I appear to be on the verge of a medical event, but could not care less. My processing continues…
“And just humor me for a sec, ’kay? What on earth is in this for Miles Westbrook?” Stopping in my tracks, I raise an index finger. “He can’t be so hard up for this kind of press. Not after the last year he had.”
At last, I’m off the soapbox. But when no one responds, I cast a wilting glance at Rodney, my perpetual lifeline. But even he says nothing and only returns a meme-able grimace in solidarity.
“Look. I understand your alarm,” Janet says calmly—the kind of calm that makes me want to smash a vase just to see if it would get a rise. “But I’ve already confabbed with the label and also Miles’s agent, who should be here shortly, by the way.” She pauses when I reel back in shock. “Well, we certainly weren’t all floundering in confusion when you went off the grid for twelve hours. Damage was done, and you pay us to control it.” She shrugs.
“Also, touché.” Rodney contributes another zinger, and now I’m cutting him a dirty look.
“Anyway,” Janet continues. “I was made aware of the label’s last-minute move to cast Miles in your video, and since they’ve got the final say, contractually, our hands are tied here…so we might as well parlay it.”
Bzzzz!
“Well, that will be them.” She clasps her hands together. “Give me a sec and I’ll just have Bruce let them in,” she says, heading to her desk.
I lean over and whisper to Rodney, “I’m sorry. Did she just say them ?”
Unable to help himself, Rodney has the nerve to smirk. “Didn’t think you’d be seeing his fine ass again so soon, now did ya?”
I roll my eyes and ponder sinking into the floor like I’m in that scene from Get Out . At this point I’d wager the Sunken Place would feel like sweet relief from here. To say I’m not prepared to discuss a music video collaboration with the man I am being publicly accused of cheating on my estranged husband with is a major understatement.
“Ms. Waterman, I have Miles Westbrook and his agent, Gabriel Pearson, here to join your meeting,” Bruce announces from the back of the room.
I am tempted to turn around and once again behold Miles’s beauty, but something stops me from doing so. Instead, I stare at the floor like a petulant third grader who’s been sent to the principal’s office. Like the professional I am not, Angelo stands to greet Miles and Gabriel. Rodney follows suit. At the last second, a sliver of etiquette takes hold of me, and suddenly I’m rising and offering them handshakes too—but not eye contact. A girl in distress can only take so much.
In the next moment, we’re all seated comfortably, and I’m wondering where two additional chairs sprouted from. But my preoccupation with the furniture layout is diverted when Miles’s agent is the first to speak.
“Well first off, Ella, I just want to say that Miles and I are big fans of your work. And, Janet, thank you for welcoming us into your home,” Gabriel begins. And instantly, I’m struck by his somewhat crooked but wholly sincere smile and how it seems to match the kindness in his eyes. I learned early on that you can tell a lot about a person in this business by the people they choose to represent them. And so far, Gabriel doesn’t seem to fit the smarmy image of sports agents I’d built up in my head.
“That’s kind of you to say,” I tell him, with my eyes briefly flitting over to Miles, whose own haven’t left my face since he sat down. I don’t know this because I was looking. I know it because I can feel him.
“I’m glad you both could make it,” Janet says, returning his smile. “Now to get down to it. We all know the train is barreling down the wrong track with rumors that Miles and Ella have been carrying on some clandestine affair. And trust me”—she pauses to glance over at me—“with reports of you half naked next to him backstage, neither of you are beating the allegations anytime soon.”
Miles moves to speak, and Janet raises a hand for him to let her finish. He obliges.
“Gabriel, as you know, the label wants to capitalize on the attention this has drummed up. And, Ella, while we could play hardball with them on this one, I think we need to pick our battles and hold our punches for later. I say we lean into this in a productive way.”
“But how is this productive for Ella, exactly?” Miles cuts in with the million-dollar question. And then he turns back to me. “If I have all this s-straight, things are contentious with y-you and Elliot right now? I’m really not trying to make it worse.”
And while I’m grateful for his concern, I’m also very confused. Forgetting to acknowledge Miles, I glance over at Janet and Angelo. “Wait, I thought you guys said he was already in? And just so I understand this clearly,” I add, “by ‘productive’ are you referring to some kind of PR…‘situationship’ in addition to the music video or—”
“Ha!” Janet mock laughs. “I’m an attorney, not a pimp. I would never .”
Angelo chimes in now too. “Exactly. Whether or not the two of you get involved beyond this video is none of our business.”
“I honestly advise against it given the current climate,” Janet says flatly.
“Agreed,” Gabriel adds, with a bit more oomph than I personally find necessary. “In this case, you wouldn’t be dating Miles,” he explains. “Think of this more as an artistic collaboration…and better yet, it’s for charity.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose in mounting frustration at all the added layers of our situation. And in a lapse of self-awareness I blurt out, “Let me guess, the Boys and Girls Clubs of America?”
At this, Miles flinches, and I can tell the remark has rubbed Gabriel the wrong way too—instantly, I regret it.
“Cute,” Janet says. “But no. Miles is actually founder of the Evelyn Foundation for the Empowerment of Women and Girls, and after a few strategic phone calls this morning, your next music video is primed to kick off their annual fundraising campaign.”
“Look.” Gabriel gestures toward his client. “To answer Miles’s very good question. Our thinking here is that if we can tie the two of you together in a professional capacity and have it benefit a great cause, then we can add some credibility and context to the connection you two made at the Grammys. We’d start by releasing companion statements announcing the partnership…and the rest we’ll take from there.”
“I have to say, Ella.” Angelo places a calming hand on my knee, which I hadn’t even realized was bouncing rapidly. “In choppy waters, it’s definitely not a rescue yacht, but it could be like a little life raft.”
Figuring I’ve protested enough, especially in front of mixed company, I decide to hold my peace for now. Angelo and Gabriel spend a few more minutes discussing logistics like locations and scheduling while Janet returns to her desk to answer a pressing email. Rodney excuses himself to take a call from an important fashion house, which leaves me sitting here avoiding meeting Miles’s stare from a few feet away.
“Hey,” he says, leaning in. Perhaps he’s had enough of my immature evasion tactics. “If this is something you’re not cool with, we can forget the whole thing. The foundation means a lot to me. But we have other ways to launch the campaign if it’s gonna be a major headache for you.”
Beneath my cloud of stress and worry, I’d forgotten what it felt like to be on the receiving end of Miles Westbrook’s undivided attention—like being lit up and warmed from the inside after shivering for hours. That might be more than just part of the reason why I’m reluctant to put myself back in this spot with him. I’m liable to want more than I should, or even can, have.
“Miles, you’ve been nothing but a gentleman in all of this,” I tell him. “But I’m afraid I don’t get a say in the matter. The label wants what it wants.” I shrug. “At least this way, we’re supporting your foundation.”
He simply nods before offering me a measured smile. It’s not the heart-pounding, showstopping one. Instead, it’s one that says, So, it’s settled. We’re doing this, then . Next, Janet returns from her emails and we all rise to conclude the meeting. She escorts Miles and Gabriel from the office, briefly leaving me alone with Rodney and Angelo. The tension between the three of us could be cut with a wooden spoon. And apparently I’m the only one willing to say the quiet part out loud.
“Can we be serious for two seconds here?” I beg, while noticing the way they connect their gazes as if in agreement that I need a nap. They’re not wrong. Except, it’s hard to feel light and airy about this when the internet’s most followed gossip blog has reduced your decade-long career to being a “jock chaser.”
“At best, this whole plan will get clocked quick by anyone who gives up five seconds of their shrinking attention spans to this cheap gimmick. Worst case, it all backfires big-time and I get written off as the latest of many notches in Miles Westbrook’s bedpost.” I pause to breathe a weary sigh. “And the best that could come of this is I get pigeonholed once again. Just picture it now, we can name my next album Ballers n’ Bling . But what do I know? I’m a female artist in the recording industry. I go where I am told. I do it with a smile. So long as there’s cleavage and a little leg showing, everyone’s happy.”
I glance up at them briefly, but long enough to see they’re both eyeing me like a keyless grenade. I should stop while I’m ahead, but I’ve never known how to leave well enough alone. “Miles, on the other hand…he’ll probably just thrive on this. He’ll probably sell thousands of jerseys, get thousands of new followers. We might as well add image rehabilitation to my portfolio at this point.”
That last line tasted terrible on its way out of my mouth. I don’t feel good about any of what I’ve just said. But that doesn’t make any of it feel less real, stiflingly so. And where there was a steady hum of energy in this office before, the atmosphere has since stilled. Now it’s just silent. Too silent. After a second or two, I look up to find Rodney’s face frozen like an ice sculpture with his eyes fixed on something behind me. Angelo looks like he’s seen a ghost. I turn around and find out why. Miles is back. Standing in the doorway to Janet’s office.
Looks might have the power to kill after all, because his eyes are boring into me now, and I think my heart just stopped. In them are emotions I haven’t gotten from him before—definitely hurt, and possibly even mild contempt. I should have known. My skin started prickling with tiny electric sparks halfway through my rant, the same way it did when we were alone backstage. I dismissed the sensation, figuring Janet’s AC was on full blast, and steamrolled right on ahead.
This day can go to hell.
Rodney mouths, I’m sorry, at me from a few feet away, like it’s his fault I’ve stuffed my whole leg, foot first, in my mouth. Like somehow, he could have stopped this train before it went fully off the rails and careened over a cliff.
“Uhhh. Ahem.” Miles clears his throat as Janet and Gabriel stand behind him in the doorway—the bluish green light from the Turrell installation forms a bright halo around them. Because of the glare it’s difficult to make out his expression, which may be for the best. His posture, however, is as stiff as a statue.
“I uh. I—” His choppy words are cut off quickly. Not like he can’t figure out what to say in this incredibly awkward moment, but more like his body is a dam, barring any words from coming forth. I look down, and sure enough, he’s tapping his thigh.
Damn it. This is all on me.
“S-sorry to interrupt. I just forgot my k-keys right there.” He points to the end table near where he was previously seated. Rodney moves quickly to grab and return his keys to him. What follows is a bit of a blur.
After an awkward shuffling of bodies at the door, suddenly both Miles and Gabriel are gone. Janet mutters something about us all taking a beat to process and regroup. And next thing I know, Rodney, Angelo, and I are cruising back down the hill.
We are back at the hotel now, cuddled up in my California king bed. Well, Rodney and I are in it and Angelo is technically hovering, awkwardly so, on the edge at the foot. “Her methods are unconventional. I admit,” he says as he runs his fingers through his uncharacteristically tousled hair.
“Oh good! So you finally admit that springing Miles on me like that was bad, bad form?” I ask, over a mouthful of the scallion bagel that Rodney brought me. “Remind me why you recommended Janet Waterman to be my divorce lawyer again?”
Angelo’s shoulders drop, and he peers at the ceiling. “Because she’s the best in the business!” he replies, waving his hands. “She got Kim disentangled with her billion-dollar skin-care line unscathed…she’s practically a miracle worker.”
“He does have a point there,” Rodney chimes in. And I don’t miss the swift but weighted glance between the two of them.
“Okay. What’s going on here with you two?” I ask, before licking an escaped dollop of cream cheese off my thumb. Then I’m met with silence. “It’s fine. Keep your secrets. Just know you’re both irreplaceable to me. So if whatever you’re doing goes south, no one’s getting fired and we’re all just gonna have to deal. Agreed?”
They each look up. First at each other, then at me. And something passes between the three of us that announces a mutual understanding without words.
“So look, Ella. That stuff you said at the end of the meeting, about this being a lose-lose situation for you either way you slice it,” Angelo, says, pivoting back to business. “I understand where all that’s coming from, and trust, I give absolutely zero credit to the public when it comes to how they treat women celebrities in situations like yours. But remember what I always tell you?”
“Every problem is an opportunity,” I repeat, with the spark of a dying battery.
“Exactly!” he says. “So maybe just try looking at this as an opportunity to reintroduce yourself…this could be like your—your Lemonade era.”
“Angelo is onto something,” Rodney says enthusiastically. “You do realize that the storyboards for this music video are the textbook description of sexual and emotional liberation, right? And the fact that this single is a redux of one of Sade’s most sensual hits. That the whole concept is about a woman finding love again after a toxic relationship.”
“You guys,” I say, “it’s all so on the nose. It could be an absolute misfire.”
“Or, it could be exactly what you need to turn this narrative around,” Angelo offers up. “Think of it like planting a seed, then cultivating the image of what it would look like for your fans to see you blossom on your own, out from under Elliot’s thumb. This could be your Butterfly era.”
“Both of you have got to chill with the analogies,” I say, before burying my head in my hand.
“But you know we have a point,” Rodney says. “Elliot’s been off doing his thing with Miss Thing for weeks, and he’s hardly suffered any blowback for it. Don’t get me wrong, I hate to see you playing the PR game. But if you’re gonna have to do it anyway…might as well have some fun?”
At this, I’m instantly hit with a flashback of those moments in the wings just after my dress fell apart. The look of simultaneous shock and remorse on Miles’s face when he realized what he’d accidentally done, and the chaotic blend of pure panic and forced productivity that followed. Then, finally, the expression of almost wonder in his eyes when he saw me wrapped up in his shirt. Without question, I looked ridiculous, but let his face tell it, and I was perfect. So yeah, this could be fun. It could also be my complete undoing.