Fran sat at the desk in her room, the blank screen of her laptop staring at her accusingly. Why wasn’t she writing? It was Saturday, and even though she was technically on call right now, Chelsea said she would be spending the day with her kids, so Fran had a big chunk of time to devote to her gossip gig. It was the first such chunk since beginning her new job, and her editor Carmina Piranha had emailed a thinly veiled demand that Fran post something soon, not to mention Chelsea had handed her a scoop of astronomic proportions.
Chelsea was queer, and had been in a relationship with a costar. Melbrina was real. It was a huge story. It was exactly why she had taken the job in the first place. So why wasn’t she bashing out a thousand words as quickly as she could?
There was the NDA, for one thing. And as soon as something was published, even if it was done as a blind item, Chelsea would know Fran had a hand in it, and she would be fired. Aside from that, outing someone went against her personal code of ethics. There was not a doubt in her mind that Carmina Piranha would have absolutely no qualms about publishing the story, but just contemplating it made Fran feel almost physically ill. This was a matter of literally listening to her gut. It went against every instinct she had. She couldn’t do that to Chelsea.
So that was out.
All she had to do was sit tight. The longer she worked for Chelsea, the more information she could gather, and the number of potential stories would increase. The only other lead she had right now was Lorraine, the vanished former assistant. If she could find her and get her side of the story, there might be something worth posting there. Was she missing something? What else could she possibly write about?
Chelsea was usually on her guard. Fran guessed her revelation in the car had surprised Chelsea herself, with the way she had clammed right back up. Fran would probably have to wait a very long time for Chelsea to relax her defenses again, and she doubted any stories she wrote that revealed Chelsea as a shallow, grasping, vapid boss would be anything other than fiction. Chelsea was none of those things. She understandably guarded her privacy like the sphinx protecting the pyramids, but she also seemed to be a decent person, a caring mom, and underneath the caution and hesitation, a complete straight shooter with Fran.
No matter what Fran did, her mind kept drifting back to that scooter ride yesterday. It was funny that Chelsea had made that reference to chain mail underpants or whatever, because Fran had felt like a knight in shining armor rescuing her fair damsel as they made their escape from a pack of camera-wielding ogres. And the pleasant shock from Chelsea’s arms stealing around her waist as they sped down Ventura Boulevard had been the highlight pretty much of her entire existence. Okay, that was overdoing it maybe a little, but Fran honestly couldn’t remember the last time she had felt that thrill from being touched, or from the comfort of Chelsea pressed against her shoulder blade. It made her feel like she was bowing before her lady on the tourney ground, asking for her favor.
Yikes. What was wrong with her? She usually only slipped into romance clichés when she was drafting a screenplay, and when that happened she crushed them beneath the merciless boot of revisions. The same thing had to happen now. Any ridiculous thoughts about being Chelsea Cartwright’s champion had to be crushed. If anything, she was the opposite of her champion, secretly working against her interests. Knowing Chelsea as she sort of did now, there was nothing worse that Fran could do than what she was thinking about right now.
She picked up her squishy stress ball and tossed it from hand to hand, and then stood and prowled the open area around the bed. It helped her think.
There was a knock on the door and Trina poked her head in. “Hey. I heard you pacing. Am I interrupting? Are you writing?”
“Trying to. I didn’t know you were here.” Fran opened the door wider and Trina came in and flopped onto Fran’s unmade bed.
“Just got home. Night shoots suck.” She blew away the curls that fell into her eyes. “Screenwriting or gossip writing?”
“Neither at the moment. Hey, thanks again for helping me out with Chelsea yesterday. I hope I didn’t mess up your sleep schedule.”
“Do you think I minded chauffeuring Sabrina Butler around for half an hour? I tell you, I did not. She’s so pleasant. Not anything like my boss. Plus, she paid for my Pollo Loco.”
Fran nodded. Chelsea had bought a ton of food to bring home to her family for later and had invited Fran to eat lunch with her once they had returned to Pacific Palisades. It really had been a sweet gesture. “What did you two talk about?”
“I didn’t get a chance to tell her how awesome she was in Landon’s Way. She mostly asked questions about you.”
“Me?” Fran was surprised.
“And me. And how we met and how long we had been roommates and that kind of thing.”
“What did you tell her about me?”
“Don’t worry, F. Ulysses,” Trina drawled. “Your gossip-writing secret is safe with me.”
Fran felt relief, but was still curious to know what was said.
Trina roused herself. “I’m gonna go crash in my own bed.”
“I’ll be quiet.” She sat back down in her desk chair and glowered at the blank screen again.
Sharing Chelsea’s world and interacting with people Chelsea knew, people in the business, could yield some good stuff for intravenousgossip. Maybe she wouldn’t have to write about Chelsea at all.
And there was another angle to consider. The comfortable number on her paycheck meant Fran could now contemplate not writing gossip since she would be making more as a personal assistant. But that would mean she would have to embrace this job for real. It wasn’t a difficult gig so far, and the administrative tasks were a bit boring but manageable. The gofer-ing was less fun, but her ego could take it. The best part of the job by far was being around Chelsea and getting to know her. Not that Chelsea would ever see her as an equal, but the more time Fran spent with her, the more she liked her.
Fran enjoyed talking about movies in pretty much any capacity, but their conversation about Cool Hand Luke had been a real insight into what Chelsea valued in a role. That movie had been memorable for many reasons, and Fran now thought of its famous hard-boiled-egg-eating scene. Boiled eggs. Even though the job was supposed to be meaningless—a means to an end—there was a part of Fran that wanted to perform it well. Failing in the egg and smoothie department was something that made her feel like she had let Chelsea down.
Fran transferred her laptop to the bed, firing up one of her many streaming services. Any kind of writing was simply not happening right now. Instead she’d get back to her study of Chelsea’s filmography. There were plenty of her movies she hadn’t seen yet, and what better time was there to acquaint herself with more of Chelsea’s work? The appealing idea of getting to stare at Chelsea for a while from the comfort of her bed didn’t factor in at all. At all.