She adjusts her glasses and peers at the labels. “No salmon in this bunch. It’s just chicken, chicken, chicken, tuna.” She makes a tsking sound. “Poor Mr. Sebastian. It’s a travesty to have these sad meals when I could prepare him a feast.”
I grin. “Itisa travesty. But it means you have more time to cook for me.”
She pats my shoulder like I’m a little girl. “That’s why I love you, Miss Emma. You don’t mind an old lady fussing. When Mr. Sebastian’s grandmother was alive, this house was filled with elegant events. And I always had something to do. Now, he just tells me to take it easy.” The gray-haired housekeeper huffs. “As if that wouldn’t bore me to bits.”
It’s so cute how Marie calls this mansion a house, when it’s one of the most storied properties in California.
“Are you gossiping about me again?” Sebastian asks, strolling into the kitchen with a wink to Marie.
“If you don’t want people talking, don’t give them anything to gossip about,” she replies tartly. But I can tell by her fond smile that she loves his easy teasing. “How was your interview? Did the reporter let you get away with any of your antics?”
He sighs. “It went as well as expected. The at-home interview is done, thank God. And the next part will be fun.”
“What activity did you choose?” I ask.
These celebrity profiles involve the interviewer and interviewee doing some sort of pre-arranged activity. Like golfing. Or doing psychedelic drugs while camping, depending on the celebrity. And the interviewer.
Oh Lord, I hope she and Sebastian aren’t going to do peyote in the Mojave Desert. It sounds like something he’d have tried back in the day. But he wouldn’t do that now, would he? While he still imbibes alcohol, he’s sworn off drugs ever since rehab. He doesn’t even like to take aspirin.
“We’re swimming with sharks. An apt metaphor, I thought. Since that’s what I’m doing—being interviewed by her.”
I laugh. “You finally got someone to go with you? You’ve been talking about that for years. But don’t be too complacent. She won’t put herself at a disadvantage. Maybe she’s an expert scuba diver and she thinks she’ll be able to report on your panic attack or something.”
He frowns. “She did say she was a master diver.Shit.”
“I must admit, I like Charlotte Jones’s style. If she weren’t a reporter and I weren’t an assistant to the stars, we might even be friends.”
“First, you wouldn’t like her style if you had to be interviewed by her. And second, you’re an assistant toastar, singular, not plural, even if you keep taking on side jobs. Remember, you’remine,” he says lightly.
“You don’t own me,” I retort. But my face heats at his words.
The sound of the blender interrupts our bickering. Then Marie hands Sebastian his afternoon protein shake, as required by his trainer. He thanks her, which is actually super generous of him. Because I’ve tasted the green concoction, so I know he really shouldn’t be thanking anyone for giving him one.
Sebastian and I take our regular seats at the large wooden kitchen table, him with his gross shake and me with my coffee.
Even on this palatial estate, with the glamorous living room and the long patio fronting the pool, it’s here that people congregate. In this sunny, white kitchen overlooking the rose garden and at this butcher-block table with its welcoming, scarred surface. It’s probably seen more celebrities come and go than the Oscars.
Perhaps it’s Marie’s stupendous cooking. Perhaps it’s Sebastian’s air of informality that he carries with him as surely as he carries the Hollywood blue-blood genes of his famous family.
Perhaps it’s just the vibes.
Whatever it is, everyone wants to be in the kitchen. And I’m no exception.
I open my laptop to start our daily meeting. After all this time, we know our roles. He leans back and drums on the table.
I riffle through file folders.
He yawns.
I slide him a small stack of papers, mostly printouts of things I’ve already emailed over earlier. I learned long ago that my best chance of getting Sebastian’s attention is hard copies. He downplays it, but I suspect that he has a photographic memory. His impressive hyperfocus, though, is only activated with something physical, not words on a screen. It’s that way with everything. Scripts. Forms. Schedules.
If it’s not physically in his hands, he doesn’t consider it real. Which isn’t the worst trait for a man who is a constant source of online gossip.
“We need to discuss the event in Monaco. Raphael wants you to wear a suit from their upcoming collection for the premiere. They’re flying several options over from Paris.” I look at the list. “And Marjorie needs to see you next week.”
He frowns. “Who’s Marjorie?”
“Your new publicist.”
