Page 17 of Broken Beyond Repair
Beatrice pinched the top of her nose. “Urgh, don’t they all?”
Alison chose not to comment on this. “I’ll send you her phone number, and your flight details once I have them.”
“I appreciate you sorting all this. Fleur’s been AWOL since she handed in her very short notice. I’ve been relying on room service and concierges to get by. I’ll get her to pack my belongings and dispense with her — less a couple of days’ pay.”
“You outdid yourself with that one,” Alison said with a light laugh. “Speaking of roles, I’m sending you a couple of potential jobs for next year. Let me know if any grab your attention, and I’ll send the script samples over to you to peruse.”
“Good. I’ll need something to do on the flight home to keep me awake. I’ve been told to keep active.”
“How’s the book? Is it coming along or not?”
“Well, actually, I did start putting some thoughts down some years ago.”
A lot of thoughts, in fact; she’d already covered most of the poignant events in her adult acting career. A particularly challenging role a few years before had affected her more than she would have liked, and writing was a good distraction from it.
“I didn’t think we kept secrets,” Alison snarked.
“Ikeep them when I find the alternative of you hounding me to the depths of hell too much,” Beatrice rejoined.
“Speaking of secrets… there is something you should know.”
The slowing of her agent’s speech caused Beatrice’s heart rate to pick up.
“Yes?”
“I know you said you didn’t want to know when it happened.” Alison exhaled. “Your father died a few weeks ago.”
Beatrice stiffened. Her mother and father were dead to her when she turned eighteen.
Alison continued, “I went to the service. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Why?”
“I thought someone should pay their respects.”
“That man deserved no respect,” Beatrice bit out.
“Be that as it may, someone needed… to represent you. I know him being alive wouldn’t have prevented you from being honest in your book.” Alison paused. “I thought it was best that you knew.”
“Were there many there?” Beatrice cursed her curiosity.
“A handful.”
“Well, I have the first niggling of needing to pee,” she lied, “and with the time it takes me to get to the bathroom I’ll need to set off now.”
“Sure thing, Bea.” The tone of Alison’s reply indicated she understood Beatrice wanted the matter closed. “Send me what you’ve done on the book, and I’ll look over it.”
Beatrice hung up and lifted her cast onto the mountain of pillows, covering herself back over with the Egyptian cotton sheet. A handful of mourners was five fingers more than her father deserved — she wouldn’t waste her time sticking two up at him. Good riddance.
Turning her attention to her laptop, she retrieved her old file. There was no shortage of material to cover her fifty years on earth. She’d decided to go about it chronologically for ease and readability; it was simply a case of encapsulating that life in an engaging way whilst providing enough personal details to give insight into her character without being too intimate. She had no qualms over sharing most things, though some others needed to remain hidden—locked away and forgotten about at the cost of stardom.
How did one make noteworthy achievements, moments of adversity, and major turning points unfold like a story? A lot had happened to her, some good, a lot bad. It needed to sound genuine, not embellished for dramatical purposes. Remembering exact details was going to be difficult. Having already tried to recall her earlier childhood memories, she wondered if what she remembered was real, or just phantom memories placed in their stead, created off the backs of stories her parents had told her.
Her parents… there was another problem entirely. Alison was right: her father’s passing made no difference to what she would say in the book; they deserved every bit of censure she would throw in their direction. She couldn’t erase them; they were an important part of her history and part of the real story she needed to tell. What they had done had led her to be the success she was today — out of sheer determination.
Opening her emails to send the file to Alison, revealed an email from her with the contact details for Sydney MacKenzie. No doubt another airhead to test her patience and struggle with a simple coffee order. Milk was no substitute for cream in coffee; in fact, it ruined it entirely. It was the equivalent of asking for sugar and being met with salt. In the absence of cream, black was acceptable; milk was not. Beatrice didn’t relish breaking in yet another new PA; it was hard enough when she had use of both legs.
A glance at her watch told her it was four o’clock in LA, making it midnight UK time, a perfect time to call and introduce herself to her new PA.
