The Book of Jane by Anne Dayton Page B

a quick wave to the two twittering girls, and sits down. His broad tan shoulders contrast with the white towel on his chair, and his gray swim trunks hug his lean hips. He looks just as good in person as he does onscreen. No, better. I watch as he leans back in his chair, slides his sunglasses down over his eyes, and puts his arms behind his head.
    I stand up and pull my pants legs down, slide my shoes back on, remind myself to act confident, and walk toward him. Out of the corner of my eye I catch a woman snapping a photo on her digital camera, trying to be discreet, and I realize that everyone on the roof deck is watching me right now. Matt doesn’t seem to notice me coming toward him, and when I get closer, I notice his eyes are closed.
    He wasn’t even looking for me?
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œUh?” Matt mutters, opening his eyes lazily.
    â€œHi, I’m Jane Williams,” I say, thrusting my hand out. “I’m the publicist for World Aid.”
    He stares at me confused. “World Aid?”
    â€œYes, World Aid. For the Strike Hunger Campaign? Your personal assistant, Nina, confirmed that we were to meet here.” He looks at me, then looks up at the sky. He looks back at me and starts to smile. I can actually see the recognition dawning.
    â€œOh right, World Aid,” he says, smiling good-naturedly. “That’s right.” He takes my hand and shakes it. “Jen, you said?” He raises his sunglasses and looks me in the eye.
    â€œJane.”
    He nods, taking a long sip of his drink. “Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the empty chair beside him.
    â€œI brought the press kit Glassman and Company is putting together for the Strike Hunger Campaign, and I thought we could go over it and discuss what you’re going to be doing,” I say, pulling a folder out of my bag. “The first major event we’re going to be doing is a benefit party at the Pierre to help relief efforts in Guatemala, and—” I look up to notice Matt has closed his eyes and is making punching motions with his fist. “Are you okay?”
    â€œWha?” he says, opening his eyes in surprise. “Oh, I was striking hunger,” he laughs. “Maybe I’ll make that my campaign catchphrase.”
    â€œâ€˜Catchphrase?’” I repeat blankly.
    â€œYeah. My catchphrase.” He takes another gulp of his drink, finishing it. He shakes the glass, then looks in it, apparently hoping to find more liquid inside. He looks up at me and smiles from ear to ear. My stomach drops for a moment. Looking at his dimples and white boxy teeth, I understand what makes some people stars. He has
it
. That star quality.
    His phone rings, and even though we’re working, he answers it. After listening a while he says, “Yeah, dude. Cool. Okay, so St. Tropez. I’ll get Nina to set it up. Okay, bye.” He snaps his phone shut and smiles a big glitzy grin at me. “Sorry about that. I’m going to St. Tropez with some friends of mine. We’re coordinating. Well, I’m not really coordinating, Nina is, but you know.”
    I nod. “Right. Your personal assistant. We spoke on the phone.”
    â€œYup. My right-hand lady. She handles the finer details of my life. She can find anything out. She’s the one who got me your phone number.”
    I nod. She’s the puppet master. I see. “She sounds great.”
    â€œShe really is. She’s, like, the best…Do you want a drink, Jen?” he asks, placing his glass down on the ground. “We could go inside to the hotel bar and grab something cool.”
    â€œSu—Sure,” I say. “A drink would be good. It’s hot out here.”
    â€œAll right,” he says, standing up slowly and stretching. He picks up the towel from his chair and turns toward the glass doors. Matt punches the air several times and says, “Strike hunger!” as we walk. I follow him