Before she could coherently respond （or really do anything at all）， he entered Neal’s office, closing the door behind him.
“Patrick.” Compared to everyone else who worked in the agency, Neal seemed relatively unfazed. They were roughly the same age, the two of them, though his Armani uniform and demeanor made him seem, if not older, more mature. In twenty or so years in this business he was, at this point, unflappable; he didn’t so much as stand up to say hello.
“Neal. Nice office.”
“Thank you. Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I almost knocked a Rothko off the wall. And is that a . . . Basquiat? Do you ever think there’s a chance you’re taking too much of our money?”
“Sometimes.” He scrutinized Patrick. What was this interruption? “Other times I think we don’t take enough.”
“Charming as ever.”
“What gets you out of the desert? Did you finally run out of water? Or perhaps just the face cream you like.” Neal adjusted his tie, tightened the knot as if to signify he was only available for business.
“That’s homophobic.”
“Was it? I’m sorry. I meant it only to sound generally unkind.”
“It’s a serum, not cream, and you’ll be delighted to know I can order it online. Oh, but remember when you used to do nice things for me? That was sweet. You were sweet. Before our marriage turned so toxic.”
“I’m still sweet. Just ask my clients who are currently working.”
Patrick clutched his heart, even though it was clear he took no offense.
“When’s the last time you were even in Los Angeles? Two years? Three? You turn down every invitation I send you.”
“What makes you think I’m not here all the time? Because I don’t call on you or show up at one of your dumb premieres?” Patrick leaned against the window and studied the view over Century City. People power-strolled the outdoor shopping mall across the way, looking like sped-up figures in an old Charlie Chaplin film.
“Well, I can tell this is going to be productive. If you’ll excuse me, I’m supposed to be on a call.” Neal picked up the phone for effect.
“You sent Heidi Himalayas to my house.”
“Who?”
“The girl. Outside your office.” Patrick didn’t care for the casual misogyny, but he knew it was the language Neal spoke.
“Cassie? She came to your house?”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. Last week sometime. Or the week before.”
“Is that where she was? I asked her to get me a spoon for my Skyr and she was gone for five hours. I thought she quit.”
“Your Skyr?”
“It’s Icelandic . . . You’re not here to talk about my food, are you? Why don’t we cut to the chase?”
Patrick raised his eyebrows while frowning, which was, with the last of his Botox, surprisingly difficult to do. “Well, okay . . . I’m here to tell you I’m back. I don’t like you, but I need you.” With that out of the way, Patrick took a seat on the leather couch and crossed his legs. He flipped through the covers of the Hollywood Reporter, which were fanned across the glass coffee table, before selecting an issue about Hollywood’s New Leading Ladies, none of whom he recognized. “Do you have any Fanta?”
“By all means, make yourself at home.” Neal leaned back in his Herman Miller Aeron chair and put his hands behind his back. Behind him were more windows and a credenza with a SAG Award.
“Who gave you their SAG Award?”
Neal sighed. “Stephen.”
“Really.”
“For safekeeping. He’s traveling.”
“Can I have it?”
“No.”
“How’s Bethany?”
“You’re back after how many years and you want to talk about my wife?”
“Sure. We’re friends. How about the kids. They good? You never told me children were so much work.”
Neal was confused. “You have children now?”
“Oh, yes. Two. Age nine and six or something like that. Well, they’re not really my children. They’re more like my wards. But still. So much work. The sunscreen, for one. And they need to eat all the time! I’m always fixing them food.”
“Don’t you eat? Just make more.”
“No, I don’t eat.” Patrick patted his firm abdominals. “Are you crazy? Not since 2002.”