Epilogue
If Found, Please Return
Ten Months Later
Jude
A taxi trudges by on Fifth Avenue, and Holly shakes her blonde head then tuts.
“Jude, darling . . .” A sigh comes next, a blown-out breath that says I can’t believe this picture of you is in the paper, and I certainly can’t believe you’d let this kind of salacious mess happen after everything we’ve accomplished in the last ten months.
But this picture—this fucking picture of me in a supposed salacious mess—isn’t what everyone thinks it is. “I can explain,” I say, and déjà vu sweeps over me.
Someone I was once in love with breathed those words to me in a beach house in Venice. And here I am at a sidewalk café in New York City, my new home, saying them to my agent.
“Of course you can explain it,” she says in the friendly tone that always tricks me into thinking she’s the lovable aunt type. But she’s actually a lion, with sharp teeth she hides behind a Hollywood smile. “But I can too.”
She swivels an iPad around and stabs a finger against the offending photo on the screen. I cringe again. That really does look bad with a capital B. “This, in the business, is what we call a PR crisis,” she says.
“It is. It definitely is,” I say, hoping the agency isn’t going to explain it away by dropping me. When Holly took a new job at CTM a few months ago, she brought most of her clients with her, me included. But CTM is not only the biggest and most successful talent agency in the world, it’s also more buttoned-up than Astor. CTM has its own reputation to maintain as entertainment royalty and is notorious for tossing out bad sheep clients. With nerves rushing through me, I ask the uncomfortable question.
“Does this mean we’re . . . through?”
She laughs. “Don’t be silly, love. We’re certainly not going to drop you when you’re the talk of the town thanks to If Found, Please Return being all the rage in film right now.” That’s sort of reassuring and sort of not. “And PR crises have PR solutions.”
I square my shoulders, smile, letting her know I’m game for literally anything. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”
Holly pats my hand then lifts her teacup, looking ever so proper. “Good. Because here at CTM, we pride ourselves on looking out for our clients’ best interests.”
“And I’m so, so grateful for that,” I say.
She drains the rest of her tea then sets the pink and white cup down with a clink. “Then you’ll be grateful to know we’ve arranged to fix this by giving you a very appropriate fake boyfriend. We have quite a vast client list, after all.”
That’s it? That’s the PR solution? Well, that’s as easy as saying yes to a night out with friends. “Brilliant. I can do that, no problem.” I rub my hands, ready to tackle this simple challenge to fix my tarnished rep. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
Holly sighs, the kind that says I wish there were another way, but there isn’t, so don’t fuck this up. “Someone who desperately needs a fake boyfriend too.”
“Even better. What did the bloke do to mess up his life?”
“I’ll let him explain when you meet him. Though meet isn’t exactly the right word.” She gives a laugh—the conspiratorial kind. “You already know him.”
I make a beckoning motion. “Tell me who he is. I can’t wait to charm him for the cameras.”
“And you will be so bloody charming,” she says. It’s unquestionably an order.
I straighten my spine. “Absolutely.”
“Perfect. Then it’s settled. We have another client who needs a little help too. TJ Hardman will be your fake boyfriend for the awards season. Won’t that be fabulous?”
I freeze.
This has to be a lark. But there’s no laughter coming my way. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.”
The only way I can save my career is by acting as if I’m in love with the man who destroyed my heart.
I guess we’ll see just how good an actor I am.