Chapter 7 Alexander
Friday
We’ve barely been off the air five minutes, yet Rita Watson has taken advantage of the opportunity to corner me against a table filled with snacks in the green room.
She leans into me, talking loudly into my ear over Nelly Furtado’s Promiscuous, which is playing from the speaker in the ceiling above us.
“A little dickey bird tells me you’re planning to move into acting. Maybe I could bring my girls to one of your shows and we could exchange notes.” One of her hands rests on my shoulder. The other grazes past my arm to grab a carrot stick. She dips it in some hummus and seductively licks it off.
My whole body shudders at the thought.
She’s almost old enough to be my mother. Except for my mother wouldn’t be dressed in a red cocktail dress with a slit almost to her hip and her boobs pouring out. I’m also pretty sure the two girls she’s referring to aren’t the ones she waved to through the camera lens ten minutes ago.
After my last trip here, when we were thrown together on a different TV show, I’d thought my polite rebuffs to her advances were enough. Clearly not.
This is a woman on a mission.
And I’m the unfortunate target.
“I’m sure my team can arrange something.” I smile politely at her, pulling back from the smell of hummus emanating from her mouth. I turn to look at Paul, Connie, and Lucy all huddled by the drinks table. I play with my watch, slightly longer than usual, until Lucy sees and catches my eye.
Green rooms are meant to be safe spaces. Not places where I’m more vulnerable to predators than I am to the massive crowd waiting outside the studio.
Thankfully, it only takes Lucy a handful of strides to reach us.
“Alexander, I just need to grab you quickly for some idents.” There’s a determined expression on Lucy’s face. The smile slides off Rita’s face and turns into a frown.
“It was good to see you again,” I offer—a lie—as Lucy links her arm in mine and pulls me away.
“Thank you,” I whisper, fearful that Rita may be able to still hear us, despite the song still playing and the buzzing of the two dozen people crammed into this room.
“No problem,” she says, stopping halfway down the hall.
“Apparently, Rita has quite the reputation around here. I heard two women in the restroom earlier,” her head nods toward the restroom behind me, “discussing how when her film producer husband’s away, she gets her claws into whomever she feels can further her career.
I’m guessing that’s how she got to where she is today. ”
Lucy looks back over her shoulder, where the click of heels precedes Connie’s entrance. “She slept her way to… well, she slept her way to the middle.” A sardonic smile forms on Lucy’s face, forcing me to chuckle.
“That actress said you’d mentioned she could get guestlist passes for tomorrow’s show?” Connie’s question sounds more like an accusation. Her face scrunches up in disgust as she reaches into her purse to retrieve her cigarettes.
“I guess,” I say, letting my indifference speak for me.
Rob appears down the corridor, waving at us to come toward the exit, as Connie lifts the cigarette to her mouth.
What’s the worst that could happen?
The car hits a speed bump, sending the iPad Paul is passing to me flying out of his hand. I just barely manage to save it from hitting the floor before the seatbelt digs into my shoulder, snapping me back into my seat.
The shock on Paul’s face returns to his usual glare as he readjusts his glasses.
“Jackal Entertainment is a reputable production company, and the producer and director, Alfonso Pena, originally comes from the music industry himself. He previously worked at your label in the production arm.”
I scroll down through the web page, skimming over the text and the list of productions they’ve been involved in. Paul’s pause goes on a little too long, prompting me to look up.
He removes his glasses, in a way that I know by now means he’s trying to push something across the line. He starts to lean in before the seatbelt pulls him back.
“We could go with a bigger production company, but partnering with Alfonso and Jackal Entertainment allows us to retain more creative control of the film.” His eyes gleam.
Ah, that’s it.
Control.
It always comes back to control with Paul. It’s his second favorite word, right after visibility. Control over the brand. Control over the projects I do or don’t work on. Although in this instance, maybe having more control over my move into acting wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
It’s true what they say: You never get a second chance at a first impression. I’ve seen many of my contemporaries attempt the transition from singer to actor, with varying degrees of success. I want to ensure I don’t end up like them—ridiculed for my foray into the acting world.
“And where are they at with the adapted screenplay?” I ask.
Kirk, my agent at William Morris Endeavor, had encouraged me when I first floated the idea of moving into acting.
He suggested I buy the rights to a few popular books, like some of his other clients and the actress Reese Witherspoon had done, to give me a built-in audience for the film and more control over my acting debut.
Disposed was the book we settled on. It was the only one that had kept me turning pages during the long tour bus rides through middle America last year.
“We’ve had to change screenwriters a couple of times,” Paul is saying.
“The scripts were too formulaic. They cast you as the pretty boy who goes on a hero’s journey.
But the latest guy we’ve got seems to have stayed true to the gritty storyline and nailed it.
” Paul slides his iPad back into his leather briefcase before returning his gaze to me.
“Is there anything I can…”
Before I can finish, the car comes to a screeching halt, throwing me forward in my seat. I briefly flash back to the night I lost Samuel.
The car hurtling toward us.
Samuel swerving to miss it.
Then the car hitting a tree, and Samuel’s body flung through the windshield.
The rest is still a blur. The call to Paul. The panic about what to do.
I press my hand to my chest, trying to control my breathing, when Paul looks across at me. The air feels like it’s being squeezed out of my lungs and I take short, sharp breaths.
I’m safe here.
I’m safe.
But I can’t seem to shake the panic as I unbuckle my seatbelt. When Paul leans forward and opens the door, lightbulb flashes start going off.
“Just keep your head down and let’s get you in the restaurant,” Paul shouts over the paparazzi screaming my name.
By the time I’ve settled into the round booth at the back of the restaurant and exchanged pleasantries with Alfonso, all I can think about is grabbing a stiff drink—or anything stiff for that matter.
The waiter comes by and Paul and Alfonso decide to split a bottle of red, while I get stuck holding a Sprite.
I scan the room for the waiter, who has been burning a hole in the back of my head ever since I walked in.
People always think they are being subtle, staring when I’m not looking, but it’s a feeling you get—knowing somebody’s watching you.
I finally catch sight of him and take the opportunity to excuse myself, lifting the napkin from my lap and placing it on the table as I slide out of the booth.
Rob, sitting at a table across from us, gets up.
But I motion with my hand for him to sit back down.
I catch the waiter next to the swivel door into the kitchen, out of view from the main dining room where all the guests are seated. “Hi,” I say.
The waiter, dressed all in black, looks like he’s just stepped off the runway. His chiseled jawline, messy dark hair, and gaunt figure is all the rage in Milan and Paris right now.
“Hi,” he responds, sliding his hands into his pockets. He looks briefly at me before looking away and then back again.
“I need your help.” I stretch my hand out and lean against the wall beside him.
“My team has me on this no carbs, no alcohol diet, and after the day I’ve had, I could really use a stiff drink or two.
What do you say? Help a guy out, brother-to-brother?
” I gently tap him on the shoulder and lift a brow.
Another waiter, balancing four plates on his arms with an assortment of sushi rolls, exits the flapped door.
He pauses briefly when he sees me, eyes wide, before continuing forward.
I snap my fingers to recapture the attention of the waiter in front of me before digging into my pocket to pull out a couple of fifty-pound notes.
I reach over and slide them into his trouser pocket.
“When I order my next drink, would you be sure the barman free pours some Belvedere in?” After a quick nod and a smile from him, I start to return to the table, but then think better of it and turn back. “Oh, and this is our little secret, okay? No need to put it on the bill.”
He pauses before nodding reluctantly, bringing a smile to my face.
Good boy.
Paul and Alfonso are deep in conversation about the nuances of the film industry, which frankly, I have no interest in.
Especially now that I finally have a proper drink.
I open my mouth wide to swallow the last mouthful, the ice cubes clinking against my teeth.
Vodka is far from my preferred spirit, but it’s the easiest to get past Paul’s ever-watchful eye. So it’s a small sacrifice to make.
Setting the glass down, I reach for another slice of sushi with my chopsticks, but pause, seizing the chance to take stock of Alfonso in a moment where he’s not watching me.
There is a kindness in his green eyes as he laughs off Paul’s pointed remarks.
His navy button-down shirt complements his cropped salt-and-pepper hair and olive skin, giving him a distinguished air.
The remnants of his boyish good looks tell me he would have broken a heart or three when he was my age.