“This better be good,” she said when she answered.
“Well, I don’t know about good, but it’s important enough to bother you,” Harvey replied.
Vivian made a sound in her throat to signal that he had indeed disturbed her.
“Magpies.” He paused because he was physically incapable of spitting things out. “The author listened to it.”
“So?”
“We’re going to have to re-record.”
Irritation was a whip in Vivian’s hand, itching to unfurl at blinding speed. She tightened her grip. “Good thing I always keep backup files despite your insistence?—”
“There’s nothing wrong with the actual files.” He cleared his throat. “It’s the recording.”
“Harvey, what the hell are you?—”
“Yenni Montoya wants the book recorded as a duet rather than a dual.”
A sour bubble burned the back of her throat and sounded vaguely like a laugh. “What?”
“I know it’s unusual?—”
“Why would Synergy Books ever agree to record the book again?”
“Your refusal to join socials is admirable.” Harvey sighed. “Maybe ifyouwere running the imprint instead of out-of-touch old men desperate for relevance, you wouldn’t have been swayed by her 8 million devoted followers. I can only imagine that when they granted her unprecedented final approval rights, they didn’t expect her to use them. But she did, and here we are.”
Vivian leaned over, grabbed her glass, and gulped the rest in one go. Iris was already moving to the small freezer next to the outdoor wine fridge when she emptied the glass.
“I’m not flying to LA to record with Janet in real time.” She hadn’t left the East Coast in a decade, and she sure as hell wasn’t about to now.
“Well, that’s fine because Janet is off the project.”
“What?” Vivian straightened, trading her empty glass for a fresh chilled martini. “Why?”
“Ms. Montoya wasn’t…feelingit.” Harvey infused his words with an audible eye roll.
It was already unusual for a finished project to be scrapped on an author’s whim, but cutting a narrator with Janet’s pedigreeon a vibewas shocking. Vivian had listened to Janet’s first chapter and thought it had been perfectly serviceable.
“Feeling it?” Vivian repeated before she took a swig. “What the hell does that mean? If she didn’t like what we did, why doesn’t she want to recast both of us?”
“Listen, I’m only repeating what her team said,” he warned. “Apparently you were her…” He cleared his throat and the sound of paper shuffling joined the whirl of fans. He read as if quoting directly when he said, “Vivian Taylor was hergay awakening.”
Of all the ways Vivian had been objectified since she was a teenager,gay awakeningwas the least offensive. At least there was an inherent sweetness to it. It wasn’t all crusty socks and stiff flannel sheets. Even if she hadn’t beenVivian Taylorsince she dropped Hollywood and her stage name, she accepted the compliment of sorts.
Buzzed, Vivian leaned back against the cushion. She hadn’t recorded a duet in years. The idea of being trapped with someone in a hot, sweaty booth and recording an audiobook simultaneously was nightmare-inducing.
“I know what you’re going to say,” Harvey continued without Vivian’s participation. “But Ms. Montoya forced the publisher to double your rate for the inconvenience and disruption to your schedule?—”
“And the publisher agreed?” Vivian would have furrowed her brow if it weren’t for the fresh Botox. “Are we sure Montoya isn’t blackmailing someone with a corner office?” she muttered.
“I can put you in a studio on South Beach. A friend of mine has a beautiful space. You’re going to love it. It’s two blocks from Ocean Drive,” he added because, as a lifelong New Yorker, Harvey couldn’t fathom how unappealing it was to brave traffic and tourists for noise and sand.
God, the fucking sand. Even if she didn’t set foot on the beach, it would get all over the interior of her car. And the salt would dry out her hair and turn the dyed blonde brassy. The idea of so many people gawking at her made Vivian’s throat tighten as if she were wearing a starving python for a necklace.
Sweat gathered at Vivian’s temples and complete breaths were harder to come by. She focused on the guesthouse on the other side of the pool where she’d built her own studio. A much smaller replica of the Spanish-style home that had been her fortress for going on fifteen years. High walls and a gated community where everyone minded their own damn business, where there weren’t hundreds of greedy eyes on her. Peeling away at her.
“No,” she heard herself say despite her pulse pounding against the roof of her mouth. “I am already familiar with my own studio.”
