Behind the Scenes(42)

I don’t know what “much of the work” really means, but I know Mr. Mulroney has enough time to enjoy the luxury of coming and going almost whenever he pleases.

I resist the desire to scroll through the pages and pages of pictures. Going that far really would make me feel like a creep. Instead, I go to Wikipedia.

I nibble my bottom lip as I scan the article written on him. Two minutes. That’s all I’m giving myself. After that, I’m clearing my web browser’s history so I can forget all this ever happened.

Except something catches my eye that makes forgetting impossible.

In the little section titled Personal Life, way past the lengthy list of films produced during the years of Mr. Mulroney being at the company, is one simple sentence. Engaged to Alexandra Dupre for one year.

I blink and rub my eyes then read the sentence again. There’s a second one, too, saying the engagement was broken off five years ago.

Quick as a whip, I slam my laptop shut. I’ve gone too far already. I am not going to slump to the level that involves searching Google images for pictures of Mr. Mulroney’s ex-fiancée.

Just the fact that he was once engaged is more than I can wrap my head around. I try to imagine him even proposing to someone. Did he get down on his knee?

No. Not Mr. Mulroney.

Not the Mr. Mulroney who spanked a woman in his office then kidnapped me from work midday to kiss me in his car.

You kissed him, I remind myself.

I also stopped the kiss… because I have a brain.

Running my hands through my hair, I tug slightly at the roots of my bangs. I got online hoping to find some information to help me unravel Mr. Mulroney’s mystique and definitely got more than I bargained for.

“I can’t do this.” My voice was barely a whisper.

I can’t keep driving myself to the brink of insanity each and every day.

Opening the computer back up, I close out the browser. I’m not stupid. I know that at some point in the near future I’ll be back online, poking around where I shouldn’t be and finding out more than I can handle.

But at least for now I’ve committed to putting all of that aside. I open my screenplay back up and get to typing. With each word, I manage to edge Mr. Mulroney a little bit more out of my mind. He never completely leaves it, but that’s just the way it is now. I can’t dispel him, but I can somewhat manage his presence in my psyche.

And that will have to be enough.





CHAPTER SEVEN


Monday morning’s alarm clock sounds delightfully far away. In my dream, I’m somewhere in the mountains, shepherding a flock of goats across a river. On the other side of the monolithic mountain in front of us rests our destination. I don’t know what the nearby town holds, but I’m excited to get there. There’s a sense of immediacy and thrill. I wonder when I became a shepherd anyhow, but it doesn’t really matter.

A little brown kid comes up and nuzzles my hand, his fur soft against my fingers. The shrieking grows louder.

I groan and twist in the sheets. The blanket pushed down at the bottom of my bed gets tangled around my feet and I kick it off. I hit the alarm clock and sit up.

It feels like a bolt of electricity hit me. Seven-forty. How could that possibly be? Has my alarm been going off for over an hour?

A hole opens up in my heart and I jump to the floor, practically throwing myself at the wardrobe. I’m an idiot. I stayed up too late last night. And I wasn’t even doing anything! I laid on the couch till two a.m. thinking about my man problems.

And now I’ll be late for work because of a goat dream. If it was going to happen, why couldn’t I have at least been having one of my forbidden boss dreams?

Mr. Mulroney’s promise that my job is secure is going to be moot once I show up for work thirty minutes after I should have been there, because unless I put a superhero cape on and fly myself across the valley, no way can I make it on time.

I start to pull on the first pair of jeans I grab. One leg in and one leg out, I halt. It doesn’t matter how late I am for work, I can’t go in there wearing the mom jeans I should have thrown out years ago. I drop them on the floor and grab my skinny black pants instead.

Luckily, I did laundry the day before and have my pick of shirts. Tearing my tank top off, I slip on a white tee. I’m already running down the hall, making a break neck pace for the bathroom. What can I cut out of my morning routine?

I brush my teeth with no toothpaste. I splash water on my face, forgoing the soap. I slip one of Crystal’s head scarves on, hoping it will cover up my mess of hair.

I’m opening the door when I realize my cell phone is still in my room. “Damn,” I gasp, running back and snatching it up.