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Over the next week or so, I managed to meet my extended deadline, and it felt good to be able to just relax for a day or two. I was waiting to hear from Georgie to see what she thought of the pages I’d sent her, and I didn’t want to go on with the book until I’d had her in-put, just in case she wanted something changed.

I was attempting to clean my living room a couple of days after my deadline, when the phone rang. I wasn’t expecting anyone to call, since I’d talked to Olivia and my mom that morning. I threw the pile of books I’d been sorting onto the coffee table and dug around in the sofa cushions for my portable phone.

“Have you heard from your mother?” my dad’s voice boomed when I answered.

“This morning,” I said, sitting cross-legged on my beige carpet and leaning my back against the sofa so I could continue what I’d been doing. “Why?”

“That cow had me served with more papers today,” Dad stormed, getting louder with each word. He never called Mom by her name, it was always “that cow,” or “the bitch,” or something equally as lovely. I rarely contradicted him, though, because I knew that when she dealt with him, she really could be those things. Hell, when she dealt with me she was usually those things.

“Papers for what?” I asked, trying not to sound bored. I didn’t care about their legal battles, but I didn’t want him to start yelling at me instead of to me.

“The bitch wants more support every month,” he said, his loathing of her making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. “What the hell does she need that kind of money for? The house is hers, free and clear, and I already pay all of her damned bills.”

“You know how she is,” I said, trying to stay neutral. I was always in the middle when they fought, even though I wasn’t a kid anymore.

“What the hell does that mean, Peyton?” Dad raged, his anger only getting stronger at my indifference. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Of course,” I sighed, setting my books aside, knowing there was no point in trying to get anything done when he was in a mood like this. “I’m just a bit tired of hearing you bitch about each other, that’s all.”

“So she’s been bitching about me, has she?” he snapped, and for some reason I’ll never understand, he seemed pleased. He loved to antagonize her, so to hear that she’d had something to bitch about was probably like Christmas for him.

“There isn’t a conversation I have with her that she doesn’t tell me what an asshole you are,” I said, figuring it was easiest to give him what he wanted to hear.

“Good,” he said, somewhat smugly.

“Why is that good?” I asked, though I regretted the words as soon as I’d said them. I didn’t want to hear about what a narcissistic tramp Mom was, but asking him to elaborate on his comment would bring on just such a tirade.

“Because it means I’m making her as miserable as she’s making me,” he almost spat, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “And it also means that she’s being forced to think about someone other than herself.”

“Okay, before you say another word, I’m telling you right now, I don’t want to hear it,” I cut in. “I’m a little busy at the moment. If you want to moan and complain about Mom, why don’t you call your lawyer or one of your wretched friends? I’m sure they’d love to hear it.” I rolled my eyes, and it was probably a good thing he couldn’t see me do it. He always told me I was disrespectful to him, and he was right, but I’d never intended to be anything else. In all truth, I don’t like my parents very much, but then, that’s probably pretty obvious.

“You’re very selfish, Peyton,” Dad snapped. “Just like her.”

“And you’re not?” I couldn’t help but respond. “Between the two of you, I’m amazed I turned out having any compassion or empathy for others at all.

“Now just a minute,” he said, and I half-expected a “young lady” to come my way, but it didn’t. “You watch what you say to me.”

“No,” I said simply. “You want to talk about selfish? You’re both cut from the same cloth where that’s concerned, and if I’m at all that way, there’s little wonder why, having been raised by two people who couldn’t give a damn about anyone but themselves.”

He didn’t say anything, there was just a very loud click as he hung up on me. I shook my head, rolled my eyes again, and went back to cleaning. I hated that I was actually angry at him for being an asshole, it’s not like it was a new development. I was waiting for the phone to ring so he could chew me out for being so nasty to him, so when it did, I picked it up warily.

“What?” I said, letting out a huge sigh. The silence on the other end was unexpected. “Hello?”

“Uh, Ms. Marceaux?” came a tentative voice.

“Yes?” I said automatically, having a nagging suspicion in my mind as to who it was. I recognized the voice.

“It’s Orlando,” he said, but he really didn’t need to tell me that.

“How are you?” I said, squirming a bit at the idea that he’d just randomly picked up the phone and called me. “Are you having a problem with Jesse?” I couldn’t think of any other reason that he’d call.

“Not really,” he said, and he sounded really shy. “I just wanted to say, uh, thanks again, you know, for letting me audition for you.”

I smiled. “You’re very welcome,” I said. “But you don’t need to thank me. You did the work, and you earned the part. It’s that simple.”

“I know,” he agreed, though not arrogantly. He almost seemed like a little boy who wanted approval, but was afraid to ask for it. “It’s just that you gave me a chance, and I appreciate that.” He paused. “The contracts came today, that’s why I wanted to ring you. I hope it’s okay that I did.”

“Sure,” I said, the fluttery feeling in my stomach telling me it was more than okay.

“So, uh, how’s your new book coming along?” Now it seemed like he was just trying to make conversation, and I was perfectly okay with that.

“I just sent some pages to my editor, so hopefully she’ll like them,” I said, heaving myself up off the floor. My foot was going numb and my back was starting to ache slightly. I went into my office and sat in my desk chair, dislodging Sherman as I went. He glared at me as he stalked from the room.

“I’m sure she will,” Orlando said. Though he had no idea what the book was about, or what my editor was like, somehow his words gave me a bit of reassurance. I silently chided myself for such a stupid thought.

“I’m sorry, but I really don’t know what else to say,” I said after a few seconds of silence. I figured I should at least be honest with him, since he’d taken the time to call me.

He chuckled, but it could really be described as more of a giggle. It was somewhat high-pitched and rolled easily from him, though there was a touch of nervousness in it. “It’s okay, I probably shouldn’t have bothered you,” he said. He paused. “It’s been a long time since someone has told me they don’t know what to say to me.”

“Oh.” Now I really didn’t know what to say. Was he complaining? A hint of something crept into his voice, but I didn’t know him well enough to pinpoint what it was exactly. If I had to guess, I’d have said it was almost a wistfulness.

“Not that I’m whining, you understand,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “It’s just that most people are so busy blowing smoke up my ass, that the conversation never really drops off, you know?”

“Would you rather I blow smoke up your ass?” I said, smiling at such a blunt description. I’d have to save that for later, I was sure I could use it somewhere.

He chuckled again, but it sounded more relaxed now, like some invisible barrier had been broken. “No, no, I think I prefer your honest approach, Dominique,” he said, and I stiffened when he said my pen name. I vaguely wondered if I would ever tell him the truth.

“At least you’ve stopped calling me Ms. Marceaux,” I said, for lack of anything else. The conversation was starting to feel very strained, and somewhat awkward, but I found that I really didn’t want to hang up yet.

“Do you prefer Dominique?”

“It doesn’t make me feel as old as Ms. Marceaux does,” I admitted. The truth was, I was starting to want him to call me Peyton, but I couldn’t get the words out to tell him that.

“Am I complete prat for phoning you?” he asked abruptly, all of the teasing gone from his voice. The barrier was suddenly firmly in place again, and I felt somehow jolted by the change.

“No, not at all,” I assured him. The last thing I was thinking was that he was a prat. In fact, I was quite flattered that he’d taken the time to call me, but I wasn’t about to let him know that. I grabbed a magazine off the desk in front of me, and started leafing through it, desperate to keep my hands busy. I had to smile when I flipped a few pages and saw Orlando staring back at me.

“Are you sure?” he pressed, sounding sincerely worried. The picture I had in my hand was very different from the way his voice sounded, and it made me hesitate. In the picture, he was draped around some blonde woman who looked like she hadn’t eaten in weeks, smiling openly for the camera, all easy confidence and sex appeal. The voice on the phone sounded more like a little boy asking for approval. I found myself wondering which guy he really was, and whether or not I would actually find out.

“I’m sure,” I said, closing the magazine. The blonde woman was exactly the type of woman I’d expect someone of his status to be with, someone as beautiful as he was. The thought made me feel like a cow. I cleared my throat. “I should probably get back to my writing,” I said, suddenly wanting to get off the phone. If he knew what I looked like, if he’d seen the scarred flesh and extra weight, he definitely wouldn’t be calling me. I felt like I’d been doused in cold water and shifted uncomfortably on my chair.

“Okay,” he said slowly, a hint of disappointment in his voice. “Well, good luck with your book, Dominique.”

“Thanks,” I said, trying to hide the impatience from my voice. I wanted to just hang up, but I knew that would be rude. The image of the blonde woman’s figure in that picture was glaring hotly in my mind, and every word out of his mouth made it brighter. That woman was very tiny, and he had such a big smile on his face when his arms were around her, it made me feel even bigger than I normally did. I struggled to end the conversation without just telling him off for something that wasn’t really his fault.

“I can’t wait to read the new re-writes you’ve done to the script,” Orlando was saying when I snapped back to reality. “I’m sure they’re brilliant.” Now who was blowing smoke up who’s ass? I couldn’t suppress a grin at the thought.

“Only time will tell,” I said quickly. “Take care, Orlando.” I rang off before he could say anything else.

I sat there for a few minutes, staring at the clutter on my desk, at my blank computer screen, and finally I reopened the magazine and stared at the picture in my hands. I studied him for a moment, wondering how long ago the picture had been taken. He didn’t have the long hair he’d been sporting for one of his trilogies, so I was guessing it couldn’t have been that old. He had a hideous scarf draped around his neck, though from everyone else’s attire in the picture, it wasn’t a cold occasion, and his black sweater and dark jeans with plaid boxers poking out the top seemed somehow too casual compared to the woman in his arms. She was dressed in dark blue satin, with just enough cleavage to be sexy, but not enough that anyone needed to worry about a wardrobe malfunction. The dress came to just above her knees, and her blonde hair was curled and loose around her face. She was beautiful, I couldn’t deny it, and when my eyes strayed to Orlando’s hands on her skinny waist and tiny hips, I couldn’t help but shudder with longing. Not longing for him, but longing for a body like that, a shape that I could be proud of.

I quickly closed the magazine and took it back into the living room, dropping it in the pile of stuff that needed to be recycled.