I didn’t keep tabs on the casting process.
I just took the USB drive from Jean and went to review the data.
I trusted these two men who had grown as professionals alongside me and earned their first big paychecks and recognition through my success.
They wouldn’t do themselves a disservice by picking some incompetent or con artist, right?
Especially Jean. He’s my producer. My lawyer has warned me more than once not to mix work and relationships, but what can I do when that line blurred a long time ago?
So, who’s this unrecognized genius we’ve got?
From the massive monitor, a face stared back at me—maybe handsome once, but not exactly thriving now. A young man who either had a chronic illness or indulged in every vice life had to offer. Swollen eyelids, skin already losing its firmness, bloodshot eyes with suspiciously dilated pupils, a shaky, goofy smile, a shirt unbuttoned almost to his navel, a tie slung over his shoulder. A shot of whiskey in one hand, a cigar in the other, and two girls perched on his lap.
What a charmer. And he writes too?
Of course, Jean wouldn’t pick anyone cute or likable who might unintentionally spark my interest.
Don’t get me wrong, Jean isn’t the jealous type. But we’ve dreamed up our future plans together, and that’s been the case for a long time.
So he wouldn’t tempt fate, the same fate that brought us together from the very start of my modeling career.
Let’s see what this guy did to earn the approval of both my lawyer and producer.
Ah, Ivy League—impressive. But he got kicked out in his final year over some drama with a girl. His family—wow, nothing like my mom, Perez. They’re all politicians and business tycoons, born with silver spoons in their mouths.
So why is the son of such parents looking for a gig? My book won’t give him anything but money. And his family’s got plenty of that—old, respected, and abundant.
Twenty-seven years old, divorced, has a daughter (wow, when did he manage that?), writing career never took off, lives alone, no contact with his family, works odd jobs as a reporter, and is supposedly writing some masterpiece.
I don’t know about this.
If he’s a nutcase or an alcoholic, he’ll botch the writing.
Jean has never signed contracts with people like this, and my lawyer avoids them like the plague, advising me to steer clear of such types too.
Yet here he is, the only candidate.
Okay, breathe from the diaphragm. They picked the best option. They’re experienced and educated. They know better.
What? The interview is today?
My darling seemed to sense my unease and called.
“What’s up, mon amie? Not thrilled?”
“You know I’m not.”
“Don’t worry. Everything’s fine. The lawyer’s on board with this guy too. He writes well, desperately needs the cash, and just got sober recently.”
“I’m counting on you, but…”
“He’s a decent dude, just had a rough go at life,” Jean reassured me. “Got screwed over by a woman, forced into marriage, barely got out of it with that tramp, and managed to keep custody of his kid. He’s got a tough personality, sure, but you’re not baptizing babies with him. He’ll do his job, we’ll pay him, and we’ll soar to new heights, like we always do.”
“If you say so,” I said sourly. For some reason, his pep talk wasn’t lifting my spirits.
“I do say so. And the lawyer gave his blessing. Come on down. We’re not meeting him at the house. Head to our office. We’ll sign everything there if he doesn’t completely turn you off.”
“If you say so,” I repeated and went to get ready.
No visible logos on my outfit. I don’t advertise anything for free. No makeup, flat shoes, straight-leg jeans, and an oversized hoodie with a huge hood—three sizes too big. Non-brand dark sunglasses.
I tuck my hair into the hood. Now no one will recognize me.
I arrive at the office a bit early. I hate being late. But our young genius shows up thirty minutes behind schedule. At least he’s gracious enough to call and say he’s stuck. Still, my irritation and unease only grow thicker.
Jean, you’d better watch out. Who are you foisting on me?
Finally, a body that could belong to a quarterback squeezes through the door.
“Hey, my apologies. Let’s get straight to business.”
Would you believe it? He actually apologized. But he’s acting like a boss who got held up with important matters.
Does he really need the money? Or does he already know he’s hired because we don’t have anyone else in mind? What a jerk.
“Hey. I’m…”
“I know who you are,” the writer cuts me off. “I’ve dug up everything in the public domain about you so we don’t write clichés or stuff everyone already knows. Send me the fresh, exclusive stuff no one’s heard. And answer my questions honestly. Because both haters and fans will fact-check. If we mess up, it won’t be a bestseller—it’ll be tabloid fodder. A guru and tabloid drama? Instant flop.”
“I envision the book like this…” I try to interject with my ideas.
“Envision away, flex that imagination,” he laughs unpleasantly. “But I’ll be the one writing. And I’ve already got it all mapped out. You didn’t think this would be the thousand-and-first book about how you climbed the professional Everest and achieved zen through hard work and good behavior, did you?”
“That’s exactly what I thought, mister. And I still do. Give me three reasons why it should be any different.”
“Easy. No one will read it. The other reasons don’t even matter after that, though there are plenty.”
“Really? And how many bestsellers have you written, mister?”
Think he got embarrassed? Guess again.
“I’m writing one right now. But I’m broke, so I need to work on the side. That’s why I agreed to help for a paycheck. Then I’ll lock myself away for six months and finish my own. What’s the problem? Why the sour face? Mimic wrinkles are the scourge of women worldwide.”
“Thanks for the concern. Of course, I trust my team who picked you for this job. And I’m sure you’ve studied the terms and fully understand the contract.”
“Yeah,” he twitches his cheek impatiently. “Let’s move on. Get to work. Don’t waste your time or mine. Every second either brings you profit from sales or a loss from my delay.”
“So you don’t get that this is an interview, that you’re not hired yet, and that I’m the one doing the hiring?”
“So you don’t get how to write books. I do. It’s like if you came to me applying to be a model, and I started holding interviews and threatening to hire someone else.”
“Got it. Except I haven’t gone to castings in five years. I’ve got a list of contracts as long as your arm. Your long arm. And you’ve got nothing to show for yourself.”
“I do. And I already showed your people. They liked it. You, on the other hand, read at a snail’s pace, and only contracts at that. What would you know about bestsellers? Don’t worry. I’ve already got a plan for the book. Right now, you’ll give me the material for the sections on diet and training.”
I took a deep breath and started exhaling, slowly counting down from ten to one.
“And the part about you, rising from the slums to the clouds, we’ll write after you answer my questions,” he continued, as if he didn’t see how angry I was getting. “That’s how it works. A self-help book? No one needs another one of those. There are thousands already. We need to give something unknown, personal, and inspiring about you to all the gossips, fitness buffs, aspiring starlets, and teenage models.”
“Why?” I asked out of sheer contrariness, even though he was making sense.
“So they’ll sign up for masterclasses not with some airheaded doll, but with a wise beauty who has useful knowledge for them. So they’ll know they’re getting value from both the book and your teachings,” he replied, as if speaking to a spoiled child.
“Fine. That’s just talk. But we don’t have a choice,” I said. “Sign the nondisclosure agreement for now. Look at the penalty amount. Want to spend years in jail while your daughter grows up with her deadbeat mom? Go ahead and spill. Who am I to stop you?”
“Oops. You’ve got some bite. Didn’t expect that.”
“That’s not all. Right now, I’ll answer your first round of questions. By the weekend, you bring what you’ve written. I’ll read it, and so will my lawyer and producer. Based on our discussion, you either keep writing, or we find another writer, and you return the advance.”
“That’s for calling me an airheaded doll,” I added silently to myself.
“I was hoping for something different, but this works too,” my literary ghostwriter said nonchalantly, shaking his sun-bleached mop of hair.
“Then let’s not waste precious time, mister. Start with your questions.”
He grinned with perfectly straight, blindingly white teeth, almost like a polite snarl. But his steely eyes, framed by swollen lids, weren’t smiling.
“First question. Which of these two smug peacocks are you sleeping with, or is it both? Don’t start with the ‘I lead a healthy lifestyle and am practically a nun’ nonsense.”
“With Jean. Next question.”
Take that. You thought you’d embarrass me into spilling too much? Nice try. My inner circle has known about Jean for ages. Let the public finally know too.
This year, he and I made a joint wish list. It included a comfortable life far from modeling, big cities, and pink baby nurseries.
Jean, like me, is child-free and doesn’t care for pomp or formality.
But our work is what we’re good at. So for now, we’ll stay in this game.
“Hmm, I thought it was the lawyer. Your Jean doesn’t seem like the type who’s into girls.”
Trying to provoke me? Jean isn’t like you, not a hulking mass of muscle on broad bones. And in your mind, only guys like you are into women?
“You don’t seem like it either,” I said with a saccharine smile. “You look more like the type guys are into. So what?”
“Nothing. Just a warm-up. So you relax and aren’t afraid of tough questions. Just tell the truth. We don’t want to rewrite later.”
“Don’t repeat yourself. I may not be educated, but my memory’s fine.”
“Why didn’t your parents care about your education?”
“I didn’t have parents by the time I needed to worry about school. I had a guardian. He sent me to school and didn’t object to my modeling gigs. I’ve got no complaints about him. As you can see, I’ve achieved everything with what I had to work with.”
“Oh, a detailed answer already. Good job. Take it easy. I’m doing this for you.”
“Next, mister.”
“Would you also deny your kids an education, since you made it without one?”
“I’m child-free. I won’t have kids.”
Yep, that’s the truth. After my poor mother died in my arms, lost in her drugged-out haze, I suffered enough through orphanhood and poverty. The mere thought of my child becoming an orphan and struggling sends me into a panic attack. I can’t even consider being a mother. But those details are no one else’s business.
My therapist has worked hard with me. But he still thinks my biggest fears—going broke and getting pregnant—haven’t been overcome.
I think they’re not fears. They’re life lessons. I’ve learned them, and I won’t forget.
Jean supports me in everything. He’s French. They’re a nation of people who love sensual pleasures and life’s comforts. But they always use their heads first.
“Okay,” I heard the writer’s voice. “I thought you’d throw out examples like Steve Jobs. But you dodged that nicely.”
“I can use myself as an example. That’s enough.”
“So when you got into modeling, you didn’t have any role models who rose from garages to stardom?”
“I’m not from the garages, mister. I’m from the slums. You gonna ask about that, or are we still on role models?”
“Wouldn’t hurt to know.”
“Jean. He’s been my role model since I was a teenager, when he picked me up from a dead-end teen modeling agency and took me under his wing.”
“Now that’s called ‘taking under his wing,’ huh!” the future author of my rise-to-the-top bestseller sneered sarcastically.
“Don’t think for a second that Jean demanded anything inappropriate for that. He made it clear from the start that he didn’t want to go to jail for messing with a minor or lose clients over harassment scandals.”
“Very professional, if not believable,” declared Mr. I-Don’t-Buy-It.
“My Jean protected me, taught me that no fleeting pleasure is worth losing a big career. And yes—he believed in me from the very beginning.”
“Tears of emotion are stopping me from asking more,” the sarcasm dripped from this writer’s tongue. “But I’ll ask anyway. Are you still a virgin with that approach?”
“I’m not that obedient. I’ve had a few short but intense flings with fellow models. Even one with a very popular rapper. You know about that, by the way. You bragged earlier that you dug up everything in the public domain.”
“I did. And I’m testing you for lies.”
“Thanks to the Virgin Mary and Jean, I dodged early pregnancies, abortions, alcohol, and drugs that have derailed more than one promising career,” I replied evenly. “Jean made me who I am today.”
“I’m touched,” the clown rubbed his dry eyes. “When’s the wedding? Will you invite me as best man, or is that spot for the lawyer?”
“We’ll tie the knot in our own time. But right now, we need to secure our future paradise and freedom from the crowds of fans, haters, and gossips worldwide.”
“Nice segue into the guru topic.”
“The lawyer’s against relationships in business. But let him say what he wants. I don’t mind if Jean asks him to be best man. We won’t invite you. No one can know you worked for us.”
“Perfect. I didn’t expect it to be easy to get you talking on the first try. By the way, you know the first time decides everything, and you never forget your firsts?”
“I’m aware,” I held myself together with the last of my patience. “All the best, and see you this weekend, mister. You’ll get the meeting location by Friday noon.”
“I suggest a white wig, morena. I’m into blondes. And no one will recognize you in that color.”
“I suggest you don’t give me advice outside the scope of our contract. All the best.”