Chapter 3
Oliver gets to Emma before I even stand up.
“What happened?”
Emma covers her cheek.
“Nothing.”
I laugh.
“Of course.”
Oliver looks at me.
“Rachel.”
“I didn’t touch her.”
Emma shakes her head fast.
“Oliver, please. Don’t make this worse.”
He stares at the red mark on her face.
Then at me.
“Did you hit her?”
“No.”
Emma looks away.
That’s all she has to do.
Oliver’s face changes.
“Rachel, seriously?”
I lean back in my chair.
“You asked. I answered.”
“She’s standing here with a handprint on her face.”
“Yeah. Weird.”
Emma starts crying.
“I only came here because I felt bad about the panel.”
I look at her.
“You felt terrible.”
“Mrs. Jones, please.”
Oliver turns to me.
“Enough.”
The door is still open.
Two people from production are standing outside.
One is Martin Hale, a producer I’ve known for twelve years.
He looks at Emma.
Then at me.
He doesn’t say anything, but I can tell immediately.
He doesn’t buy it.
Neither does Nora, our casting director.
She gives me one quick look.
The kind that says, Do you want me to stay?
I shake my head.
Oliver doesn’t notice.
“Rachel, you’re off tomorrow’s press.”
I look at him.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Emma grabs his arm.
“Oliver, no. Don’t do that because of me.”
“It’s not because of you.”
I almost smile.
He looks at me.
“The studio doesn’t need this turning into a bigger mess.”
“My movie.”
“I know it’s your movie.”
“Do you?”
His jaw tightens.
“Don’t.”
I stand.
“You’re taking me off my own press because she slapped herself in my office.”
Emma goes pale.
“Mrs. Jones!”
Oliver looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“You really hear yourself right now?”
I look at Emma.
She’s crying harder.
Perfect.
By lunch, the story is online.
POWER PRODUCER RACHEL JONES ACCUSED OF HITTING BREAKOUT STAR EMMA DAVIS
Of course there’s no video.
Just “sources.”
The comments are worse.
Imagine being that threatened by a twenty-something actress.
Rachel Jones has been running Hollywood forever. Why is she bullying a newcomer?
Emma literally helped Oliver become an Oscar actor and now his wife hates her.
My phone keeps buzzing.
Not from reporters.
From people who actually know me.
Martin:
This is bullshit. Call me if you need me.
Nora:
I was there. I know you didn’t touch her.
A director I worked with ten years ago sends:
Don’t respond angry. That’s what they want.
I put the phone down.
My assistant walks in.
“The security camera outside your office caught the glass reflection.”
I look up.
“Her hitting herself?”
“Most of it.”
“Good.”
She smiles.
“Want me to send it?”
“No.”
Her smile drops.
“Rachel.”
I open the press folder Emma is using tomorrow.
“Not yet.”
There’s one version of the production notes with an old scene breakdown.
Wrong ending.
Wrong motivation.
Only someone who never worked on the development would use it.
I slide it across the desk.
“Give her this one.”
My assistant looks at me.
“She’ll use it.”
“I know.”
“And then?”
I close my laptop.
“Then she can explain it in front of every camera in Los Angeles.”