Something to Talk About(12)

“How else could you have fixed that problem?” Evelyn said. She hmmed. “Let me think. Oh, I know! You could have not invited her. Then she wouldn’t have needed a dress that she would only wear once.”

“You’re just jealous I’ve never taken you to an awards show,” Jo said.

Evelyn laughed. “I haven’t wanted to go to an awards show with you since we were teenagers.”

Evelyn and Jo had grown up together in LA’s Chinatown. Evelyn was the only person outside of Jo’s family who didn’t treat her any differently after she got famous. Younger people acted like celebrity made Jo suddenly special; older people in their community tutted over Jo taking a stage name, as though it were her fault Hollywood didn’t want Jo Cheung. When Jo told Evelyn she landed her breakout role, Ev said, “Cool,” and kept dealing cards for big two.

Jo glanced at the closed door. She was sure Emma had heard plenty of her phone conversations—raised voices with the network or, worse, with her father. Jo spoke quietly.

“I didn’t want to deal with the rumors about Agent Silver,” she said. “About whether or not I could hack it in film. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I needed a buffer. Emma filled that role well.”

Evelyn let Jo’s rare moment of vulnerability slide. “You admitting you took the girl as a buffer isn’t helping your case,” she said. “You brought her so you didn’t have to deal with people you don’t like. Ergo, she is not in the category of people you don’t like.”

“Yes, Evelyn, I like my assistant. That’s not some ‘gotcha’ situation.”

“Oh God,” Evelyn said. “I know you haven’t accidentally texted me when you meant to text her in a while. But if you start sexting, please make sure you find the right contact in your phone first.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Jo rubbed the bridge of her nose.

Evelyn had a point about the accidental texts, though. It happened more often than Jo would like, generally when she’d taken her contacts out and wasn’t looking closely at her phone. Emma and Evelyn were next to each other in Jo’s contact list.

“She looked gorgeous, Jo,” Evelyn said.

“I’m not going to deny that,” Jo said. It would be a lie. Emma had already looked good when she arrived at the suite the day before. Jo’s prep team didn’t need to help much. “She’s twenty-seven years old and looks like she could be goddamn Wonder Woman. And yes, I enjoy her company over that of obnoxious, self-important actors, especially at a night designed to celebrate their self-importance. The rest is so-called journalists speculating about things to get clicks.”

Evelyn was quiet for a moment, and Jo considered that maybe she’d convinced her.

Instead, Evelyn said, “When you give in to the inevitable way you guys were looking at each other, will you call me?”

“Do you want me to ever call you before then,” Jo asked, “or would you rather never hear from me again?”

Evelyn hung up without responding. Jo went back to her script.



* * *



—

Innocents centered on a group of lawyers working to exonerate the wrongly convicted. It was Jo’s second TV show, even more successful than the first. As they approached the fifth-season finale, Jo was ready to move on. She loved her characters, but she knew them by this point. There wasn’t as much to explore, weren’t as many new ways for Jo to challenge herself.

So she turned to an action franchise with six decades of history; Agent Silver wasn’t like anything she’d done before. The announcement of Jo as writer was scheduled for Thursday, but the whispers about how people expected her to fail were already everywhere. Jo would never admit to being nervous, especially because terrified might be the more appropriate adjective. But she couldn’t get better unless she pushed her limits.

Jo imagined leaving Innocents would feel like what parents experience when their children go off to college. Her baby, suddenly grown up and not under her roof anymore. She’d already delegated a lot of her show-running duties to her co–executive producer, Chantal. Jo trusted her. She knew Chantal was more than capable of running the day-to-day.

Plus, Jo liked the way she was always prepared to step back when Jo showed up on set. Chantal ran things while Jo was away and offered to hand over the reins in her presence. Today, she nodded at Jo, her corkscrew curls bouncing. Jo waved her off. She wanted to watch a bit, clear her head from all the words jumbled inside it.

Emma stood beside her, working on something on her tablet. Normally, Emma’s presence on set was filled with hellos from PAs. Today, acknowledgment of her was noticeably subdued. Before Jo could give it much thought, Chantal called for a five-minute break while they adjusted lighting, and Tate, one of the leading actors, headed her way.

“You got that finale script for us yet?” he asked.

Jo managed not to roll her eyes at him. As an actor, he wouldn’t get the script for weeks, after it went through revisions and rewrites, but he always liked to meddle.

“I’m surprised I get any writing done,” Jo said breezily. “What with how much Emma and I are apparently fooling around in my office.”

Tate laughed, big and booming, and the crew joined in, albeit less enthusiastically. Jo smirked. Emma was the color of a tomato.