Absolutely True Lies (15 page)

My mouth just about fell open. Vaughn bought me a phone? Or he got the show to buy me a phone? I hadn’t even bothered to bring my ancient cell, knowing I couldn’t use it here. As soon as I got back up to my room, I got to work exploring this tiny little device I’d lusted after for so long. Despite my Playskool first phone, I wasn’t tech-stupid, I was just too poor to be tech-savvy.

Excited, I pulled out my address book and called my mom. I could kill two birds with one stone.

She didn’t answer on my first try. Figuring she didn’t recognize the number, I called back a second time. “Who is this?” she demanded.

“It’s me, Mom. I just wanted to call you from Rome. Say hi and see how you’re doing.”

“Oh, I’m fine. Won big at bridge last night. Debbie Paul lost her shirt.”

My mother’s ongoing rivalry with Debbie Paul was one for the ages. It was like the Hatfields and the McCoys of suburban quilting clubs. “I’m glad to hear it. She plays dirty, anyway.”

“She does,” my mother agreed. “What’s this number you’re calling from?”

“The show gave me a new cell phone,” I told her. “I thought you should be my first call.”

“For free?” My mother’s voice turned shrill. I should have ­realized—my mom doesn’t believe anything is free. When I was a kid,
we were poor enough to get weekly shipments of government cheese, but she would never let me eat it. Despite the slim pickings on our own dinner table, my mother dutifully donated every bar of cheese to people needier than we were. “Holly, you know nothing is free.”

“It’s not exactly free, Mom.” I fought my growing irritation. She didn’t understand this world, which made me wonder why I bothered telling her about it at all. Why didn’t I just say I used my paycheck to buy my own phone? “It’s part of my fee.” That wasn’t exactly true, but she wouldn’t know the difference.

“But Camille said they hadn’t paid you yet.”

Dammit, Camille. First the condoms, now this. “They have,” I said, lying by omission. “They just owe me a lot more.”

“Okay, dear,” my mother said, sighing into the phone. “Make sure you keep after them. No one protects you but you.”

“I love you, Mom,” I told her. “I’ll talk to you when I get back to L.A.”

I hung up the phone much less excited than when I had opened the package. But I wasn’t going to let my mother’s worry ruin this moment—for the first time in my adult life, I had a phone that didn’t look like I’d found it at a pawnshop.

•  •  •

T
he room phone rang at 6:00
P.M.
, waking me from a long nap. I could see the shadows cast by the already dimming light outside. I’d slept through the entire afternoon.

“Hello?”

“Holly,”
came the nasal whining from the other end of the phone. “Where
are
you?”

I was actually a little impressed Daisy knew how to use a telephone to call from room to room. Then I noticed that she had asked where I was when she had clearly called my hotel room, and was decidedly less impressed. “You know where I am. What do you need?”

“You’re coming to dinner, right?” Her voice was strained, and I
couldn’t tell if she was deliberately trying to sound upset or if she was just drunk and slurring her words. The latter thought greatly concerned me because up until now, she’d managed to handle all the vodka in that enormous Mountain Dew cup with nary a wobble. If she really was drunk, she must have plowed her way through several of the bottles I’d bought.

“Dinner?” I asked.

“Heinz Beck is hosting us at La Pergola tonight. I made sure your name was on the list.”

“Thank you,” I replied, a little confused. I wasn’t stupid enough to think Daisy had done it out of the kindness of her heart. Whatever the reason, I would find out eventually.

“I invited your boyfriend, too. Mom said you’d want someone to talk to.”

My boyfriend. So people were already talking about me and Vaughn. I didn’t know if that was a bad thing in this business—or if no one cared. I also thought about correcting the boyfriend label, but I knew any more on the topic would only bore and annoy Daisy. “That’s very nice of you. What is the attire?”

“Huh?”

“The dress code, Daisy. What type of clothes should I wear?”

This earned a giggle from her end. “Nothing you own, that’s for sure.”

Daisy said this like my entire wardrobe was composed of potato sacks and pleather pants. “What I’m asking,” I continued tersely, “is if I should be wearing a dress.”

“Oh,” Daisy managed to squeeze out in between bursts of laughter. The question of her sobriety was quickly settling itself. “Yeah. Yeah, totally.”

•  •  •

T
he car ride to La Pergola was my first real glimpse of the city. The sun was low on the horizon, the dying rays glittering off win
dowpanes, and the warm yellow of the streetlamps just beginning to glow. For the first time, I noticed that Rome looked like a city in the process of excavating itself. Relatively new buildings stood alongside ancient columns missing their tops, and every few blocks we passed a site populated with scaffolding and giant sheets of plastic. The workers had all gone home for the day, but it still looked like the world’s largest archaeological dig. Each time we paused for a stoplight, I had an urge to jump out of the car and go exploring on my own.

But I was a good girl and stayed put, listening to Daisy chatter on about how she’d just gotten a Facebook message from this hot actor on ABC’s new science-fiction show. I heard all about his ass and how she’d slipped her phone number into the back pocket of his jeans during a charity ball. He hadn’t called yet, but the message totally meant she was in play. I thought about asking why he wore jeans to a charity ball, but I don’t understand the rules of celebrity fashion. Maybe the jeans were handwoven from organic cotton and cost five grand.

I nodded politely, even adding a few oohs and aahs for effect, but I knew I couldn’t use a single word of this gibberish. It had nothing to do with the story of her life, and I knew her handlers didn’t want me even hinting that she was a total . . . let’s just be nice and say “player.” Besides, even if she did hook up with Mr. ABC Sci-Fi, he’d be gone before the book got to a publisher. So I pretended I cared, but what actually intrigued me was not the content of her words but her tone.

Outwardly, I maintained the picture of the happy, well-adjusted employee, but internally, I was truly questioning Daisy’s mental health. Earlier today she’d been in a white-hot rage and now she was just one bright, sunshiny day. I’d seen this transformation twice and wondered if she was bipolar. Everyone has mood swings, but this was nothing short of a roller-coaster track. Maybe her “medication suitcase” really did have lithium in it and her idiot handlers
had replaced the missing prescription with vodka. Never mind that alcohol worsens natural chemical imbalances. I was no doctor, but it seemed to me like a catastrophe waiting to happen.

We crossed over the Tiber River and I could see the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica gleaming in the distance. Daisy continued to yammer, never even glancing out the window. I noticed with much sadness that I seemed to be the only person in the car with any interest in what lay outside.

“Where’s Jamie?” I asked at one point. First, he was MIA on the flight over, and now he was skipping a staff dinner? Wasn’t he supposed to be Daisy’s business-savvy shadow?

“Making a deal with Cinecittà,” Faith replied absently while texting on her cell phone. I’d never heard of Cinecittà, but I was too embarrassed to say so.

“You’re so
bo-
ring, Mom. No one cares. . . . Oh, I almost forgot. I have something for you, Holly Bear.” Daisy reached into a hidden pocket of her dress and pulled out something on a chain.

She tossed the chain at me, and I caught it in surprise. It then took me a full thirty seconds to untangle the metal to realize there was a clear stone at the center of the necklace—and it was
big
. “What is this?” I asked.

Daisy shrugged and yawned. “Italy gave it to me for working here or something. It’s supposed to be like a really colorless diamond.”

“It
is
a colorless diamond,” Faith corrected her gently. “And it’s from the Italian government.”

I turned it over in my palm, perplexed. Daisy was just giving me a diamond necklace? “This is beautiful, but . . . don’t you want it?” I’ve never been one for jewelry. I have pierced ears, but I haven’t worn earrings in so long I don’t even know if I could.

The look she gave me was one of utter exasperation. “Um . . . I’m supposed to wear a two-carat diamond? Everyone will think I’m poor.” Daisy yawned.

Maybe I should have been offended by the implication that
I
was poor, but she was right. So I simply tucked the necklace in my purse. “Thank you, Daisy,” I said. “That’s very nice of you.”

She looked startled that I had expressed gratitude. “Oh, sure. It’s no big deal. I’ve got a boatload of Prada in my room if you want some of that stuff.”

Faith leaned across the seat and spoke quietly into my ear. “Just don’t try to sell that, okay? Diamonds are laser-engraved by their designers and we don’t want people knowing Daisy just gave away a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar diamond.”

I almost choked hearing the dollar amount but managed to suppress the urge. It’s no wonder rich people stayed that way; people were willing to give everything to them for free.

•  •  •

W
hen we got to La Pergola, I was surprised to discover that it was in a hotel. And a Hilton, at that. As the car slowed to a stop, Vaughn was waiting at the curb. He opened the door for us before the driver could even turn off the engine.

He was dressed to the nines in a pin-striped suit and tie, his hair slicked back. He reminded me of a younger version of Batman’s butler, Alfred. “You look beautiful.”

“Ugh,
shut your face,
” Daisy groaned, climbing out of the car after me. She pushed Vaughn aside and marched toward the restaurant. “Holly Bear, tell John his voice gets on my nerves.”

“Sorry,” Vaughn called after her. He turned back to me, winked, and then whispered, “I’m not sorry.”

He held out his arm, and I stared at it for a few seconds before realizing he was asking for mine. No man had ever walked me on his arm. I was also hyperaware of the change in his behavior since this morning. He no longer seemed nervous or uncertain around me; in fact, this version of Vaughn was uberconfident. I still couldn’t get a real sense of him. But I took his arm and followed him into
the restaurant, smiling to myself when he reached across and lightly squeezed my captive hand.

“I never get to go to these things,” he told me.

This statement surprised me. Vaughn had had an expensive suite in Miami, and I was sure he had one in Rome, too. He was a producer with enough power to have someone buy me a five-­hundred-dollar cell phone and he didn’t get invited to these kinds of events? If he wasn’t one of the cool kids, who was?

•  •  •

T
he restaurant itself was beautifully appointed and the view was heart-stopping. That moving-target vista of St. Peter’s I’d gotten from the car was nothing compared to the full-on Vatican City panorama I was treated to once inside. And beyond it, the entirety of Rome was laid out like a living treasure map. When we all took our seats, I purposely situated myself so that I was facing the window. That way, when the dinner conversation made me want to swallow jagged pieces of glass, I’d at least have something to divert my attention.

Vaughn took the seat next to me. The rest of the long table was populated with the show’s executive producers and director, Daisy, and Faith, a few actors I recognized but couldn’t quite place, and a teenage boy and his parents. Before I even had to ask, Vaughn leaned over and whispered that this was Colby, the boy who played Daisy’s younger brother on the show.

Noticeably absent from the table were Jamie, the bodyguards, and, once again, Axel and Sharla. Apparently, a fancy meal couldn’t be wasted on the underlings. Not that I should be surprised, given that Vaughn wasn’t supposed to be on the list, either. I also took note of the fact that we were the only guests in the entire restaurant. It wasn’t an enormous dining room and I knew Italians ate later than Americans, but I would have figured there’d be other diners by eight-fifteen.

“Where is everyone else?” I said quietly to Vaughn.

“La Pergola is closed on Mondays,” he whispered back. “The executive chef is hosting a special meal for Daisy.”

“Let me get this straight. Daisy, who eats nothing but tomatoes and onions, wanted to come to this gourmet Italian restaurant? Is she planning on eating marinara sauce out of a soup bowl?” I couldn’t think of any other menu item that could possibly fit into her anorexic diet.

“Let me start by saying that this is not just a ‘gourmet’ restaurant.” Vaughn laughed, slipping into a condescending tone I’d not yet heard him use. I didn’t like it. “La Pergola is a three-­Michelin-star restaurant, the only one in Rome. And I’m not here because I care if Daisy’s forced to eat nothing but her napkin, I want to try Heinz Beck’s rabbit with sweet pepper cream.”

I stared at Vaughn for a moment, perplexed. “Are you a judge on
Top Chef
or something?” The most expensive restaurant I’d ever eaten in was probably Benihana.

“I’m just educated on high-end cuisine,” he said primly.

“You’re a snob,” I replied. I was mostly joking, but there was a little bit of truth to it.

He winked at me again. “I’m a foodie.”

A ludicrous number of waiters swarmed the table and began filling everyone’s glasses with about twelve drops of white wine. When a waiter reached me, I asked if I could also have a glass of water, which earned me a look of utter contempt. “Still or bubbles?” he said, speaking English and looking like he loathed every syllable.

I’d felt out of place with these people (Daisy and the glitterati, not Italians) from the very beginning, but this question made me feel like a chimney sweep trying to dine with the Queen of England. I always request water in restaurants, and never once has anyone asked me if I wanted it with bubbles in it.