“A private friend.”
“That does not improve it.”
Richard leaned back.
“What language would you prefer?”
“None.”
“We cannot leave the story without direction.”
“We can refuse to direct it through someone else’s life.”
Brent glanced toward the lawyers.
They remained professionally blank.
“This statement protects her,” Richard said.
“Did she ask for that protection?”
“She is not in this room.”
“Exactly.”
Richard’s jaw tightened.
“This is becoming unnecessarily philosophical.”
“It is practical. No one defines Ellie. No one contacts her. No one issues a statement about her without her agreement.”
“Sophie has already agreed not to contact her.”
“Sophie has. I’m making the rule broader.”
Brent raised one hand slightly.
“What happens when journalists ask whether she is your girlfriend?”
“I decline to answer.”
“And if they ask whether you date women?”
The room changed.
Only slightly.
Enough.
I had been asked versions of that question for years.
What kind of man could handle my schedule?
Was I seeing the actor beside me at an awards show?
Had the latest song been inspired by whichever male singer had shared a stage with me that month?
The question always arrived with its preferred answer built inside it.
