Chapter Nine
Nine
Once my dog was safely ensconced in her bed under Blake’s desk, I got back to Melanie Joan. It took a lot of cajoling on my part, but eventually she breathed out the name of the despised actress: Natalie Blythe.
“Never heard of her,” I said.
“Of course you haven’t,” Melanie Joan said. “I made sure of that.”
“How?”
“Let’s just say I very discreetly spread the word about her lack of professionalism.”
“Ah.”
“Listen, Sunny, I don’t need your moralizing.”
“ ‘Ah’ is moralizing?”
Melanie Joan let out a heavy sigh. “Did you know that she managed to steal several designer dresses from the wardrobe department on her way out?” she said. “She’s lucky I didn’t have her arrested.”
“You said in the book that she rewrote ‘blocks of dialogue’ in A Girl and Not a God.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you remember her writing style?”
She snorted. “What writing style?”
“Her phrasing. The words she used,” I said. “Any of it remind you of Book Babe?”
Melanie Joan laughed for a full thirty seconds.
“I’m serious,” I said, once she caught her breath. “Did she ever use words like brave, revelatory, aspirational?”
“You think Natalie Blythe is Book Babe.”
“I think it’s possible,” I said.
“She can’t even read a script in its entirety.”
I shrugged elaborately, as though she could see me through the phone. “Book Babe’s review of Stronger Alone specifically mentions the actress you talk about in the prologue. It says that she is more talented, intelligent, and good-hearted than you.”
“I’m familiar with the review, Sunny.”
“It also says the actress has grounds for a lawsuit.”
“So what?”
“So,” I said, “did Natalie Blythe ever try to sue?”
Rosie woke up from her nap, slithered out from under Blake’s desk, and trotted back into my office. Her nails clacked on the hardwood floors. I reminded myself to trim them. “She did try to sue,” Melanie Joan said.
“What happened with it?”
“It went nowhere. A few days after I fired her, I heard from her lawyer. Her lawyer heard from my legal team. End of story.”
“One more question,” I said. “Does Natalie Blythe have a young child? A three-year-old?”
“Sunny, I haven’t even said her name out loud in the past four years,” Melanie Joan said.
“How the hell would I know anything about her personal life?” She started trashing Natalie Blythe—telling me how her unprofessionalism nearly torpedoed the Netflix series, and how, up until that final conversation in Natalie’s trailer, Melanie Joan had been speaking to the actress only through intermediaries.
“Do you have any idea how difficult that was?” she said.
“I was the executive producer. The big kahuna, Sunny. Yet I had to rely on others to communicate with my lead actress. Oh, and did I mention she stole clothing from wardrobe?”
“You did.”
“Yeah, well. She stole shoes, too.”
“Horrible,” I said. “But it all points to something that Natalie Blythe does have going for her.”
“Kleptomania?”
“Motive.”
“Oh.”
“Think about it,” I said. “Book Babe is a romance reader. She doesn’t review any of your fiction, but she does praise your competitors—Julia Quinn, Colleen Hoover, Leila Donnelly in particular. She’s given all her books five stars.”
“Ugh.”
“Then she gets her hands on a galley of your book. A memoir that trashes Natalie Blythe in the first chapter. She gives it her only one-star review.”
Melanie Joan went quiet again. I checked my phone to make sure we were still connected. “That was Book Babe’s only one-star review?”
“Yep.”
“Wow.”
“Her most personal one, too.”
Melanie Joan exhaled. “You know what?”
“What?”
“You’re making some sort of sense.”
“I try.”
“Natalie Blythe is also idiotic enough to think Leila Donnelly is a good writer.”
“She’s reviewed a lot of movie actors’ memoirs, which seems on brand, right?”
“It does.”
“And wellness books. Was she into wellness?”
“Always late to the set because she was doing yoga or meditating,” she said. “She also drank a lot of smoothies. But who doesn’t?”
“Still, you put it all together…”
Melanie Joan exhaled. “I’ll tell you something, Sunny. If she is Book Babe, I’ll send her flowers. I’ll tell her anything she wants to hear. I’m desperate enough to apologize to her. For everything.”
“That’s saying a lot.”
“I just want my career back,” she said. “This morning. With Evan…I guess it didn’t really sink in until now.”
“We still have time,” I said.
“We do, right? It isn’t like I signed anything in there.”
“That’s right,” I said. “You can get your career back. Scepter can still publish your memoir.”
I told Melanie Joan to call me if she remembered anything about Natalie that might help me track her down. She told me she would.
After we hung up, I looked up Natalie Blythe on IMDb. In the past four years, her only credit was “Dead Girl” in a low-budget horror movie called Summer of Murder.
The woman definitely had grounds for a lawsuit.
I googled images of Natalie. She resembled a young Melanie Joan Hall, which I’m sure neither one of them was happy about.
There were a lot of pictures of her pre-firing—in a sparkling gown at the Emmys, showing off a backless dress at a premiere, posing for a women’s magazine in a comfy sweater and jeans.
Post-firing, though, the images were scarce.
Just a handful of ads for actors’ showcases, a cheesy-looking shot of Natalie playing the title role in a dinner-theater production of Evita, a group shot of women in workout wear and matching T-shirts, Natalie at the center.
There was one image, though, that made me stop scrolling.
It was the profile pic from Natalie’s Instagram.
I clicked on it. The account was private.
But the shot was clear enough—a beaming Natalie Blythe, holding a small boy.
He looked to be just about three years old.
“Oh, ho!” I said.
My phone chimed. I looked at the screen. Melanie Joan again. I started to tell her about my new discovery, but I was drowned out by sobs.