Page 70 of How To Plot a Payback

With my back to the women, I gather my things—not so quickly as to attract their attention, just quick enough to get the job done and get out unscathed, but for Bernie pausing every few seconds to excitedly chew on my leg.

Then tumble back on Miles with enthusiasm.

Then turn to jump back on my leg.

I pretend this dog does not exist. “You know what, I’m going to have to run—”

“Really?” he says, flipping over his watch. “It’s eight ten. You just got here.”

“Yep,” I say, holding my back rigid while the puppy takes hold of the hem of my coat and begins a round of tug-of-war. I can see Chris’s incredulous face as I snap the leash on Miles and pick up my tea, all while staunchly staring straight at Chris, ignoring the dog. “I was just reminded”—which is true—“how much I have to catch up on for work—”

“Oh look, we’re in luck. Hey, Finn!”

I freeze.

Even the sound of Bernie’s razor teeth tearing the hem of my coat fades into the background as I see Lavender with her arm raised. A look of delight spreads over her face. Like we’re two friends just casually meeting at the top of a ski lift.

Chris does three double takes between Lavender and me before he quietly mutters for my ears alone, “You’re kidding me. Less than a month and you’re already on friendly terms. With Lavender Rhodes.”

Lavender’s eager expression shifts as she sees her dog yanking on my coat. With a people-pleasing doormat-of-a-pet-owner air, she says, “Oh, Bernie. Get down now. C’mon. Get down.”

Bernie, of course, ignores her.

Only when she begins to walk towards the dog do I take control. “Down, Bernie,” I say firmly. “Sit.”

Bernie’s big black floppy ears perk up at his name (to his credit, he’s not a complete lost cause). He sits on his haunches.

“And you are on friendly terms with Lavender Rhodes’s dog,” Chris murmurs. There’s awe in his voice, and when he turns his attention to me, he sees me through fresh eyes, as if we have been sitting together on a bus and he just now realizes I am Tom Hiddleston.

“Long story,” I say, then move to address the two women. Chris moves too. Frankly, for all his time as an exec, working side by side with actors who floss their teeth just like we do, he still looks like he’s about to bow.

I suppose I’m not surprised.

Everyone drops what they’re doing for Lavender.

Who, by the way, has something green in her teeth.

“You’ve got something in your teeth,” I say, enjoying this small but mighty taste of revenge.

I can see Chris’s eyes in my periphery bugging at the audacity.

Sonya’s eyes are still screwed to the screen on her phone as she frowns, undoubtedly at the email I ran my eyes over yesterday before Goodwin’s PA sent it out just moments ago. A vision email.

It’s long. Goodwin’s words are quite strong about a shift that’s needed, a drastic change that’s required, for “the good of the longevity of the show.” And how we sometimes need to “cut off the moles to save the body.” Unpleasant imagery, but effective.

People are throwing fits.

Staff have left—witnessed by myself yesterday when yet another writer walked out. People are tired and overrun and stressed out by both the time demands of the job and the emotional depletion. I can see how it’s different from Higher Stakes. We had long hours there, but not the emotional and mental grind that working under Goodwin takes. And I can see it now, pulling on Sonya’s face as she reads.

“Oh really? Thanks,” Lavender says, and to my dismay she says it so cheerfully it’s evident I’ve had the opposite effect, that now she’s grateful I am one of those true friends who is willing to be honest. “Where?” she says, pointing at an upper tooth.

“There,” I say vaguely.

“Here?” she says and steps closer to me.

“No,” I say, stepping backward, already regretting my decision. “Upper right side.”

“Where, here?”