her bag—a wrist-strap clutch in a blue as bold as her streaks—and walked to the main house.
She needed to get her license, she thought. She’d driven in Ireland. Of course, now she had to learn to drive on the other side of the road, and in crazy traffic, but she needed to get her license.
And a car of her own. Not some boring old sedan. A fun, zippy convertible. She had money banked, and when—if, if, she reminded herself—she signed, she’d have more.
She’d suck up the bodyguard again, and Monika was okay, but she needed a car, some freedom.
But for now, it was probably better to have Jasper handle the traffic.
He gave her a smile, white and bright against his dark, lined face, as he opened the door to the shiny (boring) town car.
“All ready for you, Ms. Sullivan.”
“How do I look?”
“A treat.”
Good enough, she thought, and slipped into the back seat.
Still, she checked her face, added fresh lip gloss as he drove. Just a get-to-know-you sort of meeting, she reminded herself. And her agent would be there.
Plus, they wanted her for the part, and that took some of the pressure off. Even if this time she’d play the central character, it was still an ensemble movie.
When Jasper pulled over, she checked the time. Not early—embarrassing. Not late—unprofessional. “I’m going to be at least an hour, Jasper. More likely closer to two. So I’ll text you when we’re wrapping up.”
“I’ll be close by,” he told her as he opened her door.
“Wish me luck.”
“You know I do.”
The spring to her step might not have hit sophisticated, but what the hell. Showing excitement, she thought as she passed through the archway into the garden bistro, was real and honest.
She wanted to build her career on both. And that’s just what she was doing now. Building her career.
She walked to the hostess podium. “I’m here to meet Steven McCoy for lunch.”
“Of course. Mr. McCoy is already here. Please follow me.”
She moved through the flowers and greenery, through the subtle sound of water spilling into little pools, through tables covered with peach-colored cloths where people sipped sparkling drinks or studied parchment menus.
She felt eyes on her, pushed down, strongly down, nerves that wanted to bubble up. Part of the price, she remembered. Pay it or look for another line of work.
She recognized McCoy and, since she’d done an internet search, Jennifer Grogan, the writer. They sat beside each other at the four-top. So, she understood, they would face her and her agent.
McCoy stood when he spotted her. He hadn’t yet hit forty, had a scraggly mop of wiry hair he covered with a Dodgers cap when he worked. Grogan peered at Cate through the square lenses of serious black-framed glasses.
“Caitlyn.” He gave her a Hollywood peck on the cheek. “It’s great to see you in person. Jenny, meet our Olive.”
“I know your step-grandmother.”
“She told me. She said she likes that you write women of layers and substance.”
“Somebody’s got to.”
“Have a seat, Cate.” McCoy pulled out her chair himself. “We’ve got a bottle of San Pellegrino going, but you can take a look at the water menu.”
“No, that’s perfect, thanks.” She set her purse in her lap, waited until the server filled her glass.
“We’re waiting for one more, but let’s have some squash blossoms for the table. They’re amazing,” McCoy told Cate. “Stuffed with goat cheese.”
“Save me from vegetarians,” Jenny said. “At least bring some bread.”
“Right away.”
She gave Cate a sour look. “Or are you a tofu eater, too?”
“Not if I know about it first. I want to thank you, Mr. McCoy—”
“Steve.”
“I want to thank you both for thinking of me for Olive. She’s a terrific character.”
“You’ll have to work with a voice coach.” Jenny snatched up a tiny sourdough roll the minute the basket hit the table. “The accent—and it can’t be so hick-thick you need a hatchet to cut it—is essential to her character, and part of her conflict and culture shock. It has to be right.”
Cate nodded, took a sip of water. And put Georgia into her voice. “I’d be more than happy to work with a voice coach if I take the part. Her accent, her speech patterns, her vocal rhythms are part of what, initially at least, makes her feel isolated. Or that was my read of her.”
Jenny broke the little roll in two, popped half into her mouth. “Okay, that’s good. Damn it. What am I going to bitch about now?”
“You’ll find something. Here’s Joel.”
“Sorry, got hung up as