Hot Set, page 18
An idea pops into my head. Maybe watching past interviews with Niks and Jack will desensitize me to the pretense of their couple act. Any hint at romance is a construct, a publicity check mark. I’ll flood my system with the sham to help me separate image from reality. Dropping onto a bench, I pull out my cell and Google them.
The first few interviews before the show premiered are banal. It’s all chit chat about the upcoming season. Niks and Jack come off like buddies heading off on an adventure, but nothing more. I’m not sure when the tone shifts, but it does. An intimacy of knowledge springs up between them.
One interview in particular uses the format of a contest for the two Chieftain’s Son stars to answer personal questions about the other. It’s exquisite torture to watch. I know in my bones this happened after their initial flirtation. There’s a bond between them surrounding a secret.
The question about Jack’s middle name makes my stomach flip. I don’t even know his middle name.
On camera, Niks grins before she answers, giving Jack a poke in the ribs. “Dawson. Jack Dawson O’Leary. His mom had a sweet, little Titanic obsession.”
Jack turns as red as the lobster on the Lobster Lee’s sign. “Not correct. That movie came into the world long after I did.”
Niks scoots closer, gazing into his eyes. “Jack and Rose have nothing on Donal Cam and Nieve’s love story, do they?”
So much for desensitizing. Now, I’m just plain pissed off. Early or not, I head for Lobster Lee’s.
It’s easy to score a table in the narrow side room through an arch off the main dining area. The row of cramped booths designed to accommodate overflow are empty, plus there’s a convenient corner to stash my clubs.
“You look like you could use a hot whiskey there,” says my waiter.
I shouldn’t start drinking until Jack shows up. We’ve got important ground to cover, and I need to be clearheaded. The lure of whiskey, sugar, and lemon wins out. As I take the first sip, my phone buzzes.
Fifteen minutes out. Order up.
I order matching bowls of chowder and a Jameson neat for Jack. A thrill races up my body. Fifteen minutes until I feel those big warm hands on mine and lose myself in eyes as blue as the Irish Sea on a sunny day.
A thump on my table makes me look up with a start. “Well, look who busted out of Waterville.” Meg slides into the seat opposite me.
Oh, shit.
She’s working on a very full glass of red wine. Not her first of the evening, I’m guessing.
“Hey, Meg. This is a surprise.”
She waves me off. “I just finished interviewing a new assistant.”
New assistant? I never noticed an old assistant. I assumed Meg was a one-woman PR machine. “Promising?”
She raises her glass to me. “Very. True Time is always trying to ship one of their people out here, but I prefer to run my own show with my own team.”
I think of the splash The Chieftain’s Son has already made on the entertainment scene. I raise my whiskey in return. “So far, so good.” We drink. “What happened to the old assistant?” The thought of leaving a show destined for greatness doesn’t make sense to me.
Meg shrugs. “We didn’t mesh. I can be a bit of a task master.” She tries to laugh it off, but I can see there’s a sting there. She points to my clubs in the corner. “I heard after the fact you played in the charity tournament today at Portmarnock. I would have arranged some pictures. We like to toot The Chieftain’s Son family’s philanthropic horn whenever possible.”
My throat tightens. God, what if Jack and I had been together, walking the course? Meg would flip if those pictures got out. I take a calming breath. I’m freaking out over nothing. So what if Jack and the writing assistant were golfing together in a charity tournament? No scandal there.
“You got yourself up to Howth. It’s lovely, eh?”
“It was recommended, so I thought I’d take a peek before I head back to Waterville.”
“It’s fine luck I’ve run into you. Bobby and I started hatching an idea. He thinks very highly of you, you know.”
I search for a casual position, but I feel myself squirming like a preschooler who needs a bathroom break. “That’s nice to hear.”
“We’d like to start a companion podcast to the show. It’ll be a touchpoint for fans between seasons. The plan is to throw in a bit of the history, behind the scenes business, and of course, guests, cast, writers, design team, and the like.” She polishes off half her glass of wine in a long slow draw.
“Sounds interesting.”
She sets the glass on the table a little too firmly and a splash of wine escapes. “Maureen’s salivating to take point, and she asked for you to work with her. What do you think about giving it a go?”
“A go?”
Meg leans on one elbow and points at me with her free hand. “Be Maureen’s right hand. Help her shape the identity of the podcast.”
I’ve started glancing over her shoulder, expecting Jack to show any second. What will I say? Acting surprised may be my only option. Meg’s offer takes a moment to sink in. I gape at her. “What, me?”
She laughs. “Have you not figured out that Bobby’s got a mind to make you more than a single season fixture on the show?” Leaning in closer, she whispers conspiratorially. “If you ask me, I think there may be a bit of an interest there as well. You know what they say about men falling for women who nurse their wounds.”
“I don’t think that theory holds water if the nurse is the one who inflicted the wound.” An image of concussed Bobby under quilts in my bed flashes through my mind. His subtle excuses to touch me, dinner invitations, hints at a future with the show—all those things I wish I hadn’t noticed start to add up.
I take a gulp of hot whiskey. “Your offer is flattering.”
Meg leans back. “It’ll be work, but True Time is keen on the idea. We wouldn’t launch until after season one is put to bed.” She pats my hand. “Mull it over. We’re doing the same. It’s all in the planning stage. Can’t spread key people too thin.”
“I get the impression from Bobby that there won’t be much down time between season one and two, especially for the writers.”
Her head bobs. “True. We might need a whole different team, but core folks would give the podcast a tidy verisimilitude.” Meg flicks her wrist, tabling the issue. “We’ll bat it around back at The Clan.”
Good, it sounds like she’s winding down. I’ve got to get out of here before Jack shows up. I’ll lurk out in front and catch him before he gets inside. “I’d love to be in on the discussion.” I throw back the rest of my hot whiskey as if fortifying myself for a duel. It burns something fierce down my throat all the way to my chest. Liquid scorch rather than liquid courage. What I’d give for an icy diet Dr. Pepper chaser. “Well, I think it’s about time I head out.”
She glances at the clubs and gives me an odd look. “How are you getting back to Waterville?”
Double shit. Jack is my ride. Do I tell her the train? Or a taxi? Uber? What is the least ridiculous answer? Before I blather something, bad goes to worse. The waiter sidles over to set two bowls of steaming seafood chowder in front of us.
“I’ll be back in a pop with your Jameson, love.”
One of Meg’s eyebrows disappears under her bangs. “Didn’t realize you weren’t here solo.”
To my horror, Meg turns to scan the restaurant for my invisible companion just as Jack steps through the arch. His eyes sparkle like candlelight on crystal when they find me. He breaks into the sort of smile that fails to mask his pleasure. A split second too late, he registers Meg.
Fury ripples across her face. She shoots to her feet. In one quick swipe, she thrusts Jack into the booth so his back is to the main room. I’m tempted to crawl under the table and cover my head the way I learned in the California earthquake drills we practiced in school.
Meg pounces onto the seat next to Jack. “What in the holy hell is this?”
God bless him, Jack recovers in a flash. “I asked Gillian up here as a thank you for playing in the charity tournament.”
Meg’s lips twist. “Come on, Jack. Where’s your head at meeting her alone in public after the cock up with the woman in Sneem?” As she glares at him, realization dawns. Her head whips between us. An accusing finger comes at me like a sword. “You are the woman from Sneem.”
Blood stops flowing through my body. I don’t dare look at Jack. Do I deny it? Do I let him deny it? My mouth opens and closes.
Megs drops her head in her hands.
Jack breaks the silence. “Yes, Gilly and I were together in Sneem.” He reaches across the table as if to take my hands.
I sit back, attempting to casually move out of his reach. We tread dangerous ground here. One of us has to be sensible. “Jack offered to give me a tour of the Ring of Kerry, and I took him up on it. A day of sightseeing, that’s all.”
Meg’s eyes narrow to slits. “Gilly, is it?”
Oh, crap.
Jack waves her off. “Where’s the harm in helping a friend know a bit more about the land she’ll be writing about?”
“The same harm we dealt with when you got caught taking Niks on that private tour of New York during the press junket.”
Private tour of New York? Unwelcome imaginings of Jack walking hand in hand with Niks through snow-covered Central Park invade my brain.
“Photos, explanations, disclaimers, speculation.” Meg presses fingers to her eyelids. “I know your heart is in the right place, Jack, but it isn’t your responsibility to play big brother to every female who joins the team.”
I like the sound of “big brother,” especially in regards to Jack and Niks. It adds an unlooked-for corroboration to his denial of any romantic feelings between The Chieftain’s Son stars. Still, there is some mystery between the two that I wish he’d just come clean about. I’m trying hard not to let the slobbering green-eyed monster dig its fangs into me, but a dangling secret poses a real challenge to keep the beast at bay.
Meg’s voice is a dagger of ice as her hard expression targets Jack and then pans over to me. “Both of you, listen very carefully. I can’t shake the feeling this meet up is a little too cozy. Whatever you are not telling me”—Jack tries to speak, but Meg slashes the air with a long, deadly looking French-tipped fingernail—“puts us all on dangerous footing with True Time.”
Jack presses his leg against mine. My eyes are glued to a soup spoon.
Meg taps her finger hard on the tabletop in front of Jack. “They insist on orchestrating your image, Jack.” She searches the restaurant, undoubtedly on the hunt for raised cell phone cameras. “I’m afraid the best way to diffuse mystery girl rumors is to escalate the buzz over an off-screen relationship with Niks.”
He attempts to break in again. “I don’t think—”
Meg cuts him off. “Getting caught with anyone but Niks”—Meg jerks her chin at me—“could sabotage our entire media strategy.” She lets out a gust of air that ruffles her bangs. “We are only three aired episodes in. The momentum on popularity for both you and the show, Jack, has meteoric potential. Deidre LaRochelle’s books hold scores of hearts and groins in the palm of their hands. We will cash in on that.” She pounds a fist on the table.
Jack’s voice is preternaturally calm. “I feel this conversation is turning into a manifesto.”
“Gillian isn’t blind to the effect of Donal Cam and Nieve’s story on women.” Meg’s eyes beseech me to agree. “Are you willing to dilute that lure by killing Jack’s mystique?”
“I’d never—” My eyes shift to Jack. He gives a curt shake of the head for me not to finish my sentence, but I can’t stop. “Compromise Jack’s image.”
Meg huffs. “Bless me with simple victories.” Her expression shifts from steel to a softer metal. “Please understand the position this puts me in with True Time. If I can’t sell Jack as unattached, then the next best move is to offer up Niks and him as the real deal. I fail to pull that off and my association with The Chieftain’s Son will be as short-lived as an Irish heat wave.”
I bite my lip to keep from bursting into tears. Sticking with this show is the future I didn’t see coming until it fell into my lap. I can’t go back to who I was, what I was. I have a shot at a creative life. Bobby believes in me and can guide me into a career that I was made for. If I burn that bridge before the paint dries, I suspect it might not just be Meg’s future with the show that’s screwed.
Jack’s foot exerts a gentle pressure on mine, urging me to hit the brakes on my mouth. He leans an elbow on the table to speak softly to Meg.
“You’re jumping to doomsday prophecies.”
Jack is an eternal optimist. Meg’s worries about the scope of this mess feels closer to the mark. If what she says about Bobby possibly having a thing for me has even a grain of truth, I’ll lose his trust for good when he finds out I’ve hooked up with Jack. I’ll be branded a traitor. A traitor to his signals, traitor to Meg and True Time’s public vision for the show and its people, and traitor to the opportunity Bobby Provost, the golden boy showrunner, laid at my feet.
I ignored the voices in my head and fell for Jack. How many times do I have to get kicked in the teeth before I accept that hush-hush relationships are toxic? I took my first steps down a pretty path of independence, and then let a blinding burst of desire derail me. I’m repeating the same god-damned pattern. Treat kept us behind a curtain, and Jack has no choice but to do the same. If a relationship can’t catch the sunlight, it isn’t capable of shining.
Every doubt simmering in my head and heart about a relationship with Jack erupts. Despite a savage pain to my heart, I’m struck with an urge to run as far and fast as possible.
Meg grabs my hand. “Gillian, I am thinking of you as well. Do you have any concept of the avalanche of hate you’ll find yourself buried under if his fans find out about you? It’s a no-win. You’ve either killed their dreams of being Jack’s great love or come between the budding romance between Niks and him.” She lays her free hand over Jack’s. “Do you wish that on her?”
He looks wretched.
Meg pulls her hands away and drains the rest of her wine before zeroing in on us again. “Do I have your word that this goes no farther?”
Jack runs a finger down the side of his whiskey glass. “There’s playing the game, and playing with people’s lives, Meg.”
I can’t look at either one of them when I pipe up. “I’m sorry I put both of you in this position. I got carried away. It’s all my fault.”
It appears I said the right thing, because a few layers of pissed off and stress slough off Meg. She gives me a percussive nod. “Get your clubs and meet me out front. I think it’s best you ride back to Waterville with me.”
Jack’s voice is low, and a little scary. “There’s no harm in me taking Gilly home.”
I want to tell Jack this is not the time for him to press for getting his way. We’re all upset. Meg is doing her damnedest to steer her PR ship in the right direction. We need to give her this one.
My future on the show feels as fragile robin’s egg in the palm of True Time’s hand. If I’m the one to blow their fantasy about Jack and Niks out of the water, I may find myself back to writing about silk thermal underwear in five pastel options.
I crook my leg around Jack’s under the table. It’s the closest I can get at the moment to taking him in my arms. “I should go with Meg. It’s okay.” She’s trying to protect me, to protect Jack the way she did that first night in Blennerville where we shared a spontaneous kiss in the shadows of a pub.
He squeezes my leg between his knees, our silent agreement we will let Meg have this one.
She lingers to whisper to Jack while I retrieve my clubs and cross under the arch into the main dining room. My fatal error is looking back. The despair I find on his face condenses the flame for him that burns in my heart into a small black stone.
Chapter
Nineteen
This week has been equal parts hope and hell. Hope that I’ll be able to pull off a version of the season finale to validate Bobby’s offer of a more permanent position on The Chieftain’s Son writing staff. Hell being away from Jack.
The ride from Howth to Waterville with Meg was its own special brand of torture. She painted one of her extended scenarios as we drove through several counties, illustrating every ugly ripple a fling between Jack and me would cause. Every time she said “fling,” I bit my lip to keep from insisting we were so much more than that.
The angry tears at her intrusion into my private life came first, followed by a well of frustration as I painfully came to grips with Meg’s outside-looking-in perspective. To her, Jack and I had temporary written all over us. I wasn’t about to share real details of our relationship to set her straight. What good would it do? The outcome of Jack and I going public would have the same negative effects, no matter our truth.
Guilt gnawed a hole in my gut as Meg continued to pepper me with how blowback from our pairing would also ruin her best laid PR blueprint to cash in on Jack’s popularity. The Chieftain’s Son is her first gig as a major player. I’d learned from my parents’ experiences that studio executives can be unforgiving masters when plans go off the rails. True Time Network’s potential displeasure at Jack, Meg, and the show could escalate ripples into damaging waves.
Even though it’s unfair, our situation is bigger than Jack and me. A sadness as dark and thick as the Irish country night seeped into my heart. The selfish, defiant side of me wanted to take Jack’s fuck all attitude and see where we could take this relationship. The truth I know Jack and I share at a gut level is that neither of us want fallout from our actions to hurt any of the people who make up The Chieftain’s Son family. He tried to brush off the obstacles, but I can’t allow our being together to negatively affect his career. That’s not something I could live with.
To Meg’s credit, she warned rather than scolded. Her intention was to help, and there was compassion in her arguments. I began to understand a bigger picture than the one Jack and I chose to acknowledge. When she finally said, “I’m going to be the one to say what neither you nor Jack want to hear. It’s going to hurt you some now to step away, but waiting until you’re any further down the lane will cut you to pieces,” I felt her metaphorical blade.
The first few interviews before the show premiered are banal. It’s all chit chat about the upcoming season. Niks and Jack come off like buddies heading off on an adventure, but nothing more. I’m not sure when the tone shifts, but it does. An intimacy of knowledge springs up between them.
One interview in particular uses the format of a contest for the two Chieftain’s Son stars to answer personal questions about the other. It’s exquisite torture to watch. I know in my bones this happened after their initial flirtation. There’s a bond between them surrounding a secret.
The question about Jack’s middle name makes my stomach flip. I don’t even know his middle name.
On camera, Niks grins before she answers, giving Jack a poke in the ribs. “Dawson. Jack Dawson O’Leary. His mom had a sweet, little Titanic obsession.”
Jack turns as red as the lobster on the Lobster Lee’s sign. “Not correct. That movie came into the world long after I did.”
Niks scoots closer, gazing into his eyes. “Jack and Rose have nothing on Donal Cam and Nieve’s love story, do they?”
So much for desensitizing. Now, I’m just plain pissed off. Early or not, I head for Lobster Lee’s.
It’s easy to score a table in the narrow side room through an arch off the main dining area. The row of cramped booths designed to accommodate overflow are empty, plus there’s a convenient corner to stash my clubs.
“You look like you could use a hot whiskey there,” says my waiter.
I shouldn’t start drinking until Jack shows up. We’ve got important ground to cover, and I need to be clearheaded. The lure of whiskey, sugar, and lemon wins out. As I take the first sip, my phone buzzes.
Fifteen minutes out. Order up.
I order matching bowls of chowder and a Jameson neat for Jack. A thrill races up my body. Fifteen minutes until I feel those big warm hands on mine and lose myself in eyes as blue as the Irish Sea on a sunny day.
A thump on my table makes me look up with a start. “Well, look who busted out of Waterville.” Meg slides into the seat opposite me.
Oh, shit.
She’s working on a very full glass of red wine. Not her first of the evening, I’m guessing.
“Hey, Meg. This is a surprise.”
She waves me off. “I just finished interviewing a new assistant.”
New assistant? I never noticed an old assistant. I assumed Meg was a one-woman PR machine. “Promising?”
She raises her glass to me. “Very. True Time is always trying to ship one of their people out here, but I prefer to run my own show with my own team.”
I think of the splash The Chieftain’s Son has already made on the entertainment scene. I raise my whiskey in return. “So far, so good.” We drink. “What happened to the old assistant?” The thought of leaving a show destined for greatness doesn’t make sense to me.
Meg shrugs. “We didn’t mesh. I can be a bit of a task master.” She tries to laugh it off, but I can see there’s a sting there. She points to my clubs in the corner. “I heard after the fact you played in the charity tournament today at Portmarnock. I would have arranged some pictures. We like to toot The Chieftain’s Son family’s philanthropic horn whenever possible.”
My throat tightens. God, what if Jack and I had been together, walking the course? Meg would flip if those pictures got out. I take a calming breath. I’m freaking out over nothing. So what if Jack and the writing assistant were golfing together in a charity tournament? No scandal there.
“You got yourself up to Howth. It’s lovely, eh?”
“It was recommended, so I thought I’d take a peek before I head back to Waterville.”
“It’s fine luck I’ve run into you. Bobby and I started hatching an idea. He thinks very highly of you, you know.”
I search for a casual position, but I feel myself squirming like a preschooler who needs a bathroom break. “That’s nice to hear.”
“We’d like to start a companion podcast to the show. It’ll be a touchpoint for fans between seasons. The plan is to throw in a bit of the history, behind the scenes business, and of course, guests, cast, writers, design team, and the like.” She polishes off half her glass of wine in a long slow draw.
“Sounds interesting.”
She sets the glass on the table a little too firmly and a splash of wine escapes. “Maureen’s salivating to take point, and she asked for you to work with her. What do you think about giving it a go?”
“A go?”
Meg leans on one elbow and points at me with her free hand. “Be Maureen’s right hand. Help her shape the identity of the podcast.”
I’ve started glancing over her shoulder, expecting Jack to show any second. What will I say? Acting surprised may be my only option. Meg’s offer takes a moment to sink in. I gape at her. “What, me?”
She laughs. “Have you not figured out that Bobby’s got a mind to make you more than a single season fixture on the show?” Leaning in closer, she whispers conspiratorially. “If you ask me, I think there may be a bit of an interest there as well. You know what they say about men falling for women who nurse their wounds.”
“I don’t think that theory holds water if the nurse is the one who inflicted the wound.” An image of concussed Bobby under quilts in my bed flashes through my mind. His subtle excuses to touch me, dinner invitations, hints at a future with the show—all those things I wish I hadn’t noticed start to add up.
I take a gulp of hot whiskey. “Your offer is flattering.”
Meg leans back. “It’ll be work, but True Time is keen on the idea. We wouldn’t launch until after season one is put to bed.” She pats my hand. “Mull it over. We’re doing the same. It’s all in the planning stage. Can’t spread key people too thin.”
“I get the impression from Bobby that there won’t be much down time between season one and two, especially for the writers.”
Her head bobs. “True. We might need a whole different team, but core folks would give the podcast a tidy verisimilitude.” Meg flicks her wrist, tabling the issue. “We’ll bat it around back at The Clan.”
Good, it sounds like she’s winding down. I’ve got to get out of here before Jack shows up. I’ll lurk out in front and catch him before he gets inside. “I’d love to be in on the discussion.” I throw back the rest of my hot whiskey as if fortifying myself for a duel. It burns something fierce down my throat all the way to my chest. Liquid scorch rather than liquid courage. What I’d give for an icy diet Dr. Pepper chaser. “Well, I think it’s about time I head out.”
She glances at the clubs and gives me an odd look. “How are you getting back to Waterville?”
Double shit. Jack is my ride. Do I tell her the train? Or a taxi? Uber? What is the least ridiculous answer? Before I blather something, bad goes to worse. The waiter sidles over to set two bowls of steaming seafood chowder in front of us.
“I’ll be back in a pop with your Jameson, love.”
One of Meg’s eyebrows disappears under her bangs. “Didn’t realize you weren’t here solo.”
To my horror, Meg turns to scan the restaurant for my invisible companion just as Jack steps through the arch. His eyes sparkle like candlelight on crystal when they find me. He breaks into the sort of smile that fails to mask his pleasure. A split second too late, he registers Meg.
Fury ripples across her face. She shoots to her feet. In one quick swipe, she thrusts Jack into the booth so his back is to the main room. I’m tempted to crawl under the table and cover my head the way I learned in the California earthquake drills we practiced in school.
Meg pounces onto the seat next to Jack. “What in the holy hell is this?”
God bless him, Jack recovers in a flash. “I asked Gillian up here as a thank you for playing in the charity tournament.”
Meg’s lips twist. “Come on, Jack. Where’s your head at meeting her alone in public after the cock up with the woman in Sneem?” As she glares at him, realization dawns. Her head whips between us. An accusing finger comes at me like a sword. “You are the woman from Sneem.”
Blood stops flowing through my body. I don’t dare look at Jack. Do I deny it? Do I let him deny it? My mouth opens and closes.
Megs drops her head in her hands.
Jack breaks the silence. “Yes, Gilly and I were together in Sneem.” He reaches across the table as if to take my hands.
I sit back, attempting to casually move out of his reach. We tread dangerous ground here. One of us has to be sensible. “Jack offered to give me a tour of the Ring of Kerry, and I took him up on it. A day of sightseeing, that’s all.”
Meg’s eyes narrow to slits. “Gilly, is it?”
Oh, crap.
Jack waves her off. “Where’s the harm in helping a friend know a bit more about the land she’ll be writing about?”
“The same harm we dealt with when you got caught taking Niks on that private tour of New York during the press junket.”
Private tour of New York? Unwelcome imaginings of Jack walking hand in hand with Niks through snow-covered Central Park invade my brain.
“Photos, explanations, disclaimers, speculation.” Meg presses fingers to her eyelids. “I know your heart is in the right place, Jack, but it isn’t your responsibility to play big brother to every female who joins the team.”
I like the sound of “big brother,” especially in regards to Jack and Niks. It adds an unlooked-for corroboration to his denial of any romantic feelings between The Chieftain’s Son stars. Still, there is some mystery between the two that I wish he’d just come clean about. I’m trying hard not to let the slobbering green-eyed monster dig its fangs into me, but a dangling secret poses a real challenge to keep the beast at bay.
Meg’s voice is a dagger of ice as her hard expression targets Jack and then pans over to me. “Both of you, listen very carefully. I can’t shake the feeling this meet up is a little too cozy. Whatever you are not telling me”—Jack tries to speak, but Meg slashes the air with a long, deadly looking French-tipped fingernail—“puts us all on dangerous footing with True Time.”
Jack presses his leg against mine. My eyes are glued to a soup spoon.
Meg taps her finger hard on the tabletop in front of Jack. “They insist on orchestrating your image, Jack.” She searches the restaurant, undoubtedly on the hunt for raised cell phone cameras. “I’m afraid the best way to diffuse mystery girl rumors is to escalate the buzz over an off-screen relationship with Niks.”
He attempts to break in again. “I don’t think—”
Meg cuts him off. “Getting caught with anyone but Niks”—Meg jerks her chin at me—“could sabotage our entire media strategy.” She lets out a gust of air that ruffles her bangs. “We are only three aired episodes in. The momentum on popularity for both you and the show, Jack, has meteoric potential. Deidre LaRochelle’s books hold scores of hearts and groins in the palm of their hands. We will cash in on that.” She pounds a fist on the table.
Jack’s voice is preternaturally calm. “I feel this conversation is turning into a manifesto.”
“Gillian isn’t blind to the effect of Donal Cam and Nieve’s story on women.” Meg’s eyes beseech me to agree. “Are you willing to dilute that lure by killing Jack’s mystique?”
“I’d never—” My eyes shift to Jack. He gives a curt shake of the head for me not to finish my sentence, but I can’t stop. “Compromise Jack’s image.”
Meg huffs. “Bless me with simple victories.” Her expression shifts from steel to a softer metal. “Please understand the position this puts me in with True Time. If I can’t sell Jack as unattached, then the next best move is to offer up Niks and him as the real deal. I fail to pull that off and my association with The Chieftain’s Son will be as short-lived as an Irish heat wave.”
I bite my lip to keep from bursting into tears. Sticking with this show is the future I didn’t see coming until it fell into my lap. I can’t go back to who I was, what I was. I have a shot at a creative life. Bobby believes in me and can guide me into a career that I was made for. If I burn that bridge before the paint dries, I suspect it might not just be Meg’s future with the show that’s screwed.
Jack’s foot exerts a gentle pressure on mine, urging me to hit the brakes on my mouth. He leans an elbow on the table to speak softly to Meg.
“You’re jumping to doomsday prophecies.”
Jack is an eternal optimist. Meg’s worries about the scope of this mess feels closer to the mark. If what she says about Bobby possibly having a thing for me has even a grain of truth, I’ll lose his trust for good when he finds out I’ve hooked up with Jack. I’ll be branded a traitor. A traitor to his signals, traitor to Meg and True Time’s public vision for the show and its people, and traitor to the opportunity Bobby Provost, the golden boy showrunner, laid at my feet.
I ignored the voices in my head and fell for Jack. How many times do I have to get kicked in the teeth before I accept that hush-hush relationships are toxic? I took my first steps down a pretty path of independence, and then let a blinding burst of desire derail me. I’m repeating the same god-damned pattern. Treat kept us behind a curtain, and Jack has no choice but to do the same. If a relationship can’t catch the sunlight, it isn’t capable of shining.
Every doubt simmering in my head and heart about a relationship with Jack erupts. Despite a savage pain to my heart, I’m struck with an urge to run as far and fast as possible.
Meg grabs my hand. “Gillian, I am thinking of you as well. Do you have any concept of the avalanche of hate you’ll find yourself buried under if his fans find out about you? It’s a no-win. You’ve either killed their dreams of being Jack’s great love or come between the budding romance between Niks and him.” She lays her free hand over Jack’s. “Do you wish that on her?”
He looks wretched.
Meg pulls her hands away and drains the rest of her wine before zeroing in on us again. “Do I have your word that this goes no farther?”
Jack runs a finger down the side of his whiskey glass. “There’s playing the game, and playing with people’s lives, Meg.”
I can’t look at either one of them when I pipe up. “I’m sorry I put both of you in this position. I got carried away. It’s all my fault.”
It appears I said the right thing, because a few layers of pissed off and stress slough off Meg. She gives me a percussive nod. “Get your clubs and meet me out front. I think it’s best you ride back to Waterville with me.”
Jack’s voice is low, and a little scary. “There’s no harm in me taking Gilly home.”
I want to tell Jack this is not the time for him to press for getting his way. We’re all upset. Meg is doing her damnedest to steer her PR ship in the right direction. We need to give her this one.
My future on the show feels as fragile robin’s egg in the palm of True Time’s hand. If I’m the one to blow their fantasy about Jack and Niks out of the water, I may find myself back to writing about silk thermal underwear in five pastel options.
I crook my leg around Jack’s under the table. It’s the closest I can get at the moment to taking him in my arms. “I should go with Meg. It’s okay.” She’s trying to protect me, to protect Jack the way she did that first night in Blennerville where we shared a spontaneous kiss in the shadows of a pub.
He squeezes my leg between his knees, our silent agreement we will let Meg have this one.
She lingers to whisper to Jack while I retrieve my clubs and cross under the arch into the main dining room. My fatal error is looking back. The despair I find on his face condenses the flame for him that burns in my heart into a small black stone.
Chapter
Nineteen
This week has been equal parts hope and hell. Hope that I’ll be able to pull off a version of the season finale to validate Bobby’s offer of a more permanent position on The Chieftain’s Son writing staff. Hell being away from Jack.
The ride from Howth to Waterville with Meg was its own special brand of torture. She painted one of her extended scenarios as we drove through several counties, illustrating every ugly ripple a fling between Jack and me would cause. Every time she said “fling,” I bit my lip to keep from insisting we were so much more than that.
The angry tears at her intrusion into my private life came first, followed by a well of frustration as I painfully came to grips with Meg’s outside-looking-in perspective. To her, Jack and I had temporary written all over us. I wasn’t about to share real details of our relationship to set her straight. What good would it do? The outcome of Jack and I going public would have the same negative effects, no matter our truth.
Guilt gnawed a hole in my gut as Meg continued to pepper me with how blowback from our pairing would also ruin her best laid PR blueprint to cash in on Jack’s popularity. The Chieftain’s Son is her first gig as a major player. I’d learned from my parents’ experiences that studio executives can be unforgiving masters when plans go off the rails. True Time Network’s potential displeasure at Jack, Meg, and the show could escalate ripples into damaging waves.
Even though it’s unfair, our situation is bigger than Jack and me. A sadness as dark and thick as the Irish country night seeped into my heart. The selfish, defiant side of me wanted to take Jack’s fuck all attitude and see where we could take this relationship. The truth I know Jack and I share at a gut level is that neither of us want fallout from our actions to hurt any of the people who make up The Chieftain’s Son family. He tried to brush off the obstacles, but I can’t allow our being together to negatively affect his career. That’s not something I could live with.
To Meg’s credit, she warned rather than scolded. Her intention was to help, and there was compassion in her arguments. I began to understand a bigger picture than the one Jack and I chose to acknowledge. When she finally said, “I’m going to be the one to say what neither you nor Jack want to hear. It’s going to hurt you some now to step away, but waiting until you’re any further down the lane will cut you to pieces,” I felt her metaphorical blade.
