The interviews began and I tucked myself away at the back of the room to watch. I had to marvel at Sol’s professionalism and even though she repeated a lot of the same points to different outlets, each time she sounded fresh and inspired. Elliot moved between interview suites, occasionally tweaking lights or giving Sol feedback on her body language in between interviews.
I hated the fact my eyes kept drifting to Elliot every time he so much as moved or spoke, but watching him work was almost as exciting as listening to what Sol had to say about her movie. He was totally in the zone, confident and calm. As a result, Sol was relaxed and on form and, despite the pressing urgency of the script, I was disappointed when the interviews came to an end. Sol and her team were whisked out to her TV commitments, leaving Elliot and me in the suite to help the camera crew pack up their gear.
“I hope you’re ready for some serious editing,” I said to Elliot as he held open the door for the last camera operator.
“I still have some juice in the tank,” he said with a nod.
“Good.” I let out a sigh of relief. “Because I don’t want to be hauled into Sadie’s office for another bollocking if I can help it.”
He blinked at me in concern. “Please tell mebollockingis British slang for something not gross.”
“Telling-off, dressing-down, admonishment.” I reeled off synonyms with relish. “That enough for your inner thesaurus?”
“Ha. I asked because it sounds …” He gestured. “You know, rude.”
“Only if you’re a pervert,” I muttered, scampering ahead before he could respond.
We made it into the hotel’s sumptuous lobby, where Michelle was waiting. “Good work, you two!”
“Thanks,” I said, “although I really did nothing except sit.”
“Hey, you charmed our star,” Michelle said. “She just told me what a great afternoon she had, and you guys played a big part in that.”
Elliot’s phone rang and he rolled his eyes. “Sorry, I gotta …” He clamped the phone to his ear and stalked off to the exit.
“I had fun too,” I told Michelle. “Thanks for asking me to be part of it.”
“You’re so welcome,” she said. “I’m glad you got to see another side of RJF besides that gross little writers’ room.”
A small electric thrill coursed up my spine at the thought of returning there with Elliot. What had happened to me back there? I couldn’t deny that I found Elliot attractive – hello, I’d almost mounted him in public that first day in Have a Java. But to be overwhelmed like that, to a point where I’d nearly lost control … ? That wasn’t normal for me and the fact that I’d come close to jeopardizing my professional standing in front of my new colleagues was freaking me out.
Michelle and I ambled outside. Twenty-Second Street was quiet in the late afternoon sun. We were near where Broadway intersected and yards away was the thin wedge of the Flatiron building.
As we waited for our Uber back to the office, I soon realized Elliot had not returned from his call. I dialed his mobile, but it rang out.
“Perhaps he’s gone back to the office on foot?” Michelle suggested.
“Perhaps.” I cast my eyes up and down the street one last time before getting in the car. But he was nowhere to be seen.
Chapter Nineteen
Elliot was not in the office. Juno was busy spreading tarot cards on her desk, but was insistent he hadn’t come in. And he wasn’t answering his phone or replying to texts. What had that phone call been about? Had something happened?
I sat down at my laptop, but I was logged out of the server. RJ had gone straight home after the junket and so there was no one to ask for the password. I couldn’t even work solo.
I dialed his phone again, fuming, deciding to leave a voicemail. “Elliot,” I said. “I don’t know what’s more important than getting the script ready for the Melroy meeting, but can you please call me back?” I stabbed the ‘hang up’ button more viciously than perhaps I needed to. I pulled out my notebook and glanced down the notes I’d made to see if there was any research I could do, but nothing. I needed Elliot.
After several minutes of pointless waiting, I went to the kitchen to get a drink and when I opened the fridge my eyes were drawn to its top shelf, laden with beer. Although it would have been counterproductive to drown my anxiety in alcohol, it sure was tempting.
Ralf steamed into the kitchen, uncharacteristically stormy.
“Everything okay?” I asked as he slung his coffee cup into the dishwasher with a little more force than needed.
“Lucie.” He started. “Sorry, didn’t see you.”
“What did the dishwasher ever do to you?” I joked.
“Ha.” He rubbed his face. “Well, it’s … ah, I don’t want to bother you.”
