The front door creaks open, and I grab the book. I’ve only made it down a few steps when Spencer’s voice echoes up the stairs.
“No, you cannot come over.”
I halt in my tracks.
“I don’t care. It’s not happening. I won’t let you bother her.”
Her? Is he talking about me, or someone else? Another client?
My heart beats a little faster.
“If anyone so much as looks at her sideways, they will have to answer to me. No, listen, Kevin, I mean it.” His tone is gruff and heated. “She might be a celebrity, but everyone has a right to their privacy, and she has fought hard to get out of the spotlight. If she wants a feature in the paper, she’ll come to you.”
I sink down, pressing my hand against the hardwood step.
He’s talking about me. He’s protecting me?
There’s silence except for the rapid beat of my heart in my ears.
I’m not sure what to make of it. I shouldn’t be listening. Should I make my presence known?
A drawer opens, more papers rustle, then slams shut. “She hasn’t worked in over five years, that’s how I know. I don’t have to ask her, and I won’t. If she wants publicity of any kind, she knows how to get it herself; you don’t need to track her down.”
The wood floor in the office creaks under his feet, like he’s pacing. When he talks again, his voice is like leashed thunder. “No, I don’t want your money.”
Here it is. The moment everyone caves. Mother used to pretend to advocate for me too, but it was always for a higher payout, not because she cared that much about my well-being, although she framed it that way, more than once. She was helping my career. Thanks, but no thanks.
“Listen very carefully to what I’m about to say. There is not enough money on this earth to compel me to be a part of this, and if anyone so much as takes an unauthorized photo for their own personal use, even if no one else will ever see it, I will personally take them apart literally and figuratively. They will answer to me in court and on the street. Publish that in your paper.” His voice is like granite, but it may as well be like soft petals against my flesh.
I’m stunned, motionless.
After another pause, he releases a frustrated huff. “It’s not like that, and you know it. She’s Beverly’s granddaughter and my client. It’s a professional relationship, and it can’t be anything more. She’s moving to the farmhouse as soon as the power comes back on. No, I will not go on another date with Rebecca, we are just friends, and she’s moving anyway, and getting married, I think.” His voice loses volume as he moves toward his rooms.
I carefully ease back up the steps into my room and shut the door, leaning back against it and breathing hard.
Warmth spreads in my chest. Beverly said I could trust him, and I trusted her, but hearing him defend me, defend my privacy, protect me, is like someone taking a hammer to the hard wall I’ve built around myself to survive. The fear is still there, the wall is still present, but there’s a crack.
It’s because this is his job, I’m sure. He has to do his duties, right? I’m his client, he said so himself. His job includes ensuring I’m able to finish my necessary tasks to fulfill the agreements in the will or whatever, without interruption or disturbance. It’s a professional relationship.
And yet, no one has ever protected me like he just did. Not my agent, not my manager, definitely not my mom. I had to appease everyone all the time. Don’t upset the reporters, even if they ask you uncomfortable questions. Always turn your best side to the camera. Always be on your best behavior. Smile brighter. Be nicer. Let people say whatever they want about you, in the news, wherever. It’s all press. If people are talking about you—no matter what they are saying—it’s all clicks and likes and money and power.
And I was always at the center of the firestorm, with no control and no say. Helpless. Despite what they want you to think, despite what people want to believe, words aren’t harmless. Words can cut deeper than any knife. They have the power to uplift and the power to push down. And boy, do people love punching down.
The ding of an incoming text sounds from my pocket.
My stomach dips. It’s from Mother Dearest.
* * *
Did you see this article? I know all press is good press, but you might consider giving a formal statement.
* * *
Against my better judgment I click the link.
* * *
It’s been years since Vivien Hart graced a red carpet, posted on social media, or gave so much as a quote to a reporter. For most people, that would just be called living a private life. But for someone who spent her childhood in front of cameras and who was, for a brief and dazzling moment, the most recognizable face on television, the silence has started to feel like something else.
