“Trevor says, grilling Cat about her current leading man in the film she’s shooting over at Universal. “He’s always mentioning Nietzsche and Neil Gaiman in the same breath during interviews. And you know what a turn-on intelligence is for me.”Cat sips her martini, smiling slyly. “No comment.” I’m not sure if she’s referring to Johnny Jordan’s sexual orientation or his intelligence rating—and I’m not sure Trevor actually cares about either. Like the rest of America, he just wants tidbits. We once... crashed a Christmas party up in the Hills because he’d heard a rumor that Johnny would be there.“Is he… or isn’t he?” I laugh. “That is the question. Of course you have terrible taste in celebrities, so it hardly matters.”Cat high-fives me across the table. “Go girl,” she says. “Preach it, now!”Trevor blows me a sulky air-kiss. “Yes, well Jules is about to make you, darling Rebecca, so you’re allowed no snarky innuendo about my celebrities.”He’s right, of course; in fact, that’s why we’re doing the post-work drinks round up with Cat, a little mini-celebration of the Kingsley option.As much as Golden Boy irks me on principle, his book is lyrical and brilliant and it’s the first time since my attack that I can remember feeling any kind of professional excitement at all.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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