The Silenced Tale, стр. 45

The readings go on for the full two days, and with lunch breaks, each day tops out at about twelve hours. Following the final day’s last reading, when everyone in the room is emotionally exhausted from the ups and downs of the narrative and the long hours sitting and listening alike, Flageolet’s lead executive producer pulls Elgar aside. Gil crowds Elgar into a shadowed corner of the hallway as people are filing out with their confidential boxes of scripts, empty water bottles, bags of partially used notebooks and complimentary pens, satchels of scarves and sweaters and cough drops, and all the other detritus of being a working actor.

“Listen,” Gil says. He’s a vibrant man with chicklet teeth and artfully graying hair, but the beginnings of the kind of pooch that comes from not enough time in the gym and too many cocktails at Hollywood parties. “If you’re free, I’d like to take you out for dinner tonight. You and your assistant; we’ll need him on board with this.”

“With what?” Elgar asks, trying not to take the secrecy the wrong way. A quick glance at Gil’s eyes confirms that they are brown, not green.

But Gil only grins, wide and gleeful, and says, “Come on, man. Eight tonight, Chateau Marmont. I’ve got us a booth.”

“Who’s us?” Elgar asks, and again, Gil doesn’t answer. He winks instead, cheeky and sure of himself, and moves to leave. Elgar shoots out a hand and grabs a fistful of Gil’s sleeve, the creepy chill back and climbing up his spine once more. “Gil. Who’s us?”

“Jesus, Reed,” Gil says, startled. He reaches up and lays a gentle hand over Elgar’s. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Elgar grits out. “I’m . . . there’s someone . . .”

“Stalker?” Gil asks kindly, and the concern on his face makes Elgar feel ashamed enough to release the man’s shirt. But Gil doesn’t let go of his hand. Instead, he claps it between both of his in a gesture of friendly solidarity. “All right. No, it’s fine. I get it. It’s the biz, man. We all have to be careful. It’s just me, you, your guy, Olivia from marketing, and Stan and Andy.”

“Stan and . . . the showrunner and the director? What for?”

“We’ve got an idea to pitch you. But tonight. For now, go back to the hotel. Unrumple. Have a drink. We’ll send a driver for you guys, okay? No worries. We’ll take care of all of it.”

Elgar considers this for a moment. “I’d rather have my own driver, if that’s cool,” he says, not adding that their driver is a cop.

“That’s cool, I get it,” Gil says. With another firm handshake, he releases Elgar and is out the door, trailed by his own PA.

On the ride back to their hotel, Elgar tells Juan the name of the place they’re eating. Juan’s mouth drops open, and he makes a pleased little gasp. As soon as they are in the suite, Juan bustles over to the shopping bags and unearths Elgar’s new red velvet jacket. He shoves the blazer at Elgar with a stern look that brooks no argument.

They each shower, Juan shaves, they indulge in a drink of the disgustingly lavish whiskey that had been in the welcome basket from Flageolet, and soon enough, they’re sliding into the navy-blue leather seats of their corner booth reservation. The Chateau Marmont is made for deal-making, it seems. The backs of the banquettes are tall enough to block out the sight of the people at the table over; the lights are tastefully dim, but bright enough over the tables to read the menus (and potentially any contracts or plans); and the music is just loud enough to create a muffled din of calm white noise, but not so loud that voices are drowned out, or secrets have to be shouted.

Gil is already at their table when they arrive, a sweating bottle of something that is no doubt expensive sitting in a silver bucket stand beside it. Juan admires the wine when Gil pours it out, and while they wait for the other three people, Juan and Gil get into a discussion about vineyards, which leads to wine pairings, and the revelation that both men have an absolutely embarrassing crush on a celebrity chef with a reportedly dishy Australian accent.

Olivia from marketing arrives next, a confident, attractive African-American woman with a waterfall of gorgeous twists done in her naturally black hair and wefts of an unapologetic purple. As Elgar has never met her face-to-face before, he swaps his bench seat for the chair closest to hers so they can chat about the re-release of all the Kintyre Turn books with screencap images on the covers.

Andy and Stan show up within minutes of each other, Stan bidding what turns out to be his son goodnight on the phone as he approaches, and Andy still stripping off his motorcycle gear. He shoves his gloves in his helmet, and hands both that and his jacket to a waiter to take away to the coat check. Stan the showrunner looks so much like a “dad” that he is practically a parody. Andy is a skinny guy with an infectious grin, which he turns immediately on Elgar as he plops down into the seat beside him.

It isn’t until Andy is beside him in the booth that Elgar has a chance to get a good look at his face. They’ve met before, of course, over contract negotiations and for drinks events, but this is the first time Elgar is close enough to catch the color of Andy’s eyes.

They’re green.

The familiar knot of exhausting terror forms behind his ribs so quickly, and so unexpectedly, that Elgar is suddenly afraid he’s going to vomit, right there on the table. Gulping at the air, he shoots to his feet and, in the quickest wobble he can manage, makes for the gent’s.

In the washroom, Elgar rushes by the wall of