“Who is that?”
“A client.”
“Looks familiar. Is he an actor?”
“No.” I did not elaborate further.
“Ford!”
My interrogation was cut short by the approach of Daniel’s longtime friend, fellow entertainment attorney Noah Feldman. Noah was magnetic, kind, sincere, a rarity among Hollywood types. I’d lost him and his lovely wife in the divorce. Along with their three kids. It hurt.
“Feldman!” Daniel greeted him.
“Solène.This is a nice surprise. How are you guys?”
“Good. How areyou? How’s Amy?”
“Fine, great. She got a writing gig.” His eyes lit up.
“I know. I saw on Facebook.”
“It’s a pretty big deal. I mean we don’t see her anymore,” he laughed, “but she’s happy. And I’m happy that she’s happy.”
I smiled. Of course he was. What a novel idea: a husband supportive of his wife’s work. A wife that did not fit in a box.
“See thoseTransformersnumbers?” Noah directed at Daniel.
“Fucking Michael Bay…”
“Fucking Michael Bay…”
My phone buzzed then on the table. The guys continued talking shop, and I took the opportunity to glance at the incoming text.
Daniel?????????!!!!!
I snatched the phone and hid it in my lap to respond.
Fauvism???
Shot in the dark.
Meet me in the lavvy in 5 min?
Ha!
Absolutely not.
Fuck.
I looked up. Daniel and Noah were still talking.
“I don’t think that deal’s going to close,” Noah was saying. “Ryan’s got one foot out the door.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Weinstein.”
I returned to my texting:
