Butterfly (8 page)

She managed to push all thoughts of the enigmatic agent to the farthest recesses of her mind when she recalled her conversation with Phillip Kingston. He was coming back to New York. They would do a photo shoot together, and if Booth was able to ink the deal, then they would appear in a television commercial together.

Butterfly was about to emerge from her cocoon to take flight.

S
eneca harmonized with Alicia Keys singing “Like You’ll Never See Me Again” as the warm spray of water beat down on her head. Booth had asked whether she sang, and her response had been no. But she did sing, only for herself. She’d lost count of the number of shower radios she’d gone through over the years. She stopped singing, listening intently, when she heard the distinctive squeak of the bathroom door opening.

“Seneca, my dad has been trying to reach you,” Electra called out. “He called your cell, but it went straight to voice mail. I told him to call your other phone and leave a message.”

It was apparent that William Jacobs wanted to talk to her about the contract. Whenever she charged her cell she always turned it off. “Thanks, Electra. I’ll call him right back.”

Ten minutes later, her body swaddled in a terry-cloth bath robe and her hair under a matching towel, Seneca sat in a club chair in a corner of her bedroom with the cordless receiver
cradled between her chin and shoulder, waiting for Electra’s father to come on the line.

“Good morning, Seneca.”

She smiled. If William Jacobs decided to give up practicing law, he could have a second career doing voice-overs. His sonorous voice was akin to thick velvet. “Good morning, Mr. Jacobs.”

“First of all, congratulations on landing an agent, but before I give you the okay to sign your contract there are a few things I’d like to go over with you.”

Her stomach made a flip-flop motion. It was apparent the attorney felt the contract was doable. “What are they?” she asked tentatively.

“What I want to ask is if you’re willing to give up twenty-five percent of your earnings?”

It was as if the attorney had read her mind. “No. I’d prefer the prevailing fifteen percent, but if Booth Gordon balks at that figure then I’m willing to top out at twenty.”

“Good girl,” William crooned. “Let me play the numbers game with him. I’ll throw out eighteen, but if he’s not willing to accept that then we’ll cap it at twenty. There’s another thing you should know.”

“What is that?” Seneca asked slowly.

“I had my investigator look up BG Management’s corporate structure, and the public relations firm is under the umbrella of BGM. It’s Booth Gordon’s way of milking you for an additional five percent.”

Seneca took in a deep breath. No wonder people referred to him as a barracuda. “What about the makeup person and hairstylist?”

“You don’t need them, Seneca. Most designers have their own team that will include makeup personnel and stylists. Again, it’s Gordon siphoning another five percent off the top.
You’d make out much better if you have your own stylist and makeup person.”

A shadow of annoyance crossed her face, and she wondered how many unsuspecting people had contracted with Booth Gordon to represent them without the assistance of outside legal counsel. “Are you saying I shouldn’t sign with BGM?”

“No, I’m not, Seneca. BGM is one of the leading talent and literary agencies headquartered in New York. It’s just that I want you to be aware of hidden schemes some agencies use. Tell me what you want and I’ll relay it to Gordon.”

Seneca knew Booth was anxious to sign her, and that meant he would be willing to negotiate his fee. In fact, he was so certain she would sign that he’d planned to pair her with Phillip Kingston in a TV commercial. He’d disclosed that General Motors wanted Phillip as a pitchman for their luxury cars, and that meant Booth would reap hundreds of thousands in commissions. Yes, she mused, he wanted her, but was he willing to concede to her demands?

“Tell him I’ll pay him twenty percent and no more. And if he asks about the makeup and stylist, tell him that I’ll get my own.” Securing a stylist and makeup artist would be an easy task; she could always ask her cousin Stefani, who worked in an upscale full-service salon in Harlem. Although a recent beauty-school graduate, Stefani’s styling skills were awesome. Securing a publicist wouldn’t be as easy, so she would let Booth handle the marketing and publicity.

“Good for you, Seneca. Gordon offered to pay for this deal, and I’m going to charge him through the nose. And if you want legal representation in the future, remember I’m always here for you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jacobs.”

“After I hang up with you I’m going to call Gordon. If he agrees, then I’ll have him download a revised contract. Once
I get it I’ll messenger three copies to you. The courier will wait for your signature before he delivers them to BGM for Gordon to countersign. You should have a fully executed contract in your hands by tomorrow.”

Seneca fought hard against the tears pricking the backs of her eyelids. She’d come to the Big Apple as an eighteen-year-old ingenue with dreams of making a name for herself in the theater. However, fate had intervened. Now she was a part-time model on the cusp of breaking into an industry where age and weight weren’t only numbers but a death knell.

“Thank you,” she repeated, the two words coming out in a trembling whisper. Depressing a button, she ended the call. The excitement that had been building for minutes bubbled up and exploded. “Yes!”

Tossing the phone on the bed, Seneca raced out of her bedroom and into the kitchen, where Electra sat at the table thumbing through the newspaper. Her roommate, who’d dyed her light-brown hair an inky black, smiled at her with large hazel eyes framed by a fringe of thick lashes. “Good news?”

Seneca slid onto a chair at the table, unable to control her excitement. “I think so.”

Electra closed the paper. “Well…don’t keep me waiting,” she wailed dramatically.

Seneca told her everything—from meeting Booth Gordon for the first time to her luncheon meeting at La Grenouille. However, she didn’t tell Electra about Phillip Kingston. That would remain her secret—at least for the time being. Once the paparazzi spotted her and Phillip together there was certain to be a feeding frenzy as to who she was and their connection to each other.

Running a hand through her short, spiked hair, Electra shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re going to sign with
BGM. Do you realize they’re referred to as CAA on the Hudson? CAA is Creative Artists Agency,” she continued, as if Seneca didn’t know who she was talking about. After all, they were both film and theater majors. “It’s said they are the leading talent agency, whose clients include Oprah, LeBron James, Will Smith, Spielberg and Brad Pitt. Well, BGM is running a close second.”

Seneca stared at the petite actress waiting for her big break who’d legally changed her name from Elaine Rachel Jacobs to Electra Reece-Jacobs because it had more of a theatrical flair. The first time she saw Electra in an audition for a role with a small theater group she’d been left speechless by her range of talent. Electra could do it all: sing, dance and act.

“Have you considered signing with them?” Seneca asked.

Electra emitted a low, throaty laugh. “Yeah, right,” she drawled. “I couldn’t get past the receptionist. That’s why I signed with an agency with a small client list where I won’t get lost in the huddled masses.”

“You’re going to make it big, roomie.”

Electra rolled her expressive eyes upward. “From your lips to God’s ears, roomie,” she teased, smiling. “I told you the first time I saw you that you were too pretty to work behind the camera, and I’m proud to say I was right. And when you make it big, I’m going to tell everyone that Seneca Houston and I shared an apartment as college students.”

Seneca sobered at the mention of college. She was going to have to withdraw from college, which meant the money her grandmother had put aside for her education would remain frozen in an account that had been set up expressly for that purpose. The executor for Ileana Houston’s estate paid for her books and tuition and fees, and a small stipend for incidentals, leaving Seneca responsible for her room and board.

“You know I’m going to have to drop out.”

“Pul-eease,” Electra drawled, again rolling her eyes. “You’re about to blow up as an international supermodel and you’re bitchin’ about dropping out of college. There are plenty of very successful people on the Forbes list who’ve dropped out of college. Believe me—I’d drop out in a minute even if I landed a role in a B flick.”

Seneca stared at the clock on the microwave. “I thought you were rehearsing with Jayson Brennan for his new play.” Electra and the playwright had dated off and on for more than a year.

Electra exhaled an audible sigh of exasperation. “Jayson doesn’t know his ass from his elbow. He hires a director to direct the play, and then decides at the last minute to rewrite a scene. It’s the same with our relationship. He says he’s in love with me, yet when we start getting close he says he needs his space.”

“It sounds like a fear of commitment—to a woman and his work.”

Electra combed her fingers through her hair in a nervous gesture. “I’m giving him until the end of the summer to get his shit together. After that, I’m done with him and his play. Now I know why you don’t get involved with a man. It’s much too emotionally draining.”

“I can’t afford to get involved with a man,” Seneca countered. “If I’m going to give up my free time, then he’s going to have to be worth it.”

Electra put up her hand for a high-five handshake. “I should take your advice. I know you normally don’t eat breakfast—”

“I eat breakfast,” she insisted, interrupting Electra.

“Fruit with wheat germ and wheat toast.”

“It’s healthy and filling.”

“It’s boring, Seneca. I’m going to Zabar’s. Do you want me to bring you back something?”

Moaning aloud, Seneca shook her head. “Oh, no, you didn’t say
Zabar’s.
” The gourmet grocer was without a doubt the best in the city, if not the world. All of her self-control fled whenever she entered the perpetually crowded store at Broadway and West Eightieth.

“I’m only going there because I’m running out of coffee and cheese,” Electra said.

Seneca stood up and walked over to the cookie jar that held her petty cash stash. She took out a twenty, handing it to Electra. “Smoked salmon on a bagel with scallion cream cheese.”

“Do you want anything else?”

“I don’t need anything else.” The calorie-laden sandwich added up to one-fourth of her daily allowable caloric intake.

“I’ll be back,” Electra intoned in her best Arnold Schwarzenegger imitation.

Seneca returned to her bedroom to get dressed, snippets of the conversation she’d had with William Jacobs coming back to remind her that her future hung in the balance. If Booth Gordon didn’t accept the terms Jacobs presented to him, then she would have to decide whether to give up modeling and resume her full-time student status or continue as she had for the past two years—modeling and attending classes part-time.

Regardless of the outcome, she would know for certain within a matter of hours.

Booth didn’t bother to glance up when his executive assistant, the last employee holdover from his uncle’s tenure, placed a cup of steaming black coffee on the corner of the rosewood desk at nine-ten. The cup sat for a full five minutes before he
picked up the fragile china cup to take a sip. It was the perfect temperature, going down smoothly, the caffeine providing him with the energy he needed to stay alert throughout the morning.

He knew he had to stop sleeping with Krista. Either the woman was a nymphomaniac or she was trying to kill him. At forty he could get and sustain an erection, but he couldn’t go as often as he had in his twenties and thirties. He’d literally thrown Krista out of his condo when she woke him up at three in the morning to complain that she was horny. Instead of banging the hell out of her he’d sent her packing.

His office ritual hadn’t varied since he’d taken over as CEO of BGM. He came in at sunrise, worked out for an hour with his personal trainer at the in-office gym, showered and shaved, then selected what he would wear that day from a collection of tailored suits, custom-made shirts, ties and imported footwear. His office on the top floor of the four-story townhouse off Madison Avenue had become his home away from home.

“What’s on today’s calendar?” He knew he irked the woman because he never addressed her by name. Booth figured if he related to her like a piece of furniture she would get the hint and retire.

Joan Powers didn’t bother to hide her disdain for her late boss’s nephew when she glared at his lowered head. A few times she’d contemplated adding something to his coffee that would either make him sick or have to spend most of the day on the toilet, but then had to remind herself it wasn’t good to harbor impure thoughts. Booth Gordon wasn’t a tyrant—he was a monster.

“You have a meeting with the head of television at ten, and the head of music at eleven.”

“What about lunch?”

“Lunch is open.”

Booth raised his head, meeting the icy gaze of the woman whose loyalty was tied to a dead man. Joan didn’t think he knew that she’d been his uncle’s mistress for nearly forty years. She’d given up her youth and the chance to marry and have children because she’d been in love with a married man—a man who wasn’t willing to leave his independently wealthy wife. He hated Joan and he knew she detested him. Why, he thought, didn’t she just hand in her resignation? He was even willing to offer her a generous severance package just so he wouldn’t have to put up with her cheerless expression.

“Order my usual. I also want you to call my barber.”

“What time do you want him to come, Mr. Gordon?”

Booth lowered his eyes, staring at his manicured nails. His insisting Joan address him as Mr. Gordon was another source of contention for her. She’d called him Booth until he took the helm of the agency, then everything changed for her. She was still executive assistant to the CEO because she knew the functioning of the company in her sleep. In other words, she knew where all the bodies were buried.

His first order of business had been to get Joan Powers and every employee to sign a confidentiality agreement. Every piece of mail, telephone call and what was discussed in meetings had become sacrosanct. Booth knew he ran BGM like a despot, but it was necessary for continued success. Despot or not, he rewarded his employees with liberal salaries and year-end bonuses.