Page 19 of My Lucky Star
Emir shrugged. “We’ll see. Whatever it is, it’ll cost a lot. Especially if it’s treatable.”
I waited for the water to boil, staring at the hot steam pearling droplets on the ceramic tiles. “We have the money, right?”
Emir’s silence became deafening. I poured the boiling water into teacups and took the drinks to the kitchen island.
When I sat down across from my brother, he fixed his deathly serious gaze on me. “The studio called again. That lady who warned us earlier. She’s some kind of PR person they’ve appointed to deal with you.”
My stomach plummeted. “I’ve apologized. I’m out of the country. What more do they want?”
Emir winced. “It sounds like they’re prepared to recast the role. I got the idea that one of the producers had fallen in love with you inAskta Sansliand they wanted you based on that. Now they’re aware of your recent publicity, they’ve started looking into your... lifestyle, that’s the word they used, and they see you as a risk.”
“Risk? It was a one-time thing! I don’t drink that much. I don’t do drugs. I don’t even smoke anymore!” I couldn’t help raising my voice and may have accidentally spat on my brother a little.
He calmly wiped his cheek with the side of his thumb, giving me a sharp look. “It’s about perceptions. They want someone the moms would want their daughters to marry. Someone... family minded.”
“But—”
Emir took out his phone. “Hotspot?”
I shared my internet and he opened Instagram, beckoning me closer. “I had some time to think about this on the flights. Look.”
He placed his phone on the table, spun it with two fingers, and pushed it across the table like he was dealing cards. I found myself looking at my own Instagram, which I hadn’t updated in two weeks, but Emir obviously had. There were two new posts – one of me leaning on a marble wall in a designer shirt. A shiny designer shirt, I noted begrudgingly. Another pic displayed me in a pair of aviators. Cool and unattached, the way I liked it.
“Thanks for posting,” I said. I knew my sponsorship money would quickly run out if my account went quiet. I also knew Emir had fired the PR firm after they added fuel to the fire with my recent scandal by posting a phony apology with multiple errors. Seeing that, Emir had taken over my account again.
“I had to post something, but it’s not the right stuff.” Emir reached across the table to swipe my screen, travelling back in time. “This is what we need.”
The glossy advertising shots whizzed past, gradually turning into something more candid – photos with other people, people from my past, pictures of my home, plates of food, the neighbor's cat... and Burcu.
There she was, smiling at me behind her fingers, slightly out of focus. We were on the set, my arm around her shoulder, my attention on her like nobody else existed. I hadn’t even noticed Emir taking the photo as he visited us during the short lunch break. The days were long and grueling. I’d been permanently sleep deprived and delirious, but I’d never felt like I was working.
“What do you mean?” I frowned at him. “I can’t go back in time.”
Emir yawned again, rubbing his eyes. “We need to soften your image. There’s too much sponsorship stuff, not enough... heart. Love, dating, family, all that stuff.”
“You’re one to talk,” I mused. We were both single, and he didn’t even date, or not to my knowledge.
My brother had been engaged once, then given up on relationships. To this day, I didn’t know what exactly happened and never asked. I didn’t like the way his face contorted when the subject came up. Like now.
I laughed to diffuse the tension. “Fine. If we go back right now, I can try to get some dates set up in Istanbul, make sure we’re seen by the press?” Hope lit up in me at the thought of returning to the comfort of my home. Dating some opportunistic actress was a small price to pay.
Emir stared at his phone, his mouth twisting like it always did when he was thinking. I crossed my fingers under the table, holding my breath.
The knock on the door jolted us both off our seats.
