Manny Holdsworth watched as his phone lit up again with a call. He turned it face down atop his wallet, the vibrations absorbed into the leather. The network had been calling him for the past few hours. Once the special with his father got rolling, he received calls from journalists hoping to get an inside scoop. These people claimed to be his friends and colleagues but he had seen a sad truth ever since he had become a story; he was just fodder for other people’s ambition. And he would do the same – he had done before – and he would not feel remorse. He would expect that they would understand. Like this was all just some big game where nothing held any underlying value; they all just agreed to some rules and tried to have some fun. It was sad.
His phone lit up again. He checked it, despite himself; laughed wryly as he saw the smiling photo of Terry Handle, his agent. He lay the device back down, swearing he wouldn’t check it next time – she wasn’t going to call.
Manny was at Casper’s, an exclusive bar that he regularly frequented to drink without the interference of other drunks. Most people could contain themselves around famous personalities while sober, but after a few drinks they generally felt entitled to demand another show from their favourite TV monkey. Casper’s filtered out the muck. They also had a live jazz band on Sundays.