“Eddie.”

The sound had no effect, as if it were the distant sound of caterers setting up lunch. It had no meaning.

“Eddie.”

A vague flicker of familiarity tugged at Edmund’s mind, but not enough to help him connect the sound he was hearing to the idea that it was his name.

“Eddie. Wake up, man.”

Ed bolted upright as a hand shook him awake. He choked and coughed from the sudden change in his breathing and stared into the sunlight, completely disoriented.

“What?” he demanded to know from the cruel person who had dragged him away from the first moments of sleep he’d gotten in three days. He rubbed his eyes and looked up, finally making out Pike’s robust silhouette.

“It’s starting, baby. You should at least stand there.”

Ed snorted. “My head hurts.”

Pike just stood there. He’d learned, far quicker than most of Edmund’s American colleagues, to ignore him when he was deliberately pessimistic. Edmund roused himself and stood slowly, groaning in protest. They moved toward the crowd of restless reporters.

“Where is she?” Edmund asked. But before Pike could answer, Jane emerged from her trailer in full costume and makeup. She was wearing a gray astronaut’s jumpsuit, which had been modified so that the sleeve could fit over her bandaged arm. Barb and Ozzy were close behind her, scanning the rooftops and pathways between the trailers and sound stages. The crowd erupted with clamoring questions, but she just smiled as Pike rushed in to introduce her. Edmund tried to pay attention but the effort of staying awake made it impossible to hear what he was saying. He managed to rouse a bit at the sound of Jane’s voice when she took the first question.

His head was buzzing with exhaustion, but he managed to listen as she acknowledged that yes, the injury done to her arm had been severe, but that it wouldn’t stop her.

“We’ve worked so hard to get this film off the ground. I couldn’t imagine doing anything to stop it now,” Jane said with elegant serenity. “We’ll start filming in just a few minutes and I’m very much looking forward to working with Jack. This role should be a lot of fun and a real challenge for me as an actor.”

“Wow, she sounds like she means that,” Edmund thought, not realizing that he was also speaking aloud.

“I know, right?” Pike whispered back, a look of genuine adoration on his face as he watched his top client take lemons and turn them into Dom Perignon. Public opinion couldn’t be better. Every female on the blogosphere was praising “Sir Edmund” for throwing his body in front of his wife. The attacks had generated a wave of sympathy for them both. Jane’s gratitude and resiliency suddenly made everyone in town forget that she was a demanding prima donna who had been singled out in the press no fewer than seventeen times for refusing to come out of her trailer until she was brought precisely three and a half ounces of organic papaya juice.

Jane gracefully moving her bandaged arm into an ideal position for photos as she was asked about what she did after the attack on the red carpet. She lied through her teeth, saying that her heart had been heavy after she’d come home from the hospital, but that a good night’s rest helped her to keep it all in perspective. Edmund nearly believed her. She didn’t look at all like she’d been up all night screaming, having an enormous gash in her arm stitched up, and illegally videotaping a not-so-innocent member of the press.

“I’m just so grateful that there are amazing doctors to stitch me up when I get into trouble,” she gushed, “as well as amazing people who donate blood. To say thanks to the amazing people at UCLA medical center, I’ll be sponsoring a blood drive to be sure that our hospitals have all the blood they need.”

“What an amazing speech,” Barb muttered to Ozzy, her lips barely moving. The pair of them were getting fidgety from standing perfectly still a few feet behind Jane. “And lucky me, now I get to organize a blood drive. With all my spare time.”

“Aww, but you’ll be doing so much good,” he taunted back at her. “And when you’re done, you can give everyone on Earth a puppy.”

“If I were capable of vomiting, I’d do it on your boots, Oz,” Barb grumbled. Ozzy glared at her. “That’s right, Ozzy,” Barb continued. “Your shiny black motorcycle boots.” The bodyguard laughed silently and cracked his knuckles a few times, shuffling his idle feet.

Jane took one or few more questions, giving appropriately vague responses that would do well as a sound bite on the gossip shows. Pike stepped in after sending a subtle signal to Jane.

“Thanks so much, everybody,” Pike said, holding his hands up and waving. “I think out of this tragedy we can all realize the importance of journalistic integrity. This is not the first time someone has been pursued by the paparazzi with disastrous results.”

Edmund rolled his eyes and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The sun was bearing down hard and he wanted to get inside and start shooting. He began to fidget, shuffling from one foot to another. Pike went on and on, fielding questions on behalf of Jane and the production company. His canned answers sound particularly unrehearsed today, he thought, glancing over his shoulder and noticing that Barb and Ozzy were standing about twenty feet back in the only nearby patch of shade underneath a scrawny laurel tree choked by its concrete planter. With awkward and unsubtle steps, he moved back toward them.

Barb and Ozzy had not been speaking, but they looked at him as if he had interrupted a private conversation.

“Sir,” Ozzy acknowledged quietly. Barb nodded with a faint smile, and their eyes both snapped back to the press conference.

“I thought this was supposed to be short,” Edmund complained.

“It was,” Barb sighed.

Edmund stretched and yawned. “Had I known they’d go on this long I would have bought a pillow.”

“You would have had a short nap,” Barb replied. “They want you over there.”

Edmund did a double take. Sure enough, Pike was waving him over and the reporters were staring intently. Jane was giving him a pointed, expectant look. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then puttered over to the crowd, hoping he looked bashful instead of resentful. He managed to collect himself just as he reached the cluster of microphones. He tried to say hello but the sound wasn’t picked up, and the sharp squeal of feedback made everyone wince.

“Yes?” Edmund muttered. “You wanted to speak with me?”

The crowd chuckled at his lack of showmanship.

“Do you have any theories about who attacked your wife?’” a reporter called out.

“No, not at present.”

“Did you sustain any injuries?”

Edmund shook his head. “Apart from bursting a seam on my tuxedo jacket, no.”

The reporters were now speaking over one another, but he managed to make out the next question. “Where did you get the training for last night’s heroics?”

Edmund just stared blankly. “I dunno what you mean. Next.”

“What did you do after you after the attack?”

“Uhh,” Edmund stammered, clearing his throat. “Went to hospital, dealt with some staff who were unhappy that we had no insurance cards or identification, read some outdated copies of Sports Illustrated while they stitched up Jane, and then went home and . . . that was all.”

“What kind of criminal case is being considered?”

“That’s a question for the police. Next.”

“Have you and Jane hired extra security?”

“That seems a bit extreme, doesn’t it?” Edmund laughed, then checked himself. “We’re considering every option to ensure our safety. One last question please.”

“Female bloggers are calling you Sir Edmund for your act of heroism. What is your response to that?”

“Are you joking?”

© 2009 Stella Quinn

Star and Scribe — a novel by Stella Quinn
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