Good at Being Alive(7)
“Who wants to watch that shrew of a wife lead her henpecked husband around?” I demand, though that’s basically what they were getting with my dad and Jessie too—Bronwyn and I weren’t even going to be in most of the episodes.
“They have a very large social media presence, while we have almost none. They’ve also been rather volubly exploiting this tragedy, and people seem to agree with them.”
Perhaps I shouldn’t have sent Duncan Levy to voicemail quite so often.
“Maybe the show’s still possible for us,” I venture, tugging the covers around me and reaching for a donut hole from the box in my lap. “We could hire someone to pretend to be a family touring the globe.”
“Rebecca…the show is about Families Travel. And it was big news, the deaths. We can’t just pretend someone else runs the company. Anyhow, I met with the lawyers today and they’re recommending we dissolve and file for bankruptcy.”
Bankruptcy. That’s a lot more dire than I thought.
It means that we are seriously in debt…and half of that debt is mine. “Fuck. What’s plan B?”
“Plan B is that we both dump more of our personal funds into advertising and hope for the best. Except I imagine you don’t have much and I have even less.”
This seems unlikely, given that Theo sold a company a few years ago for a bajillion dollars, but I’m certainly not throwing everything I have into an outdated plan that’s already been proven not to work. “I assume, since you’re British, that plan C involves wizards and a death curse.”
“I’m pretty sure plan C involves stealing what remains in the company’s coffers and fleeing to a country with no extradition treaties,” he replies.
I stretch out in my bed and set the box of donut holes on my nightstand. “Solomon Islands and the Maldives don’t have extradition treaties with the U.S. I’ll price out overwater bungalows.”
He does not laugh, but I’m not certain the Henchman is capable of laughter. “I find it somewhat terrifying that you know this information offhand. I’m fairly certain we’re stuck with filing for bankruptcy.”
“No,” I say firmly. “You can’t lay off Linda.”
“I’m not sure you’re understanding how this works. We’d be laying off every—”
“What about that guy?” I cut in. “The miracle worker.”
There is a long second of silence during which, I imagine, he’s rolling his eyes and suppressing a groan. “Is this another Harry Potter reference?”
“No. That guy. Fuck. What’s his name? Martin something. I read about him in Forbes.”
“I’m dumbfounded by the fact that you read Forbes,” he says dryly. “You’re thinking of Martin Miller, but he’d have to agree to work with us, first of all, and secondly he doesn’t want a salary…he asks for five percent of the company.”
Given that our company is apparently worth zero dollars, giving up my two and a half percent isn’t especially painful, but it also means Miller would be unlikely to take us on. And we don’t need him. What we need is Kylie and Jasper’s following.
Better yet, we need our fucking show back. I still have no desire to appear on television, but I’ll do it if I must.
“What if we sold the idea to a different network, then? It’s not like there can only be one travel reality show. There are a million real estate and housewife reality shows. Two Whorish Singles Take On the World has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
He does not suppress this groan. “Yes, it sounds like exactly the kind of show your father would want our company associated with. And would want his daughter starring in.”
“What about Emil Harris, the guy who does all the reality TV? If I talked him into it, we’d be golden.”
The Henchman sighs wearily, as if I’ve exhausted him with my efforts to solve his problem. “I’m pretty sure we’ve got a better chance with the aforementioned wizards and death curse.”
Why is he such a pessimist? “What’s the harm in trying?” I reply. “I’ve never spoken to a person more scared of failure than you are.”
“Well, if there’s one thing to be said of you, Rebecca, it’s that you’re not scared to fail. But I suppose you can’t make the situation worse.”
Jesus, he’s such a prick.
And he’s also wrong. If Jessie were here, she’d tell him herself:
I can make any situation worse.
Bex
I go straight from the airport to Emil’s offices on West Fifty-sixth, where a receptionist politely ignores the coffee I’ve spilled on my blouse as she leads me to a conference room. Theo is already here—broad shoulders straining the seams of his charcoal suit, perfect nose flared as he sets his phone face down on the table to meet my gaze. He’s even more handsome than I gave him credit for the first time, too fuckable to say no to if he offered, though you’d be mad at yourself later because he’d be such a dick afterward.
I look less fuckable, thanks to the six-hour flight from LA—in a middle seat between two men hogging the armrests—and the coffee I’ve spilled.
I wish I could forget that I kissed him. It’s humiliating, and he’s already so arrogant that he hardly needed the ego boost.