Interview with Destiny

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Interview with Destiny

By Jon Broeke

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Brotherhood Books Published in South Africa by Brotherhood Books in 2014

Copyright Š Jon Broeke 2014 All characters and events depicted in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to any real person, living or dead, is merely coincidental All rights reserved ASIN: B00Q05Z63K

SAMPLE For the whole book find it at

www.amazon.com

Jon Broeke

Interview with Destiny

CHAPTER 1 Kevin Brandt stood in the elevator taking him up to the 17th floor of the hotel in the middle of London. He was listening to the song playing in the background, something by Bonnie Tyler that he thought he recognised from years ago, as he looked at himself in the reflective metal of the elevator doors.

He looked at the light, golden-brown, suede sport jacket with patches on the elbows he was wearing. It was one of his favourite jackets, though it was completely impractical in the London weather, so he only wore it if he was reasonably sure there was no chance of rain. He looked at his hair. It was cut close to the top of his head, only about an inch long, and stood up straight. It reminded him of a military haircut, even though he’d never been in the military. It wasn’t the desired look he’d been going for, but just the way his hair fell when cut this way. It was easy to manage, so he didn’t mind too much. He looked at the brown leather strap of his rucksack travelling diagonally across his chest as the bag itself hung on his right hip. It made him feel like Indiana Jones, though he would never admit that to anyone out loud. He looked himself in the eyes through the thin glasses he’d had to wear since he was twelve. The rims were just wide enough to cover his eyeballs, and electric blue, the only thing that gave away the true youth of his actual age, something most didn’t realise. He was 29, but most thought he was in his thirties already. He

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didn’t mind, it made them take him more seriously. He peered down at the washed out blue jeans and the beige boots he was wearing. He wasn’t one to normally follow fashion trends, and, truth be told, his mother had bought him the jeans, but he liked them none the less. The red button up shirt finished his entire ensemble, and he had to smile at himself in the mirrored metal. He thought he looked good, albeit as good as he could look, but it didn’t make any difference anyway. He wasn’t there to impress anyone, only to do his job.

The film hadn’t been bad. Your common, bunch of young people on a spaceship trying to survive the end of the world faire, but good enough. The effects had been believable, the acting passable and the story… Okay, the story had been really bad, but it wasn’t the worst thing he’d seen this year, or this week for that matter. The thing that had stood out for him was the performance of the girl in the lead.

A young actress named Celeste Hargrove. Pretty, blonde, British, but playing an American in this film. Kevin had seen her in a couple of films before, but always in bit parts or supporting roles. She’d been pretty good in an adaption of The Hound of the Baskervilles, though he couldn’t remember for the life of him which role she’d played. The film itself hadn’t been a very good adaption.

It was with this thought going through his brain, trying to remember the name of the sister of the guy with the dog, that the doors opened revealing the upper level of the hotel.

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Kevin stepped out the elevator and turned left before starting to walk down the hall. This wasn’t the first time he’d been to this particular hotel for this particular reason. He reached the door with ‘KENNEDY SUITE’ printed on the front in a few moments, still deep in thought. The door was open, as he expected it to be, and there were three other people inside that could only have been reporters as well.

Entertainment journalists, as Kevin had come to know, had a certain way about them. Either they were struggling screen writers, doing this until their big break, thrilled with the chance to break down other peoples work because their own wasn’t up to scratch, or, like him, seasoned journalists, taking this job as seriously as Christine Amanpour interviewing Nelson Mandela, or Wolf Blitzer talking to Barak Obama. People laughed at them for being so serious about their work, but it was an interview, whether it was with the Dalai Lama, or with Brad Pitt, it was still journalism. He recognised this sort immediately, since there were so few of them in the industry. The three inside the suite, though, were not ones he recognised. There was a woman in a black outfit that made her look like a creature of the night, with the emo make up to add to the effect. An old man that looked like he may fall over of a heart attack long before getting inside the interview rooms to talk to the cast, and a young guy who was wearing shorts, slops and a t-shirt with a poster from a cult classic film on the front. He was the one that Kevin scolded with his eyes the most. Kevin felt that he belonged to a group that gave online

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journalists a bad name. The kind of guy living in his parent’s basement, blogging, a word Kevin despised, and calling it journalism.

He cast this man a glaring look before taking his place as far from him as possible in front of the free coffee that was almost always offered at these events. He also went back to thinking about the elusive name of the elusive character from that damned film.

“Miss Stapleton,” Kevin said out loud as he took one of the coffee mugs, which are always stored upside down, and turned it the right way up. He’d meant to say the name in his head, or at least under his breath, but the silence in the room had carried his voice until it was bouncing off the walls like echoes in an airy canyon. He quickly looked up and found every person in the room looking at him. The three journalists, though he was loathed to call them that, a fourth journalist, who had just stepped through the bright, white-painted door where the star they were to interview was waiting, the agent, a very thin, very tanned woman with very dark hair that stuck up like bird feathers, who was leading the journalist through the white door, and the very pretty, even more pretty in real life, blonde actress, who he had spent the better part of three minutes thinking about.

Every face was frowning at him, not in on the thought that had been racing around his mind, every face, except the one under the perfectly quaffed blonde hair. She was looking at him like she knew exactly what he’d been thinking, and exactly what he’d meant by

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saying it, as if she’d been the one running through his head, leading to the name all along.

She smiled softly, knowingly, as the other faces turned from Kevin. He felt blood rush to his cheeks as he looked at her. She continued to look at him for a further thirty seconds, thirty seconds longer than she needed to, before she turned to the journalist that was leaving and graciously shook her hand. She cast Kevin one more look before turning back into the room, followed closely by the agent, who was so busy ushering in another journalist that she’d forgotten that Kevin was even there.

Kevin turned back to the table, the blood still in his cheeks, as he tried to will it down, putting a teaspoon of coffee, and the contents of two packets of sweetener, in the mug.

The journalist, who Kevin recognised as Stacey Sharpe, who had exited with the actress, moved over to him.

“Hey Kevin,” Stacey said.

“Hi Stacey,” Kevin replied, pouring hot water into the mug.

He’d known Stacey Sharpe for three years, since she’d taken over for him at the Guardian. Her red hair and freckles hid a sharp wit and a willingness to do the dirty work, but he liked her anyway. She, however, was not an entertainment journalist. She was a hard hitting journalist who slummed, as she put it, in the entertainment field when there was no one to take her place. Kevin guessed she must have been slumming today.

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“Miss who?” Stacey asked as she stood next to him. The embarrassment had passed, so Kevin looked up at Stacey.

“Stapleton,” he repeated. “I was trying to remember the character she played in The Hound of the Baskervilles. Miss Stapleton.”

Stacey nodded. Kevin could tell that she hadn’t seen it.

“She was rather good,” Kevin said, not needing Stacey to lie to him for any reason. Stacey nodded again.

“Better than this drivel?” she asked.

Kevin shrugged. “I didn’t think it was that bad.” Stacey looked at him like he was completely mental.

“Really?” she asked, but didn’t wait for his reply. “A bunch of hormone filled teens on a spaceship, how they got there is anyone’s guess.” It was explained in the film, but Kevin knew telling Stacey that would be pointless. “Doing ridiculously teen things, until, oh yes, an alien crashes the party. Not that bad?”

Again Kevin shrugged again, taking a sip of the coffee and very nearly burning his tongue on it. “It’s not Shakespeare,” he admitted. “But it is fun. And the effects are good.”

“The effects in Transformers are good,” Stacey commented.

“Doesn’t mean it’s a good film.”

Kevin knew arguing with her was pointless, and would simply get him riled up, so he just nodded and moved over to a series of dining room chairs standing by the wall before taking a seat. He

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wasn’t sure where Stacey went from there, but when he looked up again she had left. He was sure she’d gone off to do her work. Maybe he’d upset her, been rude or something, but he didn’t particularly care.

He saw her once every three months or so when she did these things, so her hurt feelings were really not his concern.

Ten minutes past before the next person, the blogger, Kevin thought it as he would a swear word, went in to talk to the actress.

Kevin watched him enter the room and the door close again behind him before he stood and put the now empty mug back on the table. He didn’t want any more coffee, but he did help himself to one of the Danishes before returning to the chair.

He looked around the room he was sitting in. It was normal for the foyer for one of these suites, or at least the way the studio changed them to look for press junkets. The chair he was sitting in was matched by ten others, all red velvet to match nothing in the room. The carpet was beige, like the colour of a golden Labrador. It made him think of the poor dog’s fur lining the hotel room. He was sitting in a room off a corridor that led to the door he’d entered through. There were other doors in the corridor, leading to other rooms, he surmised, but they were closed and out of bounds for his purposes. The only rooms he cared about was the one he was sitting, with the coffee and eats in it, and the room the actress he was going to be interviewing soon, was sitting in.

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He looked at the emo journalist, leaning against the wall, her nose glued to her phone. Kevin errantly wondered who she wrote for.

Probably a website, or a blog, he shuddered as he thought the word again. There was nothing wrong with writing for a website, he wrote for one himself, Moviejibe.co.uk, but there was something immoral about a blog. It was too easy, too un-clean, not real journalism. He’d studied, gone to Brown for heaven’s sake, studying journalism. He’d chosen to become an entertainment journalist, chosen this profession.

What qualifications did they have? An online study guide maybe? Or just an errant thought that it would be fun to ridicule the hard work of people who’ve had more success in their lives then they had had up to that point. Whatever their reasons, it really bugged him He turned away from the emo girl, licked the syrupy substance from his fingers, and dug in his bag. His recorder was in the bag, along with a notepad that he’d jotted down a few questions on.

He checked the battery in the recorder, knowing he had extras in the bag if he needed, but they were fine. He opened the note pad and looked at the questions. They were really run of the mill. Tell me about your character. What was the best part of shooting the film?

What was your favourite scene?

There were a couple of more intimate questions, specifically about the plot, the training and the effects, but nothing that was going to win him a Pulitzer. He was okay with that. He liked his job. He liked interviewing actors and actresses and directors and writers. He

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liked meeting them and going to premieres, and press junkets. He was respected in his field, and that was all that mattered to him. Of course the fact that he’d been poached to work at Moviejibe because of his skills and was paid a pretty good salary didn’t hurt either.

The door opened again and the ‘shorts and t-shirt’ exited the room. He looked happy enough. Kevin thought he’d probably asked his inane questions and was now going to blog about how lovely the actress was, and how cool he was for having met her.

Kevin shuddered again as the emo journalist walked into the room. He stood and moved towards the door, looking through the gap as it was closing, catching a glimpse of the actress. She was sitting in a chair on the far side of the room, very similar to the one he’d been sitting on in the waiting area, but better, looking towards the door, and the emo journalist, but she caught sight of Kevin. She flashed him a smile as the agent closed the door the rest of the way.

Kevin had to swallow, the smile having affected him far more than he would have thought. He shook it out of his head quickly though.

A pretty girl smiling at you will cause your heart to flutter, he thought. Nothing to get excited about. Slowly his heart beat returned to normal and he leaned up against the wall.

Get a grip, he thought to himself, and settled in to wait for his turn to walk through the door. *

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A further ten minutes passed before the door opened again and the emo girl exited the room. She wasn’t smiling, but Kevin wasn’t entirely sure she knew how to, or if her make up would crack if she did. She was followed closely by the agent who moved towards Kevin in that brisk sort of way that only a harassed agent can move.

“Kevin Brandt?” she asked, her voice with a thick American accent. Kevin nodded as the American moved out of the way and indicated for him to enter the room. Part of him was annoyed. He’d met this particular agent, though her name escaped him, several times over the course of his career, and she should have known him by now, but the annoyance was short lived. He was there for a purpose and being distracted by a strange little American woman, who couldn’t remember his name, was not something he needed.

He moved past her and entered the room. The blonde actress was still sitting in the chair where he’d seen her ten minutes earlier. If she was tired from all the interviews she’d been doing that day it hardly showed. She stood as he approached her and gave him a great smile as she extended her hand to him.

“Kevin Brandt,” he said as he took the hand. The smile stayed on her face, as if it was meant for him and only him, not a necessary placation for a journalist interviewing her, which is what he was sure it actually was. He found himself a little besotted by the lovely girl and her radiant smile. Her hair glinted, golden in the light in the room and fell over her shoulders. She lifted a hand and pushed it off her

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face revealing the second of two sparkling blue eyes that seems to radiate intelligence and wit. Her lips where a light pink with some kind of gloss Kevin was sure she’d applied before he entered the room, but besides that her face was make up free. He looked closely at her and marvelled at how this 20 something year old actress was confident enough to appear before a barrage of press with nothing but her wits and lip gloss. The outfit she was wearing was understated also, not relying on it to make her look better, just a beige satin button shirt and a matching pair of slacks. A pair of beige high heel pumps ending off the ensemble. He felt the besotting feeling growing, but forced it down, knowing better. He sat in a more luxurious version of the red velvet chair he’d been sitting on outside, opposite one of the same which the actress sat in.

“Nice to meet you Kevin,” she said, her voice lilting softly in the acoustics of the room.

“And you,” he replied as he pulled the recorder from the pocket he’d placed it in. He turned it on and placed it on his knee before looking closely at the young actress. She seemed completely at ease, like she was talking to a long lost friend, or even one she’s seen as recently as yesterday. She flashed him another smile, which he professionally returned.

“Miss Hargrove,” he started. Her smile grew.

“Please,” she cut him off. “Call me Celeste.” Her tone was friendly and soothing, and he found himself smiling at her again.

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“Sorry,” he found himself saying, almost automatically.

“Celeste, you play a teen space traveller in the film, what was the thing that drew you to the role?”

Celeste didn’t hesitate for a second. Answering every single question he had for her with ease and confidence. Kevin found himself sitting in awe of the incredibly beautiful young woman, watching her eyes light up as she spoke about using the guns and riding this futuristic looking space horse-thing in a scene that he’d found especially ridiculous, but when she spoke about it, it seemed completely amazing. He watched as her brow furrowed in thought as he asked about the emotional core of the character, and about the connections she had to her parents, and her foster parents, all of whom had been space travellers in the film. It was obvious from her expression that no one else had delved into this depth of the character, instead comfortable to deal with the space ships and explosions, and from the smile she flashed him he thought she must have been impressed by his thoroughness, but it may have just been his wanting to impress her. Again he pushed those thoughts way down deep as he listened to her talk about the characters childhood, and her first love, things that were not explored in the film.

She is incredible, he thought. Stop it. She is an actress and you have a job.

Then, as soon as the interview had started, it was over, and he had everything he needed for his article.

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“Thank you so much Celeste,” he said as he turned off the recorder and put it back in his jacket pocket. “I think I have everything I need.”

“Really?” she asked.

Kevin nodded as he closed the notepad and put it back in his satchel.

“I hope it makes a good article,” she said.

“As do I,” Kevin replied.

“Moviejibe.co.uk, right?” she asked as he stood from the red velvet, feeling his pants stick to the back of his legs slightly. He hadn’t realised it had been so warm in the room.

Kevin looked at her, surprised she knew the lowly website he was working for.

“Yes,” he said. “How did you know?” As he said it he knew that her agent had told her, but the question still escaped his mouth.

“Can

I

be

honest?”

she

asked,

leaning

forward

conspiratorially. He frowned as he matched her lean.

“Of course,” he said.

“I read your work,” she said before flashing another of her spell binding smiles. Kevin leant away, feeling blood rushing to his cheeks, despite willing it not to.

“Really?” he asked.

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“Uh huh,” she replied, still smiling. “I loved the interview you did with Clive Owen, for that futuristic film. You really didn’t like it did you?”

Kevin opened his mouth, meaning to argue the point, but with one look at her eyes, he knew he couldn’t.

“It’s not that I didn’t like it,” he started. “I really hated it.”

“So did he,” she answered. “If your interview is anything to go by.” Kevin laughed as she did. Her laugh was infectious, like it filled the room with happiness and you couldn’t help but feel the joy emanating from her.

“He was very open about how much he despised being forced into the contract,” Kevin said. She laughed again.

“Hopefully this interview will be happier,” she said.

Kevin laughed again. “I can guarantee it,” he said with a chuckle.

“Well then,” Celeste extended her hand to him again. “I’ll let you go and write it.”

Kevin took the hand, feeling electricity passing between them.

He looked hard at the young actress before him, and if she did feel the same thing, she didn’t let it show. They released hands and looked at each other for a moment before he turned and started walking towards the exit.

“Before you go,” she called him back. He turned and frowned at her.

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“This is a little embarrassing,” she said. His frown deepened.

“But, could I get a picture?”

She lifted her cell phone from her pocket as she asked.

Kevin’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. He’d seen many journalists ask for photos, or selfies as they were called now, with celebrities, but this must have been the first time that a celebrity had asked for a selfie with a journalist. He was a little stunned, but shook himself out of it quickly.

“Um,” he answered, a little flustered. “Sure.” He moved back towards her as she jabbed at the touch screen phone. Part of him expected this to be a joke, a horrible jibe at his expense, but she seemed genuinely eager for a photo with him. He moved towards her as she looked back at him, smiling.

“Where do you want me?” he asked, suddenly incredibly selfconscious over this entire turn of events.

“Right here,” she laughed as she motioned for him to come right to her with her arm. He couldn’t help but laugh again as he moved towards her. She wrapped her arm around his neck as she lifted the phone in front of them. He could smell the strong scent of vanilla in the perfume she was wearing as he smiled into the camera, her smiling right beside him. She snapped the picture and looked at it, her arm still around his neck, his around her waist, not knowing what else to do with it. Her smile grew as she looked at her picture. She released his neck and jabbed at the phone again.

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“What’s your number?” she asked. He frowned at her again.

“What?” he asked.

She looked away from the phone at his face. He suddenly realised how close he actually was to her, and worried about the freshness of his breath. She just smiled.

“Your phone number?”

“Um,” he was flustered again. “072 55 45 7839.” He answered. She looked back at her phone and started jabbing again.

Moments later the unmistakable ding of his mobile sounded. He pulled the phone out and found the picture that she had just taken staring at him from the screen on his phone. The radiance of her smile emanated from the screen, lighting his face. He looked from the phone at the actress, who was smiling broadly, as if she’d just perpetrated a great coup.

“Now we both have it,” she smiled again. Kevin couldn’t help but laugh. There was something about the girl that just lightened up the entire world. He stood looking at her, while she looked at him. He might have stood there for the rest of the day, the week, his lifetime, but at that moment the agent walked in the room.

“Time to go,” her American accent grating the air, and breaking the spell. Celeste looked over at the agent for a moment before looking back at Kevin. She was still smiling, but the magic of the moment was passed, and Kevin had got his bearings back. He took

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a step back, and could have sworn he saw Celeste’s smile falter slightly when she noticed.

“Thank you,” he extended his hand. She smiled again, took it, the electricity passing between them again, but then it was over. They released hands, looking at each other for a moment longer.

“Bye,” Celeste said. Kevin smiled.

“Bye,” he gave her a curt nod before he turned and walked from the room, past the agent and out into the hall.

He continued to walk down the corridor and to the elevator, standing and watching the doors as they closed in front of him until he was looking at himself in the reflective metal of the elevator doors. He looked down, thinking for a moment, before he pulled his phone from his pocket. He turned on the screen and found what he was looking for, the picture of Celeste smiling up into his face. He looked at the photo as the elevator moved downwards, the little red number reader on top of the door counting down from 17. He was still looking at the picture when the door opened on the ground floor. He could feel the electricity passing between the phone and his hand. He could feel the blood slowly rising into his cheeks, and he knew what it meant. He’d felt love once or twice in his life, and he knew that if he got to know this girl, if he spent time with her, he could totally fall in love with her. It probably wouldn’t even take much more than one date, or even a drink, and he’d be planning the wedding. He smiled, closing his eyes to the picture in front of him and moving the phone back to the start

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screen. He knew it couldn’t happen. It was unethical for him to even consider dating her. He was a journalist and she was an actress. She was his bread and butter. Besides, what would this incredible young beauty ever want with the likes of him?

He put the phone back in his pocket as he laughed at the thought of the girl again. He knew there would never be anything between them. So he shook the thought out of his head, putting it firmly in the wishful thinking file in his brain before he stepped out the elevator into the hotel foyer.

He’d see her when he interviewed her again, but that would be it. And he could live with that

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CHAPTER 2 Celeste was sitting on the brown material couch in a pair of grey sweat pants and a red pullover that was three sizes too big for her, sipping on a cup of coffee and watching a pre-recorded episode of Strictly Come Dancing, when the doorbell to her Hogarth road apartment rang. She paused the DVR before she stood from the couch, placed her mug on the wooden coffee table in the middle of the room, and moved over to the window. She looked down on the street, seeing the white outsides of the buildings across the street, the black tar of the road, and the short spiky feather like hair and incredibly deep tan of her agent standing in the road. The tanned woman smiled and waved as she saw Celeste looking through the window, knowing she always looked before opening the door. Celeste smiled back as she moved across the floor in her bare feet and buzzed the front door open.

She could hear the woman coming up the stairs as the door closed. She’d always been amazed at the amount of noise Gina Duarte could make just walking up a set of stairs. Celeste opened the door to her apartment and pushed her blonde hair behind her ear as Gina appeared at the top of the stairs and walked into the apartment.

“Would it kill you to get a ground floor apartment?” Gina asked, her American accent bouncing off the walls like they were made of rubber. “Or an apartment in a building with an elevator?”

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“It too much for your New York legs to walk up a flight of stairs?” Celeste teased.

“Hey,” Gina retorted. “Are you saying something bad about New Yorkers?”

Celeste smiled. “Of course not,” she said, lifting her arms in surrender. “I would never do that.”

Gina smiled at Celeste’s playful jibe before she continued walking into the apartment and Celeste closed the door. Gina threw her black leather briefcase onto one of the other couches as she pulled her big black coat off and threw it on top. Celeste moved back to her chair, grabbing her mug off the coffee table as she moved past it, and sat again.

“What’s up?” she asked as she made herself comfortable again.

“Well,” Gina started. “Did you read those scripts I sent you?”

Celeste pulled a face. “Yes.” Gina looked a little surprised. “What?” she asked.

Celeste hesitated. “They’re not very good,” she said, as if she didn’t want to say anything at all.

“They can’t all be Shakespeare dear,” Gina retorted. “But they are worth a lot of money.”

Celeste rolled her eyes. “Money.”

Gina sat on the couch her bag and coat were on, pushing them back so there was room for her rather thin frame as well. “Yes,

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money,” she said. “Baby, you’re hot right now. With all the coverage we got with Space Cadet, and the interviews you did, we need to capitalise on this now. Right?”

Celeste shrugged. “I guess,” she said.

Gina raised her eyebrows, making her look a little like a pterodactyl. “You guess?” she asked.

“You’re right,” Celeste recanted. “You know what’s best, I know that. I just want to do something with a little more substance.”

“Substance?” Gina asked. Then she looked away at the ground. “Substance,” she repeated. “Substance? Why does that sound so familiar?”

Celeste looked down at the mug in her hands, shrugging. “I don’t know.”

Gina’s eye suddenly went wide as she looked around the apartment, jumping from her perch on the couch. It took her just a moment to find what she was looking for. She quickly moved over to the laptop sitting on the counter between the open-plan kitchen and the living area they were sitting in. Celeste moved as Gina passed, pulling bare feet off the couch and placing them on the laminated wooden floor, but she didn’t stand. She knew she couldn’t beat her agent to the computer, so there was really no point in trying.

Gina reached the computer before moving her finger rapidly over the touch pad that moved the mouse on the screen. The screen, which had been blank, lit up with a picture of Celeste’s niece and

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sister, a little box asking for a password in the middle of the screen.

Gina quickly put the word ‘GRETA’, Celeste’s niece’s name, in the box and the screen changed, and Gina saw exactly what she expected to see. On the screen was the Moviejibe.co.uk website, and it was open to Kevin Brandt’s review of Space Cadet. The review in which he said that he liked the actress, but wished she would do something with more substance, the way she had done with The Hound of the Baskervilles.

Gina Growled. “Fucking Hound of the Baskervilles. Why did you ever agree to that film?”

“Because it was good role,” Celeste answered. Gina turned and looked at her with an agent-ready look, created to console a client.

“And you were good in it,” she said. “But now everything you do is compared to bloody Hound of the Baskervilles.”

“There are worse things,” Celeste said, retreating back into the mug. Gina turned back to the computer screen.

“Why are you reading Kevin Brandt’s review anyway?” Gina asked.

“I just like his reviews,” Celeste answered. Gina turned back to Celeste, her eyes wide, but Celeste was looking into the mug, so she didn’t see.

“Did you read any other reviews?” Gina asked. Celeste picked up the slight hint of panic in her voice, so she looked up at her agent.

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She saw the wide eyes moments before Gina forced them back to their original size.

“No,” Celeste said. “Why?” Gina looked back at the computer screen. “No reason,” she said.

“Gina,” Celeste said, and Gina knew that meant to fess up.

Slowly she turned back towards the actress, but she didn’t need to say anything. The look on her face spoke volumes.

“That bad, huh?” Celeste asked. Gina tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace. Celeste groaned as she lifted her feet back on the couch and tried to make herself into a ball, burying her face in her knees. Gina moved from the computer towards her client, putting a hand on her knee.

“It’s not that bad,” she said as she rubbed the sweat pant covered appendage. “Most of them liked you, just not the film.”

“Most of them?” Celeste asked, still hiding her head in her arms.

Gina didn’t answer again, so Celeste groaned again.

“It’s the way it is sweetie,” Gina said as she moved from her perched position and moved back in front of her bag and coat. “People aren’t always going to like your films, especially films like this.”

Celeste looked up at her. “Like this?” she asked.

Gina shrugged. “Well,” she started. “Let’s be honest. It’s not Hound of the Baskervilles, is it?”

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Celeste laughed in spite of herself. Gina smiled. “At least the one review you did read was nice, even if he didn’t really like the film either.”

“What do you know about him?” Celeste asked, leaning forward, putting one foot on the ground to put her mug on the coffee table, before returning into her balled up position, but at least looking at Gina.

“Who?” Gina asked.

“Kevin,” Celeste said.

Gina frowned for a moment, obviously lost, but then she found her way. “Kevin Brandt?” she asked.

Celeste nodded.

“Oh,” Gina said, the light coming on.” She shrugged.

“Journalist for ten years or so. Well respected. He used to write for some major publications, like The Guardian and the Times, always doing entertainment, but very serious about it. That was before he was poached for Moviejibe.” She looked at Celeste, a frown on her face.

“Why?” Celeste shrugged, but it wasn’t as non-committal as she’d hoped. Gina thinned her eyes, looking at Celeste.

“No,” she said.

Celeste looked at her, frowning. “No, what?” she asked.

“You know what, no,” Gina answered.

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Celeste looked away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, obviously knowing exactly what she was talking about.

“Celeste,” Gina said. “Journalists are not good dating material, especially not that one.”

Celeste frowned, looking back at her. “Why not that one?”

She imagined a slew of ex’s in his wake. Breaking hearts left and right and having no regard for anyone of the female gender. Obviously the thought was translated onto her face.

“He’s no Don Juan, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Gina said.

“He has too much integrity.”

“What does that mean?” Celeste asked.

Gina sighed, obviously trying to think of the best way to answer the question. “He views what he does the same way Christine Amanpour does, like he’s a serious journalist.”

Celeste smiled. “That’s part of what I like about his work,” she said.

“Sure,” Gina said. “It’s good for his work, but it means he won’t get involved with an actress.”

“Why?” Celeste said.

“Something about impeding his journalistic integrity, or something like that,” Gina told her. “He wrote a column on it a few years ago.”

“Seriously?” Celeste asked.

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“Yes,” Gina answered. “So, it’s a bad idea.”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” Celeste said, sinking her face into her knees again.

“Mm hmm,” Gina answered, obviously not believing her for a second. Celeste looked back at Gina out of the top of her eyes, and saw the American glaring at her. “It’s my job to protect you,” she said. “Even from yourself.”

Celeste pulled her face from her arms. “I don’t need protection.”

“Yes, you do,” replied Gina. “How many boyfriends have you had? Not just while you’ve been acting, but your whole life?”

Celeste put her chin back in her arms again, shrugging as she did.

“Well I do,” Gina answered her own question. “It’s six. Total, since you were thirteen and allowed to date. Six.” “So?” Celeste said, rather defensively.

“So,” Gina elaborated. “You aren’t exactly well versed in love, and Kevin Brandt is not the person to break your teeth on.”

Celeste frowned at the metaphor and Gina pulled a face at her.

“You know what I mean,” she said. Celeste laughed softly while she nodded.

“I do,” she said. “But I think you’re wrong. Kevin is just the kind of guy I should be involved with. A guy with integrity, who’s

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nice and smart and who isn’t interested in me because of my career.”

She lowered her chin again before quickly lifting at once more.

“Not that I’m interested in him,” she quickly added. “But if I was, I’d think you’d be pleased. Especially after Chris.”

Gina groaned. Chris Fullerton had been the perfect boyfriend.

He’d met Celeste on the underground from Heathrow to Earls Court station where she lived. They’d started dating soon after, and then Gina had discovered that it hadn’t been an accident that this particular dark haired, well-tanned young man had been on that tube. That he’d been waiting for Celeste, he’d sought her out, and that he’d charmed her just because he thought he could get his career off the ground by being connected to her. Gina, thankfully, had been able to put a kibosh on the whole thing, especially when Celeste had spoken to her about Chris’ idea to take some naughty photos of her.

Just for us, he’d said. Just for fun.

Well, Gina knew how that ended up, and was not going to stand for it. Ever since Celeste had moved to London from the little town of Wareham, in Dorset, to pursue her dream of becoming an actress, Gina had looked at the child, not so much as a client, but more as a daughter, or at least as a little sister, who she needed, and wanted, to care for. So she had sent Chris packing, with the help of her much larger older brother, Keith, who loved Celeste as much as Gina did.

Ever since, though, Celeste had been reluctant to date anyone, fearing they were with her for her fame, and not for her. Gina could

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understand how Kevin alleviated that fear, but she still thought it was a bad idea.

“Chris was a different sort of asshole,” Gina said, causing Celeste to smile. “But I still think Kevin Brandt is not a good idea, besides, he’ll never go for it.”

Celeste looked away, not looking Gina in the eye. “But maybe if he spent some time with me,” she said, not wanting to look at the leer she knew Gina was casting her direction. “Maybe he’d feel differently.”

“Well,” Gina added. “I dare him to spend ten minutes with you and not fall in love with you.” Celeste smiled, looking at Gina again. She was also smiling, but it was a teasing smile, a smile Celeste had expected from her older sister. Gina sighed.

“Fine,” she said, standing and putting her coat back on. “I’m going to do something I’ve never done before and go against my better judgement.” She put her second arm through the sleeve of the dark coat and turned to face Celeste again. “Who knows, it might actually be good for your career too.” She looked at the look on Celeste’s face and smiled again. “Not that you’re interested.” Celeste was panicking a little. She had no idea what Gina was going to do, and now that it was kind of a real possibility, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to get involved with anyone.

Gina laughed, obviously seeing the panicked look on her client’s face.

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“Gina,” Celeste said, standing from the couch. “What are you going to do?” Gina grabbed the bag off the couch and moved to the door, opening it and leaving the apartment as Celeste followed on her bare feet. “Gina?”

Gina just continued to laugh as she walked down the stairs towards the exit of the building, Celeste watching her go. She suddenly felt very worried, and knew she was in for something that would make her feel very uncomfortable. And worse, was that she had asked for it. She watched Gina as she exited the building before she closed the door to her apartment and sunk into deep thought, mumbling over what her agent could possibly be thinking, and whether or not it was actually going to work.

For more, find the book on

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