The Pretending Plot

by Lauren Blakely

  Now, I’d lost a client for Swift as Light.

  I left the Park Avenue building, spotting the flashing red light on my phone. My boss had probably called to ream me out. There was a text message too. What the hell did you do??? I ignored it, unlocked my bike, and hopped into the saddle, speed-demoning it down the traffic-infested streets of New York, spewing a stream of curse words as I gripped the handlebars. Now I’d have to give my best mea culpa to my boss at the Swift as Light offices in the East Village. When I arrived, I wheeled my bike inside, parked it in the cluttered hallway, and found Dave waiting for me. Hands on hips. Bearded face lined with anger. “What the hell was that about? Swift as Light is finito. History. Gone.”

  I pulled the messenger bag over my head and dropped it on the floor. “Sorry.”

  He arched an angry brow. Wait, make that a mad-as-a-wild-boar brow. “You’re sorry? That’s what you have to say? That was an important client, and it’s not like the bike messenger business has to compete with, oh, you know, DoorDash, and GrubHub, and a million new other services every damn day. I don’t have the luxury of losing clients when you’re pissed.”

  My shoulders tightened, and guilt swirled in me. I repeated, more sincerely, “I’m sorry.”

  He huffed, waving a hand, his dark eyes brooking no argument. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Don’t fucking talk to people. Just keep your mouth shut.”

  “Look, I almost got killed out there. Drivers are assholes. I’m having a shit day.”

  “Welcome to being an adult. Every day can be a shit day. You don’t have to be a dick to the clients.”

  “I didn’t know he was a client,” I said, then instantly hated myself for sounding defensive. I’d fucked up, plain and simple. There was no real excuse.

  “Assume everyone is. Got that? Assume everyone is a client and shut your mouth. You’re not in a Tarantino film. You’re in a job. So act like it.”

  “Okay. Got the message.” I held up my hands, as if surrendering.

  “And go take a week off to cool down.”

  “What?” My jaw dropped. Was he for real?

  And the answer was yes. “I gotta spend the day trying to triage this and figure out if I can save a client. If I see you around, it’ll piss me off. So get out of here and come back in a week. We’ll see if I no longer want to strangle you with one of your dumbass T-shirts with their stupid sayings,” Dave said, and walked back into his office in a trail of annoyance.

  I glanced down at my well-worn blue T-shirt, heaving a sigh. Now my T-shirts were to blame too? What was wrong with my T-shirts? This one had the words “Beehives are not piñatas” in a cool font across the front. The shirt looked good on me. Some chick at the corner bodega where I got my morning coffee had even said “cool shirt.” I could rock a worn T-shirt like nobody’s business thanks to my lean and muscular frame.

  Gyms were my friends. No excuses as an actor. You just went.

  And today, I went away from work, frustrated with myself.

  I snagged my bike, left the office, and called Jill. We’d been friends for a while but became even tighter when we were in Les Mis together. Tight in the close friends kind of way. Tight in the way a dude can be buddies with a chick.

  “Come on over tonight and we’ll drown your sorrows,” she said. “My roommate’s visiting her parents so we can be as loud and obnoxious as we want.”

  “Because if she were here, you’d be quiet and considerate?” I teased.

  “As if I’m capable of that.”

  “I’ll be over after seven. I’m going to the gym. I have to blow off some steam.”

  “Good. Because you are not permitted to come over angry. It would totally ruin my Feng Shui crystal healing energy vibe.”

  I laughed. “Since when are you into new age stuff?”

  “Since never. But I got something nice from a marathon mommy and it’s got your name written all over it.”

  “Can’t wait to see what it is. See you later, babe.”

  After a stint at the gym and a quick shower, I walked across town to Jill’s apartment in Chelsea and she buzzed me up.

  “I have beer and vodka. Pick your poison.” Jill waggled a long-neck bottle in one hand, and a short glass with ice cubes and clear liquid in the other.

  “Vodka,” I said and took a long swallow of the liquor, downing most of the drink.

  “Whoa, Tiger. Slow it down.”

  I just shrugged, thrust the glass at Jill, and affixed my best commercial toothpaste smile. “May I have another, pretty please?”

  “Fine,” she said, pouring more into the glass.

  I eyed the fancy bottle. “Since when do you buy Belvedere?”

  “This is the something nice I got. It was a gift from one of the ladies in my running club who finished the New York City marathon.”

  “She gave you vodka for finishing a marathon? Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that sort of counter to the whole marathon vibe?”

  She grinned. “Vodka and marathons are like headliners and featured cast—they go together great as long as you remember who comes first. And I genuflected at her gift, because I love my Belvedere almost as much as I adore Sondheim. Now, come to my couch, and tell me all your problems,” she said, pointing to the mustard-colored couch, well-worn from many late-night talk sessions.

  I glanced around, seeing signs of Kat, in the Eiffel Tower and Arc de Triomphe mugs on the kitchen shelf and a couple of French Provincial type prints mixed in the decor. “So, your roomie’s in Paris?”

  “She’s on a mission to find new designs for her necklaces. I’m excited for her. Also, she’s got this complicated love life thing going on.” She sipped her drink. “Who knows how that will turn out, but I want the best for her.”

  “Yeah, I can tell by the way you keep poking your nose in her love life. Caden told me you steered them together at the opening night party.”

  Jill waved a hand in the air, dismissing her interference. “Some people need steering. Especially roommates who are hung up on guys they should not be hung up on.” Then she slid a sly glance at me. “And guy friends who should be making some woman deliriously happy with his triple threat of looks, talent, and niceness.”

  I put up my hands to hold her off, metaphorically. “What about my triple threat of jobless, penniless, and auditionless? I am in a first-things-first holding pattern where romance is concerned.”

  “Wait—jobless?” She made a sad face, bottom lip stuck out in a pout. “When did this happen?” Uncurling from the corner of the couch, she put her feet on the coffee table and motioned me toward her with open arms. “Come tell Auntie Jill all about it and we’ll figure it out.”

  With a groan in the same vein as her exaggerated but sincere sympathy, I stretched out on the couch and rested my head in Jill’s lap. She ran her fingers through my hair. It was comforting and comfortable, but familial like a sibling. Actors are naturally touchy people. We are used to having hands on each other, whether on stage or in rehearsals, so it becomes a natural state of affairs when hanging out.

  “Let’s see. Well, I totally fucked up my audition for the Joss Whedon film, as you know. Second, I haven’t booked a commercial in weeks. Third, I’m pretty sure the residuals from my last toothpaste spot are going to dry up soon. Fourth, my boss at the messenger service is forcing me to take a week off without pay because I was rude”—I sketched air quotes around the word—“to one of my customers.”

  “Ouch.” She shot me a sympathetic look. “Were you, though?”

  I drew a deep breath, taking this one on the chin since I deserved it. “I was a dick. I deserve the week of no pay. Which brings me to the fifth problem. Rent. Rent. Rent.”

  Jill stared pensively at a cracked section of plaster on the ceiling. “You know, Reeve,” she said, in a voice that I instantly recognized as her mastermind tone. “One of the Upper East Side cougars in my running club has a high-end escort service going on.”

  I laughed and sat up straight.
“Seriously? You want me to be an escort?”

  She gestured broadly to my frame, like she was saying I could play the part. “Is it such a crazy thought? You’re young and hot and you can play any part. That’s what these ladies want.”

  “What kind of ladies?” I asked, intrigued, if only because it was intriguing as fuck.

  “All kinds,” Jill said, in an evasive way.

  Now I had to know. “What do you mean all kinds?”

  She shrugged sheepishly. “Just that all sorts of ladies use escort services.”

  “Do you?”

  She swatted me with a pillow. “No!”

  “Just saying you can admit it if you do.”

  She rolled her eyes. “And to think I was trying to help you with a job.”

  “And to think you have a client in your running club who’s a pimp,” I said and pushed my fingers through my hair.

  “She’s not a pimp, Reeve,” Jill said, correcting, as she punched me on the shoulder. “She’s a high-end madam. For men. And she pays well.”

  That’s what I needed more than anything. Dough. Plain and simple. But escort work? I don’t know. That wasn’t my style. Even so, I was curious about what was entailed. “Would I have to, you know, with them?”

  “Go down on them?”

  I made a rolling motion with my hand. “That and other things.”

  Jill shrugged. “Probably in some cases. I mean, some women just read Playgirl for the articles, but I’m pretty sure when you’re shelling out a thousand dollars a pop you want the escort to take care of the lady business.”

  “A thousand dollars a pop?” That was eye-popping money.

  “Too much? You don’t feel right charging that? Don’t worry. I can tell her you’d be willing to work at a discount,” she teased, deadpan.

  And the thing was—the money was as appealing as anything.

  But the work was not.

  I had no interest in providing those kinds of services. I wasn’t old-fashioned, but maybe in some ways, I was. “I think I’ll keep looking for work. Call me crazy, but I kind of like actually—you know—being attracted to the girl I’m making scream my name out loud.”

  “Do you, Reeve? Do you make them scream your name out loud?”

  I raised an eyebrow playfully. “Every. Single. Time.”

  2

  Sutton

  I’d checked the mirror on the way out the door that morning and made sure I didn’t look like a woman with everything on the line.

  Poised on the cusp of a life-changing opportunity—that was what I wanted to project. Today I needed to lock down a contract that any of my competitors would walk on hot coals to get. But I was the right one—the only one—for this project. I had been prepping for this most of my career.

  Escorted Lives.

  The red-hot film based on the biggest selling erotic romance series the world had seen in ages.

  Who had better credentials when it came to red-hot and sexy? Who cast It’s Raining Men, the blockbuster male stripper movie which had showered $302 million in box-office greenbacks onto the producers?

  Sutton Brenner, that’s the one.

  And then there was Spread, an indie flick about a chiseled male model who falls in love with an Oklahoma housewife. That festival darling was my breakout, earning both critical acclaim and a cool one hundred twelve million, ten times its budget. And I earned a nod in an industry trade magazine, touted as “the best appraiser of male flesh and talent in all of the film community.”

  I’d been tickled pink by the accolade.

  But it wasn’t ink on a contract.

  The money guys on Escorted Lives hadn’t yet committed to signing me to cast their film. In my mirror pep talk, I told myself they were being cautious. I had an excellent track record, but at twenty-eight, it was a relatively short one. But if I were honest with the woman in the mirror, I’d admit that mega-rich Johnathan and Nicholas Pinkerton were known in the business as risk-takers.

  So that’s where we were figuratively—the edge of the high dive, waiting for the whistle to say “go.”

  Literally, I was perched on the edge of my chair across the glass conference table from the twin British film financiers. They were my countrymen, and I hoped that my own Britishness might give me a leg up. I could—and did—talk the talk about London and the Queen and footie, and they loved that. They were avid golfers too, and so I’d researched the blazes out of golf in America so I could chat them up about the relative merits of the Augusta National Club versus Pebble Beach Golf Links, and, please God, they’d never guess I didn’t know a lick about swinging a club.

  Would my prep work pay off?

  “You’re definitely at the top of the list for Escorted Lives,” Johnathan said. I waited for, so of course we’re going with you, but the producer trailed off.

  Bollocks.

  Top of the list meant there was still a list. What was the holdup?

  As if I’d asked the question aloud, Johnathan glanced at his wife, Janelle. She’d been silent through the meeting so far—the obvious sort of silence that speaks loudly—with her hands folded on the table and her lips pressed tightly together.

  It was not a good sign. If the Pinkerton brothers were famously known as risk-takers, then the Pinkerton Power Couple was infamously mercurial, with a stormy marriage that bled over—or so it was rumored—into their business and social lives.

  My role centered around appearances—not physical beauty (my reputation in the subset of handsome male actors aside), but rather the story that a person’s appearance told—or could tell—with guidance from the right director.

  Janelle’s green eyes were cool and piercing. Her black hair was pulled back in a bun so tight that her skin looked stretched over her scalp. Her perfect makeup and her straight, still posture reminded me of a doll—the kind meant to be displayed on a shelf, not played with on the floor.

  Janelle wasn’t the toy, but the puppeteer. I hadn’t only researched golf courses. Gathering intel on the Pinkertons was simplicity itself. Janelle was the money—she came from it and Johnathan married into it. She might not have the official title of executive producer, but everything in a Johnathan Pinkerton movie had to pass muster with the wife. That was hardly a secret.

  After that, it was a matter of sorting credible rumor from wild speculation. Opinions were split on whether she held the purse strings in an iron fist or one that tightened or slackened depending on the current state of their turbulent marriage.

  And Johnathan Pinkerton had recently been featured in a gossip tabloid photo, looking very cozy with the not-so-wide-eyed ingenue in his previous production.

  This could be bad.

  While I’d been trying not to stare at Janelle, she’d been less subtle about looking me over. My mirror pep-talk had been to an attractive, one might even say sexy if one weren’t too British to admit it aloud, well-put-together and not-at-all-desperate-looking woman perhaps fifteen years younger than Mrs. Pinkerton.

  This could be very bad, indeed.

  Finally, she moved, leaning closer to Johnathan and whispering something in his ear. They then had an exchange that seemed as much significant glares and knowing looks as actual words. Which I might have had a chance of interpreting if Nicholas Pinkerton hadn’t filled the awkward silence by making conversation about bloody golf.

  I smiled and nodded until Johnathan Pinkerton cleared his throat, reclaiming the meeting.

  “As I was saying, we think your previous work makes you suited for this project. We like to promote a familial sort of culture at Pinkerton, and thought perhaps you would like to join us for a dinner party on Friday.” Janelle cleared her throat, and Johnathan’s smile tightened. “And your fiancé, of course.”

  “Come again?” I asked, unsure I’d heard him correctly.

  Because I didn’t have a fiancé.

  Johnathan’s brows knitted. “I was sure I’d read in the papers you were recently engaged.”

  I blinked—fo
rtunately I’d held my emotional cards close and my face pleasantly neutral.

  The papers. An engagement. Of course.

  I saw exactly how the mistake came about. The Broadway actress Sutton Kenmore had become engaged to her manager last week. There weren’t many Suttons in New York or in show biz, so this was far from the first time someone had gotten some detail turned around in their head.

  I was about to explain that there’d been a misunderstanding, but Janelle piped up. “We do so love to meet the significant people in the lives of our team. A dinner gathering will be just the opportunity to finalize the details.” She gave an arch look at my bare left hand. “And perhaps show off your ring . . .?”

  Ah-ha! There it was. The click of the pieces coming together—the tabloid photo, the pencil skirt and heels I’d carefully chosen this morning, the familial culture I had heard nothing of until that whispered conversation—it all translated to “no unattached women attached to this project.”

  Quickly, I weighed my options. The obvious choice—straighten out the confusion, laugh it off, and move on.

  But we weren’t moving at all on this deal. This meeting was the first movement in weeks, and the only thing to have changed was this “engagement.” It was difficult not to attribute cause and effect.

  And beyond that—I could read people and I could read between the lines too. They wanted me to be attached.

  I knew a lucky break when I saw it. I was the best person to cast this film whether I was single, married, or celibate. My relationship status said nothing of my skills.

  But my skills also said that sometimes you need to seize the chance. To make someone else’s biases work to your benefit. If they needed an attached woman, they’d get an attached woman, and I’d deliver a terrific film, dust my hands, and move on.

  You don’t let a golden opportunity pass you by.

  Improvising, I held up my ringless hand. “My boyfriend surprised me the other weekend. The ring is being resized. I can’t wait to get it back on my hand.” I gave it all the gleeful enthusiasm a recently betrothed twenty-eight-year-old casting director might feel. And really, wasn’t I all but one of those things? The remaining thing mattered not in the long run.