Page 15 of For You, Sir

“That’s a nice thought, Jun.” I rested my chin in my hands, tapping my pinkie against the corner of my mouth and staring out the window. He didn’t understand. How could he? Jun had wisely chosen a career path of dignity and helping others. I’d chosen a path that exposed me to ceaseless judgment and shame. The critics had beaten me down, and I would not rise again.

“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “It’s too late, anyway.” I slid out of my chair. “I’m gonna go lie down for a while.”

Jun watched me go with a look of pity in his eyes. “Rest well, Sir.”

Chapter 7 (Jun)

I watched Sir shuffle back to the couch with a painful twinge of empathy. I couldn’t relate to his artistic aspirations, but I certainly understood the frustration of being tangled up in a situation beyond one’s control. Sir couldn’t turn the tide of public opinion or un-leak his screenplay, just like I was helpless in the face of my mother’s cancer, and my brother’s deadly alcoholism. All pain, no solutions.

At least as a butler, my small-scale world allowed me to stay in control of everything. Managing a household was like being the ruler of a tiny kingdom. I could put everything in its place and make it stay there, and know I was improving the situation. But the world outside was unregulated chaos, and I could see why Sir was afraid to leave the house.

Hopefully Sir would feel more confident when he got back on his medications. I kept moving his refilled prescription bottles to places he couldn’t miss them—his bathroom counter, the coffee table—but he never took them. I thought they might do him good, but was afraid to push the issue.

My phone rang with an incoming call, and the screen readDavies & Horne—my work. I stepped out onto the back porch. “This is Jun.”

“Hey. It’s Deborah.” The contract manager’s voice was brusque, like she had somewhere important to be. “Just checking how the new contract is going.”

“Going well,” I said, nodding to no one. “I think I’m making a difference here.”

“Glad to hear it.” Deborah exhaled. She sounded a little out-of-breath over the phone, as if power-walking to another appointment. I could hear road noise in the background on her end. “Tell me more.”

Guilt settled in my stomach like a stone. Perhaps I had overstated Sir’s progress. It had only been a week.

I headed farther into the weed-filled backyard and lowered my voice. I felt like a snitch reporting on Sir, but it was for his benefit. “When I first arrived, Eriksen was very withdrawn and rarely left the couch. But I’ve got him showering and dressing again. He had lunch with me today and talked about his work a little.”

“He talked about work? Really? The studio will beverypleased to hear that. Is he writing again?”

“No, not yet.” I twisted my mouth to one side. “I mean… When we talked about his work, he was telling me why he doesn’t want to do it anymore.”

“Oh. I see.” She sounded unimpressed.

“But that’s still progress,” I said, trying not to sound defensive. “He needs to identify his obstacles before he can address them.”I’m a butler, not a miracle-worker.

“Well, keep working on him. He must trust you; he won’t even talk to his agent, let alone the studio. See what you can do to get him to open up.”

“I’ll do my best.” I stared out over the yard where the only survivors were drought-tolerant plants like aloe and lantana, hardy enough to survive L.A.’s heat despite months of neglect.

“How does the billing for this contract work, anyway?” I asked. It was unusual to be paid by a third party instead of the client himself.

“The studio is fronting all expenses, but they’ll ultimately be subrogated back to Eriksen. He signed off on it.”

Oh. That seemed needlessly complicated. “If the client is paying, why go through the studio at all?”

“Mr. Eriksen owes a hefty penalty for non-delivery of a contract. To the tune of half a million dollars.”

“Jesus!”

“Quite the slap on the wrist,” Deborah agreed. “Rather than taking him to court for the full amount, your salary and expenses are being paid from that pool. If Mr. Eriksen gets back on track, he’ll only owe for the Davies & Horne charges and save himself a fortune.”

In short, Sir could either enjoy a butler’s services and finish writing the script, or get taken to court for an exorbitant sum. Sir would have to be crazy not to take such a generous offer.

“While the studio is paying, they have leverage,” Deborah said. “If Eriksen doesn’t cooperate, they can discontinue your contract and take him to court for the full amount.”

“How long?” I asked.

“Hm?”

“How long until the studio gives up on him?” I couldn’t fail a second client, not after losing Mrs. Olsen.

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