Page 6 of Flipping the Script
Iris signaled the hovering server with a subtle gesture that summoned a glass of red wine as if by magic. "Information is exactly what I'm here to provide. Though I suspect you've already done considerable research."
The tablet came alive under Iris's manicured fingers, displaying charts and graphs that made Quinn's stomach clench with recognition. Her industry mentions over the past eighteen months formed a depressing downward slope, while her project attachments had dwindled to this single, increasingly precarious opportunity.
"These numbers represent your current market value." Iris rotated the tablet so Quinn could see the full scope of her professional decline rendered in unforgiving analytics. "Two failed projects, one very public creative dispute with a director who's now persona non grata, and a reputation for being 'difficult to work with.'"
Quinn's fingers found her water glass, gripping it like an anchor. "I prefer 'committed to quality.'"
"The industry prefers people who play well with others." Iris swiped to a new screen showing Solen's metrics, which painted an equally grim picture. "Ms. Marrin's situation is different but equally catastrophic. Talent without trustworthiness, media attention for all the wrong reasons, and a Q-rating that's dropped forty-seven percent since the photo leak."
The analytical part of Quinn's mind—which was most of her mind—began processing the implications. Two failing careers created either twice the disaster or, possibly, some kind of mathematical redemption through strategic combination. "What exactly are you proposing?"
Iris leaned back with the satisfaction of someone about to reveal a particularly elegant solution. "Public romance. Carefully orchestrated, strategically timed, designed to transform both your narratives from professional liability to romantic fascination."
Quinn's pen fell from suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering against her notebook. "Fake dating."
"I prefer 'performance-based publicity partnership.'" Iris's smile held the kind of patient amusement reserved for clients who hadn't yet grasped the full scope of their situations. "Thirty days of public appearances, social media content, and award season visibility. Beginning with casual coffee dates, progressing through industry events, and culminating in a red carpet debut at the Golden Horizon Awards."
The notebook opened again despite Quinn's churning stomach, her pen moving in frantic calculations. Thirty days meant approximately sixty public interactions, assuming twice-daily social media posts and weekly major appearances. Variables included paparazzi cooperation, fan reaction metrics, and the terrifying prospect of sustained physical proximity tosomeone whose entire professional reputation was built on creative chaos.
"The mathematics don't work." Quinn's handwriting grew smaller and more precise as her anxiety increased. "Too many uncontrollable variables. Public opinion, media cycles, the distinct possibility that we'll murder each other before the thirty days are complete."
"The mathematics of your current trajectory work even less favorably." Iris displayed a new chart showing projected career outcomes. "At your current rate of industry alienation, you have approximately eight months before you're priced out of Hollywood entirely."
Quinn stared at the numbers, each percentage point representing dreams deferred and years of work dissolving into statistical insignificance. She was reaching for her water glass again when the dining room door burst open twenty-five minutes after the agreed meeting time.
Solen Marrin entered like weather—sudden, transformative, and impossible to ignore. Her auburn hair showed evidence of Los Angeles wind and possibly a sprint through the hotel lobby, while her vintage compass necklace caught the afternoon light streaming through those magnificent windows. She wore a flowing emerald blouse that somehow managed to look both effortlessly elegant and like she'd grabbed it from yesterday's laundry basket.
"Sorry, sorry—there were photographers outside and I had to do the whole duck-and-dodge routine." Solen unwound a colorful scarf while simultaneously moving Quinn's carefully arranged water glass to make room for her jacket. "Did someone tip them off or do they just camp here hoping for random celebrity disasters?"
Quinn watched her notebook get jostled by Solen's enthusiastic gesturing and felt her left eye begin its familiarstress-induced twitch. Everything about Solen's presence disrupted the carefully controlled environment she'd tried to establish—the moved glassware, the scattered energy, the way she seemed to occupy twice her actual physical space.
"They follow industry rumors," Iris answered smoothly, making notes on her tablet. "Speaking of which, this reaction is exactly why timing matters."
Solen finally settled into her chair, immediately reaching across the table toward Quinn's leather notebook. "What's this? Are you taking notes about me already?"
Quinn yanked the notebook against her chest with a speed that surprised everyone, including herself. "It's research. Industry analysis. Mathematical projections."
"Mathematical projections about fake dating?" Solen's brown eyes held genuine curiosity rather than mockery. "That's either brilliantly systematic or completely missing the point."
"I prefer systematic." Quinn loosened her death grip on the notebook slightly. "Unlike some people, I don't believe in improvising my way through important decisions."
The temperature in the room dropped several degrees as both women regarded each other with the wary assessment of natural predators sharing unexpected territory. Iris cleared her throat and activated her tablet's presentation mode, projecting detailed bullet points onto the dining room's elegant wall.
"The parameters are quite specific," Iris began with the efficiency of someone accustomed to managing volatile personalities. "Public appearances twice weekly, including coffee dates, script consultations, and industry events. Coordinated social media presence featuring candid moments and behind-the-scenes content. Believable physical affection during photographed encounters. And absolute discretion about the arrangement's artificial nature."
Quinn opened her notebook again, creating rapid bullet points that corresponded to Iris's presentation. "Define 'believable physical affection.'"
"Hand-holding, casual touching, the occasional kiss for cameras." Iris's matter-of-fact delivery made it sound like discussing catering options. "Nothing beyond PG-13, obviously."
Solen laughed, a sound like wind chimes that made Quinn's pen skip across the page. "Obviously. We wouldn't want to traumatize America with the sight of two women actually enjoying each other's company."
"This is about career rehabilitation, not personal enjoyment." Quinn's voice carried the crisp authority of someone desperately trying to maintain control over an increasingly chaotic situation. "Professional objectives achieved through strategic performance."
"See, that's where you're wrong." Solen leaned forward, her compass necklace swinging gently. "If we're going to convince anyone this is real, we need actual chemistry. Actual moments of connection. You can't fake genuine attraction with mathematical formulas."
The words hit Quinn like cold water, forcing her to confront the central flaw in her analytical approach. Mathematics could predict publicity cycles and calculate media impressions, but they couldn't manufacture the kind of authentic spark that made people believe in love stories. Her pen hovered over the notebook page, unable to quantify the very thing their success depended on.
"What's your screenplay about?" Solen asked suddenly, her question cutting through Quinn's mental spiral. "The one we're supposedly bonding over?"
