Secret Triplets

by Holly Rayner

  But Audrey was no miracle worker. Anxiety at how little ground she’d covered in the previous few months haunted her, along with several emails she’d received from her hunky boss throughout the past few weeks, which featured links to several tabloid articles, all of them speaking of his “luxurious lifestyle” and “Playboy mentality.”

  “Please, take care of this,” he’d written, in no uncertain terms.

  Sipping her latte, Audrey meandered across the Mission District toward the small yet incredibly upscale wine bar, where she planned to meet with April Brevet and implore her to go on a date or two with the Sheikh. The pure actress—with ties to things like the soup kitchen!—would boost the image of the Sheikh incredibly. Perhaps she could even convince the Sheikh to go to a soup kitchen bi-monthly, and thus bolster his image.

  But given that the Sheikh had shown very little interest in such things, she couldn’t imagine it.

  She arrived at the wine bar just before five in the evening. She was always conscious of time and schedules, knowing that it looked ill for both her and for the Sheikh if she arrived anywhere late. After being seated at a small corner table, she ordered a single glass of house white, which cost more than her nicest bottle of wine at home, and sipped it evenly. Audrey typed out several emails on her cell phone while she waited, her shoulders back and confident, her eyes flicking toward the door when she detected any movement from outside.

  After precisely thirteen minutes, April Brevet appeared from the sidewalk, swiped a baseball hat from her perfect blond hair, and allowed it to dribble rainwater onto the hardwood floor of the establishment. Audrey rose and eyed her, giving her a small smile and gesturing at their table—the only one occupied at the early hour.

  “April,” she said, her voice confident and professional. “So good to see you.”

  April walked across the wine bar and slipped into her seat, giving Audrey a smile that seemed much more false than it did in the tabloids.

  “Disgusting weather,” April said, her voice haughty. “I should know better than to come to San Francisco during the spring. I’ll ruin all my shoes this way.”

  “It’s rather depressing, isn’t it?” Audrey said, trying to agree on all counts, although in the back of her mind she thought that April Brevet could certainly afford high-end rain boots if she’d wanted them. “Thanks for meeting me out, regardless. It means the world to both me and my client.”

  “Ah yes, the Sheikh. I’ve heard grand tales about him,” April said. In a swift motion, she lifted her hand and snapped at the waiter to get his attention. “Sir, I’d like to order a Merlot. French, please. And a big pour. Actually, I’ll just order a half liter.”

  She didn’t say thank you or please. She looked back at Audrey, expectant. “I have a horribly long flight back to New York this evening. Might as well get drunk for it.”

  “Absolutely,” Audrey said. “It’s always good to find ways to sleep for long-hauls.”

  The waiter came with a half-liter glass vase, holding the Merlot, and then poured April a hefty glass, not speaking with her or making eye contact. Audrey sensed this was how he was supposed to be with celebrities—invisible, kept out of the way.

  “Anyway, April,” Audrey said, wanting to get to the point, as she was always focused on how much time she was wasting. “I wanted to reach out to you regarding your marvelous celebrity persona. In comparison to my client, you are well-loved. You help the poor and sick. You smile and say hello to your fans.”

  April rolled her eyes slightly, tossing her head back to sip her wine. “You know, people always want to talk about that BS, how I’m always at soup kitchens and all that. And you know what? I think it might be the most boring thing to talk about in the world. You know what it’s like? It’s like walking into a closet that smells like shoes and having to feed a bunch of trolls who don’t even know who you are. It’s, like, I want to tell them to shower, but I know they won’t do it. So, I plant a stupid smile on my face, and then tabloid writers write about it. I was even featured on a few talk shows recently. I had to pretend to cry when on camera, talking about the wage gap in America or whatever.”

  She paused, although it was clear to Audrey that she didn’t think she’d gone too far or said anything off-putting. “It’s just disgusting, really, what you have to do when you’re an artist, you know? Especially a well-known one.”

  “Yes, sure. I’m guessing Pablo Picasso didn’t do anything like that,” Audrey said, trying to make a joke.

  “Ew. I saw a few of his paintings in—where was it—maybe Vienna? I told my boyfriend at the time that they were baseless and stupid. Then he tried to buy the entire collection from the museum just to prove a point. But…” She shook her head. “They said they were essentially priceless, if you can believe that. I dumped him the next week anyway. He really tried too hard, you know?”

  “Right,” Audrey said, wanting to scrunch her nose but holding herself neutral. “Vienna sounds lovely. What did you think?”

  “Oh, god, never again,” April said, her voice snotty. “First of all, they barely know anything about America over there. They hadn’t even heard of any of my shows, which I thought was just—” She paused, flaring her nostrils. “You know what? I don’t even want to talk about it.”

  Audrey laughed, trying to match April’s mood. “Didn’t they know what great strides you’ve been making? That last sitcom alone about the gay teenager—”

  “I wouldn’t call it a sitcom. I’d call it a family drama,” April said, her voice condescending. “In fact, calling it a sitcom debases it in my eyes. It was an artistic achievement on all grounds. Did you even watch it?”

  Audrey hadn’t. She was into indie foreign movies from other eras and didn’t bother much with silly sitcoms—or “family dramas”—from the modern era. But she nodded almost imperceptibly, conscious that April just wanted her agreement.

  “Do you mind if we go outside for a smoke?” April asked. “I can’t handle the first glass of wine without a cig.”

  Surprised to find a smoker in the Bay Area, Audrey rose, shoving her arms back into her raincoat and walking out into the drizzle with the celebrity, just hoping she wouldn’t ask her to become any sort of human ashtray. Whoever April’s PR representative was had done a marvelous job with the soup kitchens and other stories, as April was clearly a piece of human garbage.

  Outside, shivering in the cold, Audrey tried to make her case, conscious that she couldn’t give up now. April snapped a lighter open and lit the tip of her American Spirit, inhaling sharply. The girl was only 29 years old and didn’t look a day over 25. Audrey wondered when the smoking would catch up to her.

  “Beyond your marvelous status,” Audrey said, “you’re a wonderful, high-caliber TV personality, making you—”

  “Excuse me?” April asked her.

  “You’re a wonderful—”

  “TV personality?” She scoffed. “Try ‘one of the greatest Hollywood stars of my generation.’ That’s the title you’re looking for.”

  “Of course,” Audrey said, already sensing she’d made a huge mistake. “A great Hollywood star. I look forward to your artistic achievements, and I appreciate the great strides you’ve taken in the business—”

  “Enough,” April spat, sending smoke into the air and then stamping her half-finished cigarette against the ground with her foot, making it soggy. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about? Spit it out.”

  Feeling anxiety setting in, Audrey followed April back to their table, preparing a new pitch in her head. She’d pissed April off, and she needed to regain control. Once seated, April sipped a heavy amount of wine, looking at her with cat-like attentiveness.

  “The Sheikh hasn’t had a date with a high-caliber actress such as yourself in a long time,” Audrey said, bringing her fingers together on the table. “I’m asking you to go on a single date with him, see how you feel about him and what he can do for your image, and then see if it could turn into something more long te
rm. That’s all.”

  April laughed unkindly, scrunching her eyes together. “You want me to date the Sheikh, this bad-boy billionaire? Ha. On some level, maybe I would have been into it. I heard he gets some of the best underground DJs at his parties.”

  “Then why not take a chance?” Audrey said, her heart thumping against her ribcage. “He could be your gateway into an interesting world.”

  “Ha,” April said, her eyes rolling like a teenager’s. “I’ll do it if you can answer me this one simple question.”

  Audrey frowned, suddenly sensing April was playing a trick. “Okay. I can answer questions.”

  “Since I’m one of the greatest Hollywood stars of my generation, I’d like for you to give me the name of my first movie role. It’s something many, many people know—especially my fans. If you can answer this question, then I’ll go on a date with your Sheikh and help his image.”

  April gave Audrey a sneaky, snake-like smile and then sipped her wine. She filled it once more, quickly draining the supply in the half-liter decanter. Audrey stared down at her phone, knowing the entire actress’s history was written on some menial page on the Internet somewhere, just waiting for her perusal. But Audrey hadn’t looked at her movie credits, thinking she’d know well enough how to flatter April without being specific.

  “See? You don’t know,” April said, her eyes bright. “And therefore, you don’t believe me to be a great Hollywood actress. You probably haven’t seen anything I’ve ever done. What kind of PR person are you, anyway? Don’t you give a crap about your client? Did you ask me here to specifically waste my time?”

  Audrey inhaled deeply. “The truth of it is, I don’t have much time—”

  “Don’t talk to me about time,” April spewed. “One thing I do have the time for, darling, is speaking with the press the moment I arrive in New York tonight and telling them just what the Sheikh is all about. I’ll tell them about the rude, obnoxious treatment I received from his resident ‘spin doctor,’ and how messed up I think it is that you both wanted to use me as a sort of lily pad while his reputation continues to sink. You disgust me.”

  “April, don’t do this,” Audrey pleaded, her heart beginning to beat wildly in her chest. “Honestly, the Sheikh loves everything you’ve done, artistically and otherwise. It’s him who wants the date—”

  Audrey stopped, as she sensed she was losing April completely. April poured the rest of her half liter of wine into her glass, drinking faster now. Her eyes seemed bright with a strange, simmering evil. She let out a small cackle, sounding almost demonic.

  “I live for this stuff, you know,” she whispered. “I live for tearing people down from the inside. This Sheikh, he probably didn’t even know I existed until you saw me on some daytime talk show speaking about soup kitchens. You thought you were clever, but I’ve been approached by several PR reps in the past few months, each with similar ideas for how I should waste my time. You know what I think of all of you? I think all of you should shove it, that’s what.”

  After downing the last of her wine, she rose, toppling her wooden chair to the ground. She grabbed her cell phone from the top of the table and then bolted to the door with both Audrey’s and the waiter’s eyes upon her. Tearing into the street, she hailed a taxi and disappeared into the drizzle like a yellow lightning bolt promising to tear Audrey’s job to shreds.

  Audrey slumped in her seat, realizing her grave mistake. The waiter tiptoed toward her, setting a large glass of wine on her table. Audrey shook her head sadly. “I can’t pay for that,” she whispered. “I didn’t order it. I’m sorry.”

  The waiter left it there, telling her, “Please. That woman comes in here all the time and leaves without paying. I have her PR girl’s phone number, and I just send her the bill whenever she does it. She’s one of the evilest celebrities I’ve ever had in here, and I’ve had top movie stars!” He shook his head, removing the empty glasses from the table. “Anyway, I hope she doesn’t ruin your career. If she does, I’m looking for servers.”

  “Thank you,” Audrey said, sighing. “I guess I’ll know in the morning.”

  “Do you like this Sheikh?” the waiter asked her. “I heard you trying to get him a date with her. Seems…cruel.”

  “I suppose, in the end, it would have been,” she said, nodding. “He’s not a bad guy. He just has a wicked reputation.”

  “Sounds like the opposite of her,” the waiter said, grinning. “Anyway. Let me know if you want anything else. Dinner, perhaps? I’ll just put it on her bill.”

  “No, thanks,” Audrey said, laughing in spite of herself. “I think I’ll just drink the rest of this wine and try to make my heart rate return to normal. Thank you, though. It means—well, everything.”

  The waiter left her alone to stare into the deep pool of red wine. The possible consequences of her mistake stretched before her, making her terrified. She’d never been fired before—had always been one of the top-tier PR representatives in the San Francisco area—and couldn’t imagine having to hunt for a new job, having to explain to potential clients just how badly she’d messed up.

  Of course, imagining the Sheikh on a date with April was horrendous given how horrid she was under the surface. The Sheikh only seemed to date gorgeous models, one after another, most of which were divas, but not nightmares. Their egos certainly didn’t match that of April Brevet. Sending the Sheikh out with someone like her was like sending him into the lion’s den.

  Perhaps protecting him from the likes of her was more important than her actual job, then.

  Audrey finished her wine and stood. She left the waiter a large tip—on top of the one he surely received from April’s PR rep—and then she bid him good-bye, tossing her hood over her head as she headed out into the rain. The rest of the day called for damage control. If she was lucky, she could stay above water. The only trouble was, it seemed to be coming from all around.

  Chapter Two

  Back at her one-bedroom apartment, also situated in the Mission area, with its tiny bedroom, attached office, and combined kitchen and dining nook, Audrey swept her wet rain jacket from her shoulders and undressed. She put on her comfiest pair of sweats and slipped beneath the covers of her bed, content to be out of the chill.

  Beneath the sheets, her mind swirled with thoughts of her boss—that crooked smile of his, his tan skin, his thick head of black hair, and his occasional five o’clock shadow, which made him look even more handsome, if that was possible.

  What if he fired her?

  Bringing her hair into a ponytail, Audrey dove into damage control, calling the journalists and tabloids across the state of California. She began with a San Francisco-based tabloid called the Lighthouse, whose writer, Monica, was actually in charge of following the Sheikh’s every move. He’d made her famous and rich, and as such, Audrey had become a constant caller of Monica—always trying to get her to take the stories down a notch.

  “Oh, hey there, Monica,” Audrey said, speaking companionably. “How’s your day? I hope you’re staying out of this rain. Brrr.”

  “Get to the point, Audrey,” Monica said. She chewed gum religiously; Audrey couldn’t remember a phone call with her that didn’t include the sound of it smacking between her teeth. “I know you’re calling about the Sheikh. What did he do this time?”

  “Oh, he did nothing, absolutely nothing,” Audrey said, stuttering. “I just wanted to let you know that he’ll be appearing at a benefit auction this weekend regarding victims of the recent flooding in New Orleans.”

  “Is that so?” Monica said, almost showing her eye roll through her tart voice. “Because you know we don’t print anything like that, Audrey.”

  Audrey pressed her lips together, trying to think. “He did nothing wrong,” she said, trying to be honest. “I just took a few too many steps in the PR department and might have messed up his chances of having any good news in the next few months. It’s all about me. And I’m asking you—professional to professional—not to print it
.”

  “Ha! You messed up? You, the hotshot PR whizz of San Francisco?” Monica said, sounding giddy. “This is almost too good to be true. I imagined the Sheikh had just, you know, slept with another dumb model or something. But this—” She started to chuckle. “This is something I can turn into a story.”

  Audrey swallowed, sensing she was in deep water. “I respect you a great deal as a journalist, Monica—”

  “Ha. No, you don’t. I would never believe those words out of anyone’s mouth,” Monica said. “I don’t even respect myself as a journalist. But you know what? I pay my damn bills, and I can’t expect a whole lot more from myself, especially in this poisonous city. Hey, Audrey, if this works out well readership wise, I’d love to take you out for a drink, really rack your brain to see how best to get the Lighthouse readership up. Seems like you’re already working with us in mind.”

  Irritated, Audrey hung up on Monica, anger throttling her. After taking a deep breath, she dialed a few more journalists across San Francisco, Los Angeles, and New York, trying to get a sense for if she could bribe them into not writing a horrible story about her and the Sheikh. But none of them seemed ready to promise anything.

  Audrey could understand why, but she hated that she was going to be outdone by a dramatic television actress who would soon surely fade into obscurity. Shifting back in her bed, she dialed another number—a bit less familiar than the journalists’—and waited as the phone rang out across the continent.

  Her father picked up on the third ring. His familiar, gruff voice made tears spring to her eyes.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” he said. “It’s been a while since we’ve heard from you.”

  “I know, Dad,” Audrey said. “I’ve been caught up in work, as usual. All of a sudden it’s April, and I haven’t seen you guys since September…”

  She trailed off, remembering that long-ago day in Alaska, the place her parents had retired to five years before. They’d gone for a hike through the mountains, and they’d gazed out over the water, not able to find words to make up for all the time they’d missed.