Chapter Two
Even though I don’t devour Hollywood news like a sycophant starlet, I still know who Jonathan Silver is. He’s the head of Ravenswood Films, the movie studio that’s been churning out a crazy-long streak of award-winning films.
“Why does Jonathan Silver want to work with you?” Lucy demands. “And what in the world does he mean by, ‘ready to buy love?’ Are you a madame in disguise?” She sneers the last question in such a way as to suggest that’s the only way someone like Jonathan would choose to work with me.
No one in the office, except for Sky, knows about my talent for matching people to the house that will lead them to true love. It’s not something I advertise and my whole client base comes from word of mouth. One happy customer tells a friend, who tells her sister, and so on. Which leads me to believe that somebody in my Rolodex must know Jonathan Silver.
I smile at Lucy as sincerely as I can before answering, “I have no idea what he meant. I guess I should give him a call and find out.”
The throng around my desk eventually begins to disperse when they realize I’m not going to do that in front of them. The only person who doesn’t leave is my boss, Frederic. The smile on his face radiates nothing short of greed. I assume he’s salivating over the commission we’ll get from whatever house Jonathan buys.
He confirms my suspicions when he says, “Don’t sell him anything under twenty mil. I have four listings right now that you can choose from.”
“Frederic, Jonathan will make up his own mind about which house he wants. I’ll offer to show him your properties, but I can’t guarantee he’ll go for any of them.”
My boss shakes his bald head at me. Frederic looks like a villain from a Masterpiece Theatre show that takes place in Victorian London. He’s short, bald, has a pencil-thin mustache he actually waxes, and his eyes are too close together. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he had a rap sheet a mile long for offenses that include, but aren’t limited to, tying women to train tracks.
“I’m not kidding, Emily. I want you to sell him one of my listings.”
“I’m not kidding either, Frederic. I’ll do my best, but I make no promises.” My boss tolerates my non-deferential attitude, which is good because there’s no way I could fawn all over him like the other girls do. Chris Hemsworth, he’s not.
After Frederic stomps away, Sky scurries over and mouths, “OMG!” Then she leans in and whispers, “Let’s get out of here so we can talk.”
Skylar and I have been friends since the night we met at a broker party in Bel Air. I was the only female broker with brown hair in a sea of platinum blondes. I’d already had three people give me their drink orders, which alerted me to the fact that I should never wear black pants and a white shirt to a party again.
We first chatted when I found her standing outside by the edge of the property, which happened to be a perilous precipice that looked kind of dangerous. I hurried over and asked if she was okay. She responded by ordering another gimlet. I figured she needed it, so I got it for her. It wasn’t until I delivered it that I told her I wasn’t a waitress.
She felt horrible about the mix-up and burst into tears. She confided that her very recent ex, one Howard VanNagle, had shown up at the party with another realtor from her office. If you guessed Lucy, you would be correct.
I promised Skylar that Lucy was a cheap knockoff version of her—though they look eerily similar—and that any man who couldn’t see that wasn’t worth her tears. We had lunch the next day and have been fast friends ever since.
In my peripheral vision, I see Lucy’s sidekick Crenshaw practically throw a file in our direction before dropping to her knees and starting to crawl toward us. As far as eavesdropping moves go, it lacks finesse.
“Let’s go to my house,” I tell Sky. “The walls don’t have ears there.” I add the last bit for Lucy and Crenshaw’s benefit. Lucy is trying so hard to overhear our conversation she looks like she’s in jeopardy of falling right off her Manolos and, as I’ve mentioned, Crenshaw is on the floor slithering toward us.
I own a townhouse on Burton Way in Beverly Hills. It’s a cute neighborhood close to a bunch of restaurants and shops that don’t overly interest me. The reason I wound up there was because my old piano teacher used to live there. I fell in love with the place when I was a kid.
My mom drove us all the way from Sierra Madre to Beverly Hills because my sister was something of a virtuoso and Madam Jeanette was the best teacher in a hundred-mile radius. I was not particularly good, but Mom assured me I’d find my God-given talent someday. In the meantime, she figured as long as we’d made the commute, I might as well take a lesson.
My house isn’t big, which suits me fine. I live there alone with my Persian rescue cat, George, and it’s the perfect size for us. My neighborhood is predominantly filled with families, which also suits me because it makes for a quieter living experience.
So far, my gift for finding love hasn’t worked on myself. I’ve never walked into a property and thought, “Emily, this is your love shack.” But when I saw my old piano teacher’s house was on the market, I instinctively knew that I’d eventually meet the person who needed to live there so I went ahead and bought it.
Sky follows me the short distance to my place. We’re sitting at a red light on Sunset when a silver Porsche 911 with racing stripes pulls up next to her. I watch in the rearview mirror as the driver motions for her to roll down her window. When she does, he throws a business card through it. Classy.
Stuff like that happens to my friend all the time. She once had a pilot leave the cockpit on a flight to Vegas to ask her out for a drink. Sky is always gracious when she’s being hit on, but she rarely accepts such invitations. For as much as she looks like a femme fatale, she’s pretty shy.
We manage to find two parking spots within a block of my front door and after we get out of our cars, I tease her, “Who’s the hottie in the Porsche?” She pulls out his business card and hands it to me. “No way! Jonathan Silver? No wonder he’s calling me to help him find love. His game is totally off.”
“He’s probably booked his last dozen dates with that drive-by maneuver. I’m sure tons of women go out with him for the car alone.”
“That may be the case, but if he’s claiming to be looking for true love, I don’t think that’s the way he’s going to find it,” I tell her.
As I walk through my front door, George jumps off the top of the bookshelves and lands on my shoulder. It’s a maneuver he’s recently perfected and he’s very proud of himself. I stop and praise him before heading to the kitchen. “White wine or martini?” I ask.
“Martini.” Skylar kicks off her shoes and plops down on the couch, releasing a groan of sheer relief. “Who do you think gave Jonathan Silver your name?”
“It could be anyone. You know how this town works.”
She laughs, “The three degrees of Aidan Turner?” It used to be the six degrees of Kevin Bacon, but last year we had an epiphany. The Kevin Bacon game was designed for everyday people who lived anywhere on the planet, from Iowa and Iceland. In Hollywood, there are bigger fish, and they are a lot closer by, so we reduced the degrees and picked someone closer to our age of thirty-two.
“Maybe Aidan Turner recommended you,” my friend suggests.
“Who did he get my name from?”
“Maybe his and Jonathan’s maids are sisters, and they got your name from their bum-hole bleacher,” she teases. This town goes to such ridiculous extremes to achieve their idea of perfection, it boggles the mind. Just the thought causes a full body shudder to overtake me.
“There’s only one way to find out.” I pull a bottle of Grey Goose out of the freezer and pour it into two martini glasses. I add the barest whisper of dry vermouth to each before garnishing them with blue cheese-stuffed olives. Handing one to my friend, I announce, “I’m going to call him.”
I pick up the business card he gave to her and punch his number into my phone before putting it on speaker.
“Yes,” he answers practically before the phone rings.
“I’m calling to thank you for the flowers.” I don’t tell him my name. It’s not that I’m trying to make him uncomfortable; I just wonder how many women he’s given flowers to today.
“Ah, Emily Hargrove. Thank you for calling.”
Huh, so just me. One point for Jonathan Silver. “Who recommended me, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“A friend of a friend,” he answers evasively.
“I take it from the card on the flowers you’re looking to settle down?” I ask.
“I am. This town and this industry don’t seem conducive to stable relationships. I don’t want to fall into the same trap everyone else does.”
“What trap is that?” I ask. There are so many.
“The one where I have to date cosmetically enhanced, insanely successful, and filthy rich women. So far that combination hasn’t worked for me.”
I can’t help it; I have to chastise him. “Throwing your business card into a passing car isn’t normally what lasting relationships are built on.”
“I’m sorry, is that a thing?” He sounds genuinely confused.
“My friend was just driving down Sunset and that happened to her.” Surely he’ll know he’s been caught now.
“What loser did something like that?”
What’s he playing at? “According to his business card, the loser’s name was Jonathan Silver,” I tell him plainly. I can’t stomach liars. Even if I could sell this guy a twenty-million-dollar house, I’m not sure I want his business.
“I’m going to turn on my video, okay?” Jonathan asks.
“Oooookay,” I tell him nervously. The last stranger who did that showed me his package, unclothed. I told him I was clearly not the realtor for him.
The image that pops up on my phone is thankfully not a dick pic. It’s pointing at a street sign that says Albemarle Street, and it’s dark wherever that is. “Where is he?” I mouth to Skylar. She shrugs her shoulders, so I ask Jonathan, “Where’s Albemarle Street?”
“London,” he answers. “You don’t happen to know what kind of car the man was driving, do you?”
“Silver nine-eleven with racing stripes,” I tell him.
“Ah, then that would have been my brother Steven. Please tell your friend I’d be happy to give her his number if she’s interested.”
Skylar shakes her head. “Not necessary,” I tell him. “When are you going to be in town so we can start looking for your house?”
“I’m back tomorrow night. I could meet you Friday afternoon. Just name the place.”
Sandrine’s friend didn’t take my two o’clock opening on Friday and I’ve been craving the french fries at The Farm something fierce, so I schedule Jonathan at that time. “Great, I’ll see you then,” he says.
“Don’t you want to know what I look like?” I ask.
“I already Googled you. I’m looking for Sandra Bullock circa late nineties.”
Well, that’s high praise. I don’t think I’ve ever been compared to her before. “Okay, Jonathan. I look forward to meeting you on Friday.”
“Me too.” He hangs up.
“Sandra Bullock?” Skylar asks. “I think we’d better Google a picture of Mr. Silver and see who we’re dealing with.” While most people have heard the name Jonathan Silver, he doesn’t garner George Clooney coverage from the media. Hence, I have no idea what he looks like and my curiosity is definitely piqued.