“You were too young to know better,” Isabel said, and it sank into Juliet like absolution. “What kind of contract did you sign?”
“One that gave Danny fifty percent of my earnings.”
“Fifty?” yelped the woman who’d envied her hair. “Should be twenty, max.”
“That’s an Elvis deal right there,” said Miranda. Off everyone’s furrowed brows, she shook her head. “Elvis’s manager took fifty percent—it was a scandal after Elvis went into debt. Know your Hollywood history, babes.”
“So this Danny, your agent.” Scout swirled her champagne. “He’s exploiting you.”
“I was doing okay.” Juliet exhaled. “I live in an apartment with enough other girls from Topflight that we got the rent down pretty cheap.”
“And where are your parents?” Cybele’s tone was accusatory.
“Danny said I’d make more money if I got emancipated, so I did. They’re still in Mississippi.”
“Christ, I hate that they’re still running that scam,” Cybele said. “It’s just an excuse to get around child labor laws. If a kid’s emancipated, they can sign their own shitty contracts with no one looking out for them.” She slugged back her drink.
Miranda rubbed Cybele’s shoulder, and Juliet wondered if Cybele’s career had been harder than the industry gossipers knew. She took a deep, preparatory breath, and delivered the worst part. “The problem is, my dad had a stroke a few months ago, and my family needed money—bad. And fast. There were hospital and rehab bills and medicine costs. I didn’t have anywhere else to go, so I went to Danny. He loaned me ten thousand dollars. I thought it was a miracle at the time. Now he’s docking my paychecks until I’ve paid it back. And he’s taking interest.”
Isabel was stone-faced. No wonder Juliet had mistaken her for a businesswoman. “What percent?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. We didn’t sign anything. He just gave me the money, and now he’s saying if I’m going to take months to pay him back, it’s his prerogative to charge interest. He told me he’s going to start thinking of creative ways I can pay him back, and… I’m scared of what that means.”
“So he’s going to bleed you dry for as long as he wants,” Miranda said. “Bloody hell, Mississippi.”
“Why don’t you report the abuse?” asked a girl at the end of the table, with elfin features. “There are organizations for that.”
“Toothless organizations,” Cybele muttered.
Tears welled in Juliet’s eyes. She didn’t want to cry, but she was so tired of trying every door, only to get each of them slammed in her face.
“I tried.” Her voice was thick. “But nothing he’s doing is technically illegal. I’m the one who made the bad deal.” To her horror, a tear slid down her cheek. She turned and wiped it against her shoulder, hoping no one saw, the last remnants of her pride demanding she not break down. This was the most shameful part: She’d invited the wolf in herself, all because she’d been a stupid, desperate girl, panicked by the anguish in her mother’s voice over the telephone.
“Cybele?” Scout phrased it like a question. “It’s your neck of the woods…”
Juliet still wasn’t looking at anyone, trying not to cry. So she couldn’t see what was unfolding, but eventually Cybele let out a deep sigh and said, “Fine. You know if you make meseethe puppies, I’m going to want to adopt them.”
“Hey.” Isabel nudged her, and Juliet looked up to find every woman at the table holding up her glass. In the strobe lights, the remnants of their champagne glowed like ambrosia. It wasn’t a toast—it was a vote. To Juliet, a benediction. Her heart raced, hands finding the tears on her face and wiping them.
Scout’s eyes shone as she watched, that precious luminosity pouring out, like she was an angel painted by a Byzantine master, haloed in gold. Juliet’s angel of mercy.
“Listen very carefully,” Scout said. “I’m going to need you to do exactly what I say.”
Chapter 14Rosie, the Journalist
ONE YEAR EARLIER, CENTURY CITY
The hulking headquarters of the Gerson Public Relations Agency towered above the streets of Century City, its domed, geometric walls blindingly white, a stark contrast to the blackout windows. Somehow, the round building itself managed to look imperious. It was no wonder Hollywood called the place the Death Star, Gerson’s rivals the Golf Ball of Doom. Rosie Wright had called it her workplace for the last six grueling months.
She bumped the conference room door open with her hip and pushed through, carrying a tray stacked precariously with water and crystal glasses, each of which was worth a week of her pay. She wouldn’t drop them—not like her first week, when she’d accidentally poured a whole pitcher of water into the lap of the VP of Crisis Comms. Rosie had regretted that mistake until she’d heard a rumor that the vice president had once thrown a stapler at her assistant when she was angry.
Rosie swept into the room and delivered the platter smoothly onto the marble table. The late-night meeting between the partners was being held in the agency’s largest and most luxurious room on the top floor. Officially, its name was Conference Room A, but unofficially, Rosie and her fellow assistants called it DEFCON 1.
Rosie had let out an audible gasp the first time she’d toured the building. Since appearing wealthy and powerful helped lure in clients, the agency’s conference rooms were shrines to designer elegance: top-shelf liquor at built-in bars, architectural chandeliers, vases of fresh peonies. This particular conference room had soaring views of Los Angeles that stretched all the way to the ocean.
Neil Gerson, the oldest of Gerson’s four partners and the only man—who also happened to be the agency’s founder—waved away the water. “Get me a scotch, doll, would you? It’s Friday night, and if I have to sit around with these hatchet slingers, I’m going to need a pick-me-up.”
“Happily,” said Rosie, turning with a pronounced swish of her hips that ruffled the pleats in her skirt. Shewasgenuinely happy to ply Gerson and any of the other partners with as much alcohol as they wanted. This was a closed-door meeting with only one other assistant in attendance, after the majority of other employees had gone home for the weekend. It sounded like a recipe for an HR disaster, which was exactly what she was hoping for. Rosie had a story to write, and she’d really rather hurry it along.
