Page 26 of The Publicity Stunt
“Our director, Mr. Markus Brennan, gets here thirty minutes after Mr. Martin.” Then he points toward one of the chalky white trailers to our left. “This is Mr. Martin’s trailer. This is where all your mornings will start.”
“Noted.” Any hopes of using quippy humor to compensate for my jumpiness and stellar punctuality are squashed by Kripke’s heavy sigh.
Walking ahead, he points to another trailer. “This is for all on-set interviews you’ll be scheduling for Mr. Martin. It is your job to do a thorough scan of the trailer and make sure he hasn’t, well …”
My eyebrows rise. “He hasn’t what?”
Kripke rubs his pasty palms together and looks back at me, and even though it seems like a far, far possibility, I decide to ask. “That he hasn’t stashed drugs in there?”
Kripke just shrugs.
“You’re joking!” I cry.
“I don’t joke,” he says and I instantly go quiet.Of course, you don’t.
“Moving on. The next trailer is our—”
“But, like, how does he manage to hide the drugs?” I cut him off. “From what I hear, Tony isn’t the type to be on time. So how does he manage to sneak in and—”
“Bribes,” he finishes. “We have tons of little rats in our crew. Now if you’re done with the hundred questions about Mr. Martin’s affinity for his pills, can we move on to the next stop?”
Look, I’ve had my fair share of problematic clients. There was the Twitter Debacle of 2019, when NDA-protected client A Tweeted that NDA-protected client B had an eating disorder, and I represented both of them.
Then there was the Hymen Horror of 2017, when another client thought it would be okay to tell the world that he takes his daughter to the gynecologist every month to check if her hymen is “still intact.” We cancelled his account the very next day.
But not once have I come across a client so hell bent on getting high that he laces his trailer with drugs. It’s actually kind of impressive. The guy’s dedicated.
“Next is the makeup trailer, and right afterwards we have the pre-shoot rehearsals.” He turns on his heel and folds his slender fingers across his chest. “Any questions?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Miss Moore, I understand that taking such personal care of a client is not part of your job description,” he says, rolling up the sleeve of his blazer and uncovering a Rolex. “But given the secretive nature of the project and Mr. Martin’s, well, wild nature, it’s the only way.”
Leave it to this human equivalent of a rock to call an action movie a “project.”
“Of course,” I say. “Makes my job all the more interesting.” My attempt to loosen him up fails yet again and a motorcycle rumble pierces the tranquil atmosphere.
I wince.
“At least someone decided to show up on time,” Kripke says.
“That’s one of ours?”
“Yes. The stunt double.”
The metal gates creak and Kripke’s eyes dart over my shoulder. I almost turn around too, but right then my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and my screen flashes. Mom.
Ignoring it, I click the red decline icon. When I look back up, believe it or not, Kripke is somewhat smiling at me. I think the phone call was a test. And maybe I passed? Go, April.
“Mr. Martin is running a bit late. But you’re more than welcome to wait in his trailer in the meantime,” Kripke says.
“Sure.” I smile back and he promptly walks off in a vague direction, presumably to recharge in his coffin.
I unlock my phone and start skimming through my inbox. Thirteen new emails. Two are promotional emails from Starbucks. Ooh, pumpkin spice is back in stock. And the rest are from Zawe. A detailed itinerary for Tony’s PR campaign. The LA premiere this weekend, five small interviews, aGQshoot …
“April?”
My heart jumps to my throat. What the fuck? With a deep frown, I look up, half-expecting that I’ve fully gone crazy, that my mind is playing tricks on me. But unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be the case. Because as soon as I look up, every ounce of blood drains from my face.
