“Thanks.” She raises her glass and clinks it with mine. “It’s funny. The last time I was at a shindig this fancy, I was the one passing out drinks, and you were the guest of honor.”
I wrap an arm around her waist and sip my champagne. “I’m happy to supply you with alcohol and bask in your reflective glory.”
Before she can respond, Brie’s agent, an older, heavyset woman with sleekly styled gray hair wearing a dress that could double as a circus tent, sweeps in and steals her away to meet the director of some indie film she thinks Brie would be perfect for. I finish my champagne and make my way to the bar for something stronger.
“Scotch,” I say, sliding a twenty-dollar bill to the bartender. “The best you’ve got. Neat.”
“I’d offer to pay,” a voice over my shoulder says. “But I’m guessing Vincent Dow’s son can afford to buy his own drinks.”
I turn to see Irene, a smug look on her overly made up face. She’s got a photographer in tow, and he snaps off a string of quick pics.
“Can you tell him to put that away?” I ask.
Her arched eyebrows disappear under her bangs. “Why would I do that?”
“I’m not the story tonight. It’s Brie you should be talking to.”
“The story is what I say it is.” The smug look is gone, replaced by a cold, calculating glare. “And tonight, I say it’s the reappearance of Vincent Dow’s estranged son.”
“I never disappeared. I’ve been here all along. And who says my father and I are estranged?” I take my scotch from the bartender and move away to make room for others at the bar, hoping she won’t follow.
“So the rumors aren’t true?” She trails after me, dragging the hapless photographer along with her.
Against my better judgment, I give in to temptation and wheel around to confront her. “What rumors?”
She whips her smart phone out of her oversized pocketbook, taps on the screen a few times, then holds the end with the microphone up to her mouth. “Word on the street is that your father left your dying mother to have multiple affairs, and that you two haven’t spoken in years. Do you have any comment?”
She shoves the phone in my face, expecting some sort of response. The one I’d like to give involves smashing the damn thing into a million pieces. Or sticking it where the sun don’t shine.
I scan the room, looking for Brie. I’m not skilled in dealing with the press like she is. If she were here, she’d know how to shut this down.
I spot her across the room, in what looks to be an intense conversation with her agent and a hipster-looking guy in a tan suit and matching fedora—seriously, a fedora—who I assume is the director Miriam wanted her to meet. Looks like it’s up to me to handle Irene.
I stare her down and calmly sip my scotch. “Word on the street is notoriously unreliable.”
“Your father and stepmother recently announced that they’re expecting.” She pauses, presumably to give me a chance to express my surprise. Or outrage. Or whatever emotion she thinks I should be feeling. When I don’t, she continues, undaunted. “What about your half-sibling? Do you plan on being a part of his or her life?”
Okay, now she’s treading on dangerous territory. It’s one thing to talk shit about me or my father. We’re big boys. We can take it. I’m not letting her drag my innocent, unborn brother or sister into this.
“No comment.”
She sticks her phone right under my nose, like she’s coming in for the kill. “Is that because you’re not even sure this baby is your half-sibling?”
My fingers tighten around my glass, the condensation making it cool and slippery. “What part of ‘no comment’ don’t you understand?”
“A source tells me your stepmother was seen coming out of The Pierre with her tennis instructor while your father was in California meeting with studio execs about his screenplay for the Dax Russell movie. Isn’t it true that she’s been having an affair, and this baby is a bastard?”
My arm coils back to toss my drink in her face, but I’m too late. Irene is already drenched, dark, jagged lines of mascara running down her cheeks, tendrils of wet hair clinging to her neck.
“You crossed the line, Irene.” Brie stands next to me, an empty glass in her hand and a determined glint in her eyes.
“I’d say you’re the one who overstepped.” Someone hands Irene a cocktail napkin and she dabs at her face, smearing the mascara even more. It makes her look like a creepy circus clown. “I could sue you. Or better yet, call the police. Have you arrested for assault.”
Brie doesn’t back down. “I’m sure New York City’s finest have better things to do than referee a catfight.”
Irene crumples up the now soaked cocktail napkin. Her photographer hands her another, and she shoves the used one at him. “I hope you got pictures. I can have this up on the blog in ten minutes. The headline practically writes itself.Mortal Misfit Attacks Reporter. Your career will be over before it starts.”
The room’s gone quiet, and I realize it’s because everyone is focused on us. Irene does an overly dramatic flip of her straggly, damp hair and turns on her heel.
