Page 53 of Filthy Rich

Another pause.

“I’m not sure about Jake—I think they have to start over on all the filming, which is a huge drag.”

When she pauses again, I poke Morgan. “What did they say about the music video?” She was texting Eddy right as Seren called.

Morgan shakes her head, presses her finger over her lips, and points at Bea. So it’s clearly snooping. I’m just not sure why they care what Seren thinks about Bea or Jake.

“But Mom, I think Octavia may want to stick around, to see more of Jake.” Her whispering’s pointless. We can still hear her.

Morgan actually leans closer—she’s that obvious.

“No, I mean, I know birthdays are a big deal, but. . .” She sighs. “Fine. I’ll talk to Jake and see if he can come back for a weekend. I’m sure they have some breaks in the filming schedule. They just aren’t very long ones.” After a very short pause, she almost shouts, “No, don’t book tickets to come here. I’m sure he won’t want you walking all over the set.”

I’m laughing when she finally hangs up. “Whose birthday is it?”

“Jake refused to tell us his birthday at first—he had so many falsified papers, no one was quite sure when it really was—so we celebrated the day he joined our family every year. That date is this weekend—Saturday. Dave and Seren take birthdays seriously.”

“But more importantly, it seems like the two of you are still dating.” Morgan rounds on me so fast it makes my head spin.

“I thought we were spying on Bea’s conversation,” I say.

Q rolls his eyes. “Only because of the off-chance she might let something spill about the two of you.” He crosses his arms. “You’ve told us nothing about your date.”

After I finally give them enough information that they’re satisfied, Bea and I go shopping for a new outfit for the album cover. I’ve never cared much about my clothes, opting for classy and boring business casual stuff mostly, but now that I’m supposed to be on an album cover. . .

“What look are we going for?” Bea asks.

“I’d have said opera for my first album,” I say. “But your stuff is more pop meets soul.”

She laughs. “Which means Doc Martens, argyle socks, and mini skirts?”

I groan. “I hope not. That was bad enough in the nineties.”

“I hear it’s come back.”

I hope she’s kidding.

We look all afternoon, checking out store after store, but don’t find anything that feels quite right. Or at least, nothing that costs less than five grand and feels quite right.

“Man, everything here’s so expensive,” I say.

“Yeah, and not like, ‘Whole Foods’ expensive. It’s like ‘sell a kidney’ expensive,” Bea says.

I chuckle. “I doubt my kidneys are worth as much as some of those purses.”

“Right?” She holds one hand out. “Here, sir, how much for a slightly used and possibly not very pretty kidney? Half of the price of that tiny pink coin purse?” She ponders for a moment and then nods her head. “Deal.”

“Who buys this crap?” I ask.

“People with more money than sense.”

“I wish that was me,” I say. “But I think you lose a little bit of your soul when you have that kind of money. Like, how do you justify buying a ten thousand dollar handbag when people, hardworking people, can’t pay their rent?”

“Or when some kids don’t have dinner?” Bea asks. “Did I tell you that Easton’s putting me in charge of charitable giving, or he said he will, once his new startup goes public?”

“Wait, he has a new startup already?” I blink. “I thought he just got out of the other thing?”

“It’s early stages,” Bea says. “But he knows what he’s doing now, so he thinks he’ll get there faster.” Bea stops walking. “Ooh, what do you want to eat for dinner? I’m thinking sushi.”

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