Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 356(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 356(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Pursing his lips together in frustration at Reg’s lack of compassion and yet fully reasonable assessment of the situation, Jeremy climbed the first step. “Fine. But you need to call me in exactly fifteen minutes so I can pretend there’s an emergency and escape.”
“When was the last time you hung out with your mom?”
“Hung out?” he scoffed. “People do not hang out with Paula Radcliffe.”
“Quit being a prissy bitch and answer my question.”
Nobody had ever talked to Jeremy that way. Reg treated him like a buddy, an equal, a regular guy. He loved it.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged, even though Reg couldn’t see him. “A few months ago, probably. How should I remember?”
“You both live in LA, and you’ve gone months without seeing her?” Reg sounded horrified. “Not cool.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I have a mother too, superstar, and I see her a couple of times a week, at least. Get your ass in gear and act like a decent son.”
“Fine.” His lips pressed into tight lines, Jeremy stomped up the stairs. “But you’ll call me in fifteen, right?”
“You haven’t seen your mother in months. You’re lucky if I call in an hour. Quit bitching and get on with it.”
“But—”
“Later.”
The phone went dead and Jeremy growled. “Dammit.” Though he wanted to turn around, he knew his manager had been right—he needed to talk to his mother and do damage control off camera so she could be her charming self on camera instead of drunk Mommie Dearest. Plus, Reg would never let him live it down if he wimped out of the visit.
“Here we go,” he muttered to himself and jogged the rest of the way up the red brick steps to the front door.
After ringing the bell, Jeremy waited while it went through the long string of chimes and then heard the familiar tapping of shoes on Saltillo tile floors before the heavy wood door swung open.
“Jeremy, hi. Paula said you might be stopping by for a visit.”
Staring at the well-coifed and somewhat familiar man standing in his mother’s doorway, Jeremy tried to place him.
“I’m Harold West.” He held out his hand.
Returning the gesture, Jeremy shook Harold West’s hand. The name was vaguely familiar, just like the face.
“Remind me where we’ve met?” Jeremy said as he stepped into the house, nudging Harold aside as he crossed the threshold.
“Oh.” Harold sounded surprised. “I’m not sure we’ve ever been formally introduced, but you probably know me from my work.”
Looking back over his shoulder to where Harold was still standing at the door, Jeremy squinted, crinkled his forehead, and then said, “No. No clue. What work?”
“Jeremy!” His mother came blowing into the room, a colorful wave of fabric, makeup, and perfume. “Of course you remember Harold. A film he worked on showed at Sundance two years ago.” She held her arms open and waited for Jeremy to step closer, but not close enough to wrinkle her silk blouse and pashmina. As soon as he did, she leaned forward and gave him an almost-kiss—a real one would no doubt smear her makeup. “And he directed that amazing miniseries they showed on cable.”
“Oh.” That was all the excitement he could muster about the stranger in his mother’s house. “How have you been?”
“Great,” she said, drawing the word out, tossing her hair back and smiling in a way a camera would love but real live people found put-on and awkward.
“Paula’s going to work with me on a new movie,” Harold chimed in. “This one will be with a major studio. Big budget.”
Sparing the man another glance, this time Jeremy focused on him a little longer. He was older than Jeremy, but not by much; probably in the neighborhood of forty. And he was good-looking in a way where you wouldn’t pick him out of a crowd and pursue him, but if he showed up and asked you to dinner, then fine, whatever, you might as well go. I mean, you have to eat, right?
Now that he was paying closer attention, Jeremy realized why Harold looked familiar—it was his eyes. They held an expression of hope mixed with desperation and determination, something Jeremy had seen in plenty of starlets when they were introduced to him. Ten bucks said this was the new guy warming his mother’s bed now that his latest stepfather was out of the picture.
“Is that right?” Jeremy said as he slowly returned his focus to his mother. “Harold is going to direct your next movie?” Not a chance on earth his mother was going to participate in a project headed by an unknown. People had to have a bank of successful films and respectable accolades under their belts before Paula Radcliffe deemed them worthy of her clout and talent.
“So, sweetheart, tell me what I did to earn this lovely visit.” His mother threaded her arm with his and led him through the white-paneled entryway, down the hallway cluttered with photos of her throughout her career, and into the sunroom. Jeremy was never completely sure why she called it that, considering that she kept the linen curtains closed all the time. “Have a seat.” She gracefully extended her arm toward the white armchairs arranged in a seating group in the center of the room and then slowly lowered herself into one of the chairs, keeping her posture straight and crossing her legs at the ankles.