Chapter 3
Emma
In the late afternoon, I make my way into Sebastian’s sunny kitchen to have my fourth coffee of the day.
After spending the rest of the morning shadowing Sebastian and the reporter while she interviewed him, I had a logistics meeting with his agent and manager to coordinate his schedule for the next few months.
One of my jobs is to be on hand whenever he’s doing press.
After his longtime publicist retired, Sebastian hasn’t been able to find a PR agent he gels with.
He rarely fires them. He just gives them so much anxiety with his forthright tendencies that they keep leaving for “lifestyle” reasons.
So, over the years, I’ve gradually taken on more responsibility in public relations, as I have with other areas of his life.
Not everyone understands his communication style, which is refreshingly candid at best, obnoxious at worst. Maybe he doesn’t mean to be an asshole.
At least, not usually. But he’s impulsive.
His loose filter manifests in extreme honesty, likely because he grew up surrounded by Hollywood bullshit.
And as a child actor, he had his every word and action controlled by a studio before he could even string together a sentence.
Knowing that still doesn’t make it easier to deal with. Because a good portion of my job is to manage the inevitable fallout.
“Good afternoon, Miss Emma. Can I make you an iced Americano?” Marie, Sebastian’s longtime housekeeper, asks warmly as she strides into the kitchen with an armful of plastic containers. She sets them on the counter and opens the fridge, stacking them in meticulously organized perfection.
“Thanks, but I can make it.”
I work the expensive Italian espresso machine with quick, efficient movements.
While I’m waiting for the beans to grind, I lean over and look at the meals that were prepared by Sebastian’s personal chef in collaboration with his trainer and nutritionist. “I hope Fabien remembered not to cook the salmon and leeks again. Our boss was not a fan.”
She adjusts her glasses and peers at the labels. “No salmon in this bunch. It’s just chicken, chicken, chicken, tuna.” She makes a tsking sound. “Poor Mr. Sebastian. It’s a travesty to have these sad meals when I could prepare him a feast.”
I grin. “It is a travesty. But it means you have more time to cook for me.”
She pats my shoulder like I’m a little girl.
“That’s why I love you, Miss Emma. You don’t mind an old lady fussing.
When Mr. Sebastian’s grandmother was alive, this house was filled with elegant events.
And I always had something to do. Now, he just tells me to take it easy.
” The gray-haired housekeeper huffs. “As if that wouldn’t bore me to bits. ”
It’s so cute how Marie calls this mansion a house, when it’s one of the most storied properties in California.
“Are you gossiping about me again?” Sebastian asks, strolling into the kitchen with a wink to Marie.
“If you don’t want people talking, don’t give them anything to gossip about,” she replies tartly. But I can tell by her fond smile that she loves his easy teasing. “How was your interview? Did the reporter let you get away with any of your antics?”
He sighs. “It went as well as expected. The at-home interview is done, thank God. And the next part will be fun.”
“What activity did you choose?” I ask.
These celebrity profiles involve the interviewer and interviewee doing some sort of pre-arranged activity. Like golfing. Or doing psychedelic drugs while camping, depending on the celebrity. And the interviewer.
Oh Lord, I hope she and Sebastian aren’t going to do peyote in the Mojave Desert. It sounds like something he’d have tried back in the day. But he wouldn’t do that now, would he? While he still imbibes alcohol, he’s sworn off drugs ever since rehab. He doesn’t even like to take aspirin.
“We’re swimming with sharks. An apt metaphor, I thought. Since that’s what I’m doing—being interviewed by her.”
I laugh. “You finally got someone to go with you? You’ve been talking about that for years. But don’t be too complacent. She won’t put herself at a disadvantage. Maybe she’s an expert scuba diver and she thinks she’ll be able to report on your panic attack or something.”
He frowns. “She did say she was a master diver. Shit.”
“I must admit, I like Charlotte Jones’s style. If she weren’t a reporter and I weren’t an assistant to the stars, we might even be friends.”
“First, you wouldn’t like her style if you had to be interviewed by her. And second, you’re an assistant to a star, singular, not plural, even if you keep taking on side jobs. Remember, you’re mine,” he says lightly.
“You don’t own me,” I retort. But my face heats at his words.
The sound of the blender interrupts our bickering.
Then Marie hands Sebastian his afternoon protein shake, as required by his trainer.
He thanks her, which is actually super generous of him.
Because I’ve tasted the green concoction, so I know he really shouldn’t be thanking anyone for giving him one.
Sebastian and I take our regular seats at the large wooden kitchen table, him with his gross shake and me with my coffee.
Even on this palatial estate, with the glamorous living room and the long patio fronting the pool, it’s here that people congregate.
In this sunny, white kitchen overlooking the rose garden and at this butcher-block table with its welcoming, scarred surface.
It’s probably seen more celebrities come and go than the Oscars.
Perhaps it’s Marie’s stupendous cooking. Perhaps it’s Sebastian’s air of informality that he carries with him as surely as he carries the Hollywood blue-blood genes of his famous family.
Perhaps it’s just the vibes.
Whatever it is, everyone wants to be in the kitchen. And I’m no exception.
I open my laptop to start our daily meeting. After all this time, we know our roles. He leans back and drums on the table.
I riffle through file folders.
He yawns.
I slide him a small stack of papers, mostly printouts of things I’ve already emailed over earlier.
I learned long ago that my best chance of getting Sebastian’s attention is hard copies.
He downplays it, but I suspect that he has a photographic memory.
His impressive hyperfocus, though, is only activated with something physical, not words on a screen.
It’s that way with everything. Scripts. Forms. Schedules.
If it’s not physically in his hands, he doesn’t consider it real. Which isn’t the worst trait for a man who is a constant source of online gossip.
“We need to discuss the event in Monaco. Raphael wants you to wear a suit from their upcoming collection for the premiere. They’re flying several options over from Paris.” I look at the list. “And Marjorie needs to see you next week.”
He frowns. “Who’s Marjorie?”
“Your new publicist.”
“Is she the one who messed up the interview time? Can’t you handle all my publicity?”
I shake my head. “Maybe you’d keep a publicist for longer than six months if you stopped being so chaotic with the media. You purposely say outrageous things just to amuse yourself.”
“This is all Sam’s fault. I still don’t understand why he had to retire.”
“Perhaps because he was seventy and you aged him by ten years every time you did a press junket.”
Sebastian had adored Sam, his longtime publicist. He’d had the steady perspective and wisdom of decades in the business.
“Moving on. I added the cover shoot for Modern Man to your schedule. It’s going to take a full day, so I had to move things around to clear up next Friday. Also, your agency sent over new scripts to look at. I put them in your office with the rest,” I say while typing notes into my laptop.
“Read all my scripts to weed them out. You know what I want.” He waves his hand. “They’ve been sending me bullshit action roles lately.”
My stomach sinks, thinking of the floor-to-ceiling stack in his office. Getting through the pile will take me every weekend this month. And I hate reading them. Spreadsheets, schedules, and anything organizational are my favorite parts of the job. Not reading scripts. Or fetching dry cleaning.
Before I can respond, he moves on, throwing out a list of ten other tasks that need to be done yesterday. “Also, I’m fine with wearing Raphael to the premiere,” he says, “as long as they don’t pull the same weird shit they did for the Oscars after-party last year.”
At that, I bite back a wicked smile. He has a five-year deal with the storied fashion house, but they’ve been trying to attract a younger audience with an edgier look, much to Sebastian’s annoyance. “I thought the cutouts on your abs were an inspired choice.”
“Tell them to save it for their runway. I’m going classic. Think James Bond. Coordinate with Jordan.”
Jordan is Sebastian’s new stylist. I adored his last one, but she left a few months ago on maternity leave. Darn her and her virile husband.
I try to control my expression.
He looks at me sharply. “You don’t like Jordan?”
Oh, how shall I count the ways?
“Nothing. It’s no big deal. I’m just not a fan.”
He frowns. “Explain.”
“He can be… dismissive,” I say.
The truth is, Jordan kisses Sebastian’s ass but treats me like the dirt beneath his well-polished shoes. I must be having an off day because I normally don’t complain about stuff like this.
“Forget I said anything. I’ll deal with it myself,” I say with a wave of my hand, hoping he drops it.
“I’ll have a little talk with him.”
My breath catches at the look in his flashing eyes.
I laugh. “Oh, Sebastian, you sweet summer child,” I taunt, though not unkindly. “What are you going to do, have a talk with everyone who mistreats me? I’m your assistant. People are rude.”
“No one should make your job harder.”
Except for you, I think.