She sipped her wine. “Yes.”
The waiter set down the first course and another glass of Jack Daniels.
“Two months,” I took another gulp of whiskey. “That’s as far as I’m going with this charade.”
“Great!” she smiled and looked around the restaurant. When she was sure no one was looking, she slid a small box across the table. “It’s from Lorraine Schwartz. I had my assistant pick it up today.”
“You want me to propose here? I don’t think there are enough people around…Plus, the paparazzi won’t be able to fully capture the moment. I’ll take you to the right place after dinner.”
Her eyes lit up and she leaned over to kiss me. My stomach was churning at the mere thought of proposing, but I wasn’t going to turn down the chance for more exposure. If we were going to do this, I wanted to do it right.
The next morning, I awoke to an empty apartment. There was a note on my pillow from Selena: “I had fun last night—Mrs. Matt Sterling : )”
There were a lot of words that described fake-proposing in Times Square, and I was pretty sure “fun” wasn’t one of them.
I sighed and walked over to my window. New York was gray today, unusually gray. It was the type of day that forced me to remember things I wish I had forgotten, the type of day that forced me to see how empty my life really was.
I had no real friends, just leeches who insisted on stroking my ego so they could enjoy the perks of fame. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize they were “leeches” until it was too late. It was years after my first hit film—years after partying every night, bedding endless models, and making tons of “fast friends”—when I realized fame meant perpetual loneliness.
My mom had warned me about it, told me how she’d seen countless stars turn into shells of themselves and become remnants of who they used to be. I always thought I was different, until I became annoyed with her lectures and cut her off completely.
Over the past two years, I’d definitely become a shell of myself, a “casualty of the high life” as my mom would say. Photo shoots, premieres, and parties were no longer exciting. I was only happy when I was reading stage plays alone on my yacht, when I was far removed from paparazzi, fake friends, and press commitments.
My cell phone rang. “Hello?”
“Congratulations Mr. Number One at the box office! Summer Nights is officially on track to debut with $25 million!” Shelby practically screamed.
“Thanks Shelby.”
I’d almost forgotten about Summer Nights. We finished filming it last year, but the distribution contracts dragged on for too long and it wasn’t released when it should have been. I didn’t even go to the premiere.
“And I’m reading all about your night with Selena Ross,” she cooed. “Why didn’t you tell me you were planning to propose?”
Because I wasn’t!
“I guess I was just nervous.”
“Aww! How romantic! Listen, I’m still in talks with Ralph Lauren’s people regarding your contract. I’m flying out to meet with them today and I’ll touch bases with Joan about any schedule changes later. I’ll talk to you—”
“Wait. What were the local numbers for Summer Nights?”
“You’re number one in the country Matt! Why do you care about local numbers?”
“Shelby,” I pressed.
She sighed. “The local numbers for New York were among the lowest, about $700 per screen.”
“Okay thanks.”
I called Joan. “Where are you?”
“I’m in route sir. I just picked up your suit from Tom Ford. You’ll need to wear it for your interview session with GQ today.”
I forgot all about that. Jesus, she’s the greatest.
“Before you get here, I need you to print out the local reviews for Summer Nights.”
“Yes sir. See you in half an hour.”
I didn’t feel like doing an interview today. The interviewers always asked the same questions: “What’s it like to be a high profile actor?” “What are your favorite types of roles?” “How’s Selena?” “How do you stay in shape?” “What do you do in your free time?”
Sometimes, the questions would intrigue me, but most of the time I just sat there with a fake smile on my face, acting as if I hadn’t heard the questions a thousand times before.
“The price you pay,” I slid out of my clothes and hopped in the Jacuzzi.
Joan coughed to announce her presence and hung my suit on the back of the bathroom door.
She was always so put together, so neat. Every outfit she wore perfectly complemented her olive skin tone and jet black hair. Today she was wearing a tailored gray suit with a silk purple blouse.
“Sir, we’ll need to leave here in about three hours for your interview. You’ll also need to sign a few posters in the car.”
“Where’s the interview again?”
“It’s at Daniel. Chef Bruel is preparing your favorite.”
“Great. And the reviews?”
“All press up until nine this morning regarding you and Miss Ross’ engagement is in this blue folder,” she held up two folders. “And all local reviews for Summer Nights are in the yellow folder.”
“Could you read me one of the reviews?”
She nodded and sat on the counter. “Matt Sterling’s latest contribution to the realm of film is so horrid and appalling that I can only think of six words of criticism for him: Please. Give. Up. Your. Career. Now.