A Life More Complete(8)
Ellie slams the door behind her as she exits the conference room with such purpose that I fear for anyone standing in her way. Before the door even closes Melinda laughs.
“Can’t we just have a normal day at the office?” she giggles. “Most people get to take an hour lunch, eat sushi, drink a beer, play solitaire. Not us.”
Before I can answer her the bell on my phone sounds alerting me of a notice on my calendar. “Shit,” I mumble to myself. As I scroll through the calendar. “Today’s Trini’s interview with Hollywood Reports and I never got the list of “don’t ask” questions to the interviewer. Also, one of us needs to be there. She’ll never make it on her own.” I reach for my milkshake, knocking it into my lap by accident, spilling the small amount that is left onto the crotch of my pants. “Damn it,” I say as Melinda instantly hands me a Tide stick from her purse. I smile at her gratefully.
“At least it’s not on your butt this time. You looked like you shit your pants,” Bob says smirking. “I got Trini. No worries.” He leans down and kisses me good-bye.
Trini Walters is our cash cow, our gold mine, the reason we earn the salary we do. The reason we amassed more celebrity clients than Ellie Regan P.R. has ever seen. Trini was an adorable twelve-year-old girl on the brink of stardom when she signed with Ellie. A tiny little thing with chipped nail polish and an adorable smile, precocious and endearing, but she could force your hand at anything. I loved her at first sight. She could sing, dance and act. We got along famously. Her mother left when she was a baby. She was being raised by her elderly father and series of revolving nannies, leaving her on her own more often than not. Her father, famous in his own right, was a musician, a bona fide 1950’s pop star, who fell from grace and was now surviving on residuals and his daughter’s money. Trini had just inked a deal with a children’s network starring on a show called Trini Knows Best. The show became wildly popular in a matter of weeks and catapulted her into a world she was far too young to ever know.
Trini is now eighteen and we still remain close. Her show ended two years ago and in that short span of time she recorded her second album and starred in four movies. I need to call her and let her know that Bob will be meeting her at her interview this afternoon. I mark that down in my endless list of things to do today.
We all head off in our respective directions knowing this day will last forever. It will be one of those days when you glance at the clock and an hour has passed; yet it feels like an eternity. We’ll work into the night, tiring long before it will be over. There is no overtime pay in my job. I just do it exhausted and defeated.
---Chapter 3---
The darkness has taken over as I pull into Ben’s driveway, parking on the apron. I’ve missed dinner...again. My job is my life. I don’t work nine to five like most of the population. My job is unpredictable and demanding, it leaves little room for planning or scheduling. I called Ben on my way back from Calabasas to let him know I’d be late. I could hear the disappointment in his voice, but he never says it out loud.
I microwave a brick-sized piece of lasagna and eat it standing at the counter in Ben’s kitchen. I haven’t eaten all day. I inhale the lasagna and stare at the lone plate in the sink. I feel guilty. I want to be with Ben. I want to wake up in the morning with him, eat breakfast together, make his lunch and cook him dinner. I want to belong to him and him to me, my day to begin and end with Ben, but it won’t happen. I will be at work late for the rest of my life. I will fly across the country at inopportune times and return on red-eyes only to leave the next day again. I will attend an obscene amount of late night parties, award shows, press releases, where I will wander with a fake pathetic smile, shaking hands and kissing ass all the while wishing I was somewhere else. This is my life. I will always belong to someone else, someone more important...my job.
I grab a Heineken out of the fridge, remove the top and take a long deep swallow. It’s cold, too cold. It burns my teeth and I feel it in my sinuses. I close my eyes and wait for the moments of unshed tears to pass. I compose myself before I head out back to find Ben.
Ben’s backyard is out of a Better Homes and Garden magazine. The picture of perfection, like a resort in the middle of suburbia. Lush tropical plants grace the perimeter while flowers bloom effortlessly throughout. The pool is unreal and fills most of the backyard; large and illuminated, flowing organically as if it’s an extension of the house. A beautifully crafted wooden arbor stands nearby covered in Dutchman’s pipe. All the plants native to California, because that is what Ben does.