‘Could I get you a coffee, or, like, a kimchi or something?’
Eden barely glanced at the young PA as she shook her head. Her makeup was flawless, her deep red, artfully tousled waves drawn back from her face with two Mother-of-Pearl combs. She wore a forest-green, velvet women’s pantsuit from the 1930s. The fitted jacket was cinched at her waist and the soft crinoline blouse was gathered at her neck by a vintage, blood-red ruby broach.
She stared impatiently at the cream carpet in the opulent boardroom while her uncles ordered coffees and pastries. Sixty-four storeys below, the financial district of LA glimmered beneath the hazy sun. Eden’s hands were clammy.
Her uncle Grant, Walter’s eldest official son, was a slightly craggier version of the eighties’ heartthrob he once was. The official story went that he’d auditioned for Players’ biggest glitzy soap under an assumed name, but in truth, zero casting directors in town wouldn’t recognise a Holt on sight even if Grant wasn’t a mirror image of his father, which he was. As he settled into a seat opposite Eden and sipped a black coffee, the familiar aquamarine eyes and tilt of his jaw brought a treacherous lump to her throat.
Owen, the second son who had dedicated his life to Players Incorporated, frowned intently at the window, tension radiating off him in waves. In contrast to his father and elder brother, Owen looked like the stereotypical studio head, portly, balding, and always fastidiously turned out in an immaculately tailored suit. His Patek Phillippe glinted in the sun as he wiped his forehead with a silk handkerchief.
Having somehow succeeded in maintaining the delusional optimism that stories of their father’s consummate fecundity would prove to be naught but Hollywood legend, the news had hit Owen hard. The LA Times published a full list of the beneficiaries of Walter’s will the week after his death. The following morning, Owen was picked up by police in his bathrobe on a Santa Monica beach, laughing hysterically.
When the pictures hit TMZ 15 minutes later, Eden toyed with her phone as she drank her morning smoothie. She vaguely thought about reaching out, wasn’t that the familial thing to do? But it was as though Walter’s death and the revelations about him had torn away the facade of them so much as resembling an actual family. She put her phone face down on the counter and watched Fraser sing a song about someone named Henrik Larsson as he cooked scrambled eggs naked.
The other morning, Eden awoke to the sound of Fraser on the phone to his mum. He was talking her through complaining to the council for not picking up her brown bins when she filled in the form and absolutely did pay the fifty bloody quid. Eden stared at the ceiling, jealousy and resentment churning through her as Fraser hooted at his ma to bloody listen, ya flea-bitten fruit loop.
Eden had once arrived home from one of Walter’s lavish Thanksgiving bashes to find her mother waiting on her doorstep. Adele had flown in from Bora Bora that morning and been turned away at the gates of Walter’s estate because she wasn’t on the list. As Adele raged at her father’s cruelty, Eden knew he had turned Adele away for Eden’s sake and she felt a flush of something uncomfortably like pleasure. She felt smug. She had won. She had been promoted, ascended to the position of daughter of the family because Adele hadn’t been up to the job.
‘You can go to a hotel,’ she’d informed her mother.
That was the last time they spoke. They’d exchanged a handful of texts in the fifteen or so years since. But Eden hadn’t heard her mother’s voice since the single word bitch rang in her ears as the car crunched down the drive, taking Adele to the Beverly Hilton.
Something poked Eden’s ankle and she jumped. Fraser leaned low in his seat, comically exaggerating the distance to gently kick her as he stared intently at the ceiling. Eden’s snort of laughter broke the silence in the room, and Eric blinked in vague surprise as though seeing them for the first time.
If Grant and Owen were strangers, Eric was an alien. Since his mid twenties, he’d given away his entire multi-million dollar allowance every year to dog and cat shelters — refusing every request from people charities with the curt note explaining that people were terrible. Thanks to him, abandoned dogs and cats all over the world lived in the lap of luxury with 24 hour staff tending to their every need. Any staff member caught on CCTV refusing a tummy rub or promising to throw a ball in a minute was instantly fired.
Eric existed as a thru hiker, incessantly roaming every inch of North America, making a meagre living on social media, and nothing to do with the family. He’d been deep in the Appalachian Mountains when news of Walter’s death reached him, and posted an odd but seemingly sincere, heartfelt tribute to his father before he found out about the arrest. Eden knew Walter had been tickled by Eric, had kept a separate iPhone dedicated solely to following his adventures. Looking at Eric now, leaning against the doorframe in a kind of stunned daze, Eden wondered if he had any idea.
‘Okay, gentlemen —‘
Grant smirked at the team of like a high school rebel called to the principal’s office. Owen stared mournfully. Eric glanced at the door as though wondering whether it was too late to bolt. The one who’d spoken, a preppy Wall Street type who looked way too young to be taking the lead on this, took a seat opposite Eden and smiled at Fraser.
‘And lady,’ Fraser piped up.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘And lady. You said gentlemen. Gonnae apologise to Eden?’
‘I’m sorry,’ the lawyer chuckled, grinned conspiratorially at Owen who stared blankly. ‘Your accent — did you say something?’
‘You wantin’ a go, son?’ Fraser growled in an accent so Weegie Eden wondered if Billy Connolly would materialise on the spot like a genie. ‘Cause if you want a fuckin’ go, man, nae fuckin’ borra, man, ah’m fuckin bored sittin’ here twiddling ma fuckin’ baws while yous fancy cunts keep us waitin’ aw’ mornin’ so jist say the word, wee guy.’
‘Uhh, okay, so — let’s get on with it.’ The lawyer looked down at his tablet, but not before Eden saw the flash of real fear in his eyes. She smiled and made a mental note to make Fraser’s eyes roll back in his head later.
‘The cash settlements —‘
‘The studio,’ Owen interrupted. ‘Just tell us who got the studio.’
‘I’d like to know about cash,’ Grant drawled.
‘Has he goat a collection o’ hats tae hand oot?’ Fraser piped up helpfully. ‘Ma family wis torn apart by ma granny’s hats. She only had three an’ wan was a baseball cap fae EuroDisney.’
Owen glowered. ‘You’ll find out about your damned cash, but no cash amount compares to the studio. Start with the studio,’ he commanded in a voice more forceful than Eden had ever heard from him in her life. ‘Is it divided? Somebody needs a controlling share.’ His voice was so high with tension Eden’s throat ached in sympathy. ‘It’ll be anarchy. It’ll rock the market. If he’s divided the studio equally, we need to contest immediately.’
Eric shrugged. ‘You can have my share. This capitalist bullshit is —’
‘You can’t just hand a multi-billion dollar share away,’ Owen shrieked. ‘Goddamn irresponsible —‘
‘It hasn’t been divided,’ the lawyer cut in.
Owen went white. Thrill and terror undulated over his expression as he tasted Walter’s 57% share. ‘It hasn’t?’
‘Walter’s share is intact, and with some other holdings he held through subsidiaries has grown to a little shy of 65%.’
Even Eden’s eyes widened at that. Sixty-five percent nudged Owen into Walton and Koch territory, if not quite Zuckerberg and Musk. She glanced over at her uncle who was doing his best not to hyperventilate.
Owen had worked for the studio since high school, always firmly under Walter’s thumb. Several employees had been subtly promoted above him in practical terms if not in title. Walter had been many things, but irresponsible with the future of the studio was not amongst them. What was he thinking, leaving so giant a share to the middling middle son?
‘Yes, so —‘ The lawyer cleared his throat, the tiniest flicker of nerves betrayed by the briefest glance at his colleague, who gave him a solemn nod. ‘Walter Holt left his entire holdings in the Players Incorporated Studio to his daughter —‘
Adele? Tension zinged in the air like an electric shock. Eden nearly choked.
‘Maeve Harris.’
‘Fucks sake,’ Fraser guffawed. Owen quietly slumped to the ground. ‘She goat aw’ the hats as well.’
1. how do you think Maeve will handle THIS news?
2. why do you think Eden hasn't been in touch with Maeve?
3. how do you think Fraser has been fitting in in Los Angeles?