Page 51 of Man Hands
“Samuel isn’t coming. We don’t need himtoday.”
“We don’t? I thought we were signing off on the details for season ten today. If that’s not the case, then why am Ievenhere?”
Patricia’s hand strays to her favorite desk ornament, which is a tiny but accurate reproduction of the guillotine used to decapitate Marie Antoinette. I bought it for her as a tool to shave the ends off the Cuban cigars shesmokes.
Lost in thought, she moves the lever up and down a couple of times with her fingertip, and I brace myself. “This is very unusual. But the network is considering releasing you, based on the morality clause in your contract,” she says slowly. “It’s foolish of them, and I’m trying to talk them outofit.”
“Those bastards!” My gut clenches, and I actually see red. A serious red. Like Benjamin Moore’s Vermillion. “I didn’t do anything wrong. Having sex in your own home is notamoral.”
She nods, her finger executing a few more invisible Frenchmen before she folds her hands. “But the contract says they can release you for negative publicity related to your personal life. It doesn’t say they can release you only if you’re truly apervert.”
“Then fix it!” I bluster. “I signed this thing in the first place because you approved thelanguage.”
She flinches. “We’re doing all we can. Publicist Becky is on her fourth espresso this morning, and my legal team has been shooting down stray copies of that video for seventy-two hours straight. And we’re doing all we can to push the story that you’re engaged and that you’re not apervert.”
Slowly, I unclench the fists I’ve made. “They can’t push me off season ten for this. That’s bullshit.” Even as I say these words, I hear my own hypocrisy. Half an hour ago I was dragging my feet on shooting season ten. I didn’t want the network to rush me. But the fact that they might fire me instead isunacceptable.
Diva,much?
“Let them work through their issues,” Patricia says. “They’re going to run some teasers for season ten—shots of an old house. A picture of you looking wholesome with your hammer.” She snorts. “Okay, maybe not a hammer. A belt sander. Anyway, they’ll float your face out there and see what happens. When there’s no backlash from the bible belt, they’ll man up and schedule theseason.”
“Or they’ll look at the rest of their lineup and realize they still need my ratings numbers to peddle to theiradvertisers.”
“Exactly,” sheagrees.
For a hot second this bit of bluster gives me a second wind. But then I realize something. “If this works, I’ll have to actually shoot season ten fairlyquickly.”
“Of course. But you live for this shit.” Patriciagrins.
I used to, anyway. “We’ll have some hiring to do first. We need a newdesigner.”
The smile slides off Patricia’s face. “Notnecessarily.”
“What?” She can’t be serious. “I can’t have Chandra on the set. She won’t want the jobanyway.”
“Well…” She clears her throat. “The job has to be offered to her. The network has to prove that she wasn’t let go for turning down your offer of marriage. Plus, she really won’t want the job now that you’ve ‘moved on.’” I swear she puts that last bit in quotes. Patricia knows this business. She knows we’re in crisis mode and that not every relationship is as it seems. Something I knowtoowell.
My temples throb suddenly. When Chandra broke up with me after, episode ten, she’d told me I was just a “stopping point” on her path to stardom. She didn’t want to settle down and “play house.” She had bigger, better thingstodo.
Not bigger!my dick protests.Have youseenme?
“It will probably turn out okay,” Patricia says. “All of it. The network will realize the error of its ways, and Chandra will turn down the job. Stay calm, hot buns.” She rises. “Let’s go see your cheerleader. I mean, Becky.” I think that was Patricia’s attempt athumor.
A root canal sounds more fun. But I follow heranyway.
* * *
Publicist Becky istwenty-two going on twelve. Even while we’re talking in her office, she’s on social media. I think her pink phone might be surgically attached toherhand.
“You and Brynn make the cutest couple!” she gushes after hanging up with her latest caller. “PeopleandUS Weeklyboth want exclusives! Two covers! It’s gonnaberad!”
“But…” I do the math. “If you give them both the interview, it won’t be exclusive.” Then I remember I don’t really care. “What do I havetodo?”
“Just be yourself! You’re Tom Spanner! Women love you! You’re a good guy, Tom! Look, I can prove it.” She tap dances past me and out of the room, and after a beat I get up and follow. In the hallway, she yanks open a closet, and inside there are stacks of file boxes. Publicist Becky rips the top off one and sort of throws itbackward.
Icatchit.
“Look!” She turns around, clutching two handfuls of letters. She shoves a couple of them into my hands. They’re addressed to me, care of the network. They’ve been slit at the top, since interns read all my fan mail. I pull out a letter on pinkstationery.
