Absolutely True Lies (30 page)

“Listen, I have to go to New York next week for the book. Do you want to come with me?”

Camille smiled, but instead of answering, she glanced back at Ben and Donnie, who were getting along like a house on fire. We caught the sentence “He didn’t even use an elevated batten system, can you believe it?” It was Greek to me, but the men laughed like it was grade A comedy.

Turning back to me, Camille winked. “Take your man. We’ll take a spa weekend after you get back.”

I’d already considered taking Ben, but that was a whole new relationship step. The first trip together. Was I even ready?

Reading my mind, Camille leaned in and whispered, “You’ve come so far. Don’t punk out on me now, Gracin.”

•  •  •

A
s you might expect, Daisy’s release from Rehabilication was nothing short of a media explosion. Despite the jurisdictional problems, a cavalcade from the LAPD came down to Orange County to escort her back home. I wasn’t there for the madness, but I saw it all play out on the news. It may sound strange that a starlet being released from rehab is worthy of live coverage in the middle of the day, but in Los Angeles, the local news is kind of a joke. There’s very little mention of politics or the rest of the world, but if there’s a car chase or a celebrity showing up for court, every local channel carries a live feed.

But if any of those paparazzi media outlets thought Daisy would waste her biggest bargaining chip by talking to them, they were sorely mistaken. She quietly moved into the waiting vehicle and didn’t get out again until the car disappeared into her gated estate. The only person who had a seemingly endless stream of things to say was Dr. Chace, who found his way onto CNN just five hours after Daisy’s release.

“I feel good, knowing that I’ve saved a lovely and talented young performer. And I thank God every day that I’m here to share my gifts with the world.” Beware the man who can turn any situation into a story about him.

The added benefit of Daisy being sprung from the facility was that the photographers no longer had any interest in me. I walked into the local grocery store just a couple of hours later and was pleased to discover that my shadow was my only companion. By that night, I was able to move out of the Dixsons’ guesthouse and back into my dark, dank little hovel. It wasn’t nearly as swanky as the places I had stayed in the last two months, but it was home—for now.

I was proud of Daisy; the vultures weren’t able to get a single picture of her from the Wednesday of her release until we met at the airport early Sunday morning.

“I feel really weird about this,” Ben said as we lugged our suitcases toward the terminal.

“Why?” I momentarily worried that I shouldn’t have asked him to come with me. Maybe it was too soon? But he’d said yes so quickly and had certainly seemed excited about the trip.

“I’ve never spent time with the Dixsons like this,” he replied. “I’m below the line.”

A couple of months ago, I wouldn’t have understood that comment. As Camille explained it, there are two types of crew members, above and below the line. Those “above the line” are considered master craftsmen or artists and have the ability to negotiate their wages, while those below fall into a standardized salary range. An easier way to explain it is to call them the haves and the have-nots. Nowhere else in the world would Renaissance Man Ben be considered a have-not, but Hollywood is one strange little burg.

“Who cares? Do you really think these people are better than you?”

It didn’t help my point that at exactly that instant, the noise level rose tenfold and we knew Daisy had arrived. The paparazzi, who’d been relaxing and chatting among themselves when we walked up, were now chasing Daisy’s town car to the terminal entrance. Without uttering a single syllable, she and Faith moved slowly toward the door, keeping their gaze down at the ground.

“No,” he replied, shaking his head. “I like being below the line.” I waited for the sarcasm and realized he was being honest. Ben had no interest in the Hollywood life, at least not the kind those photogs were interested in. The more I got to know him, the more there was to like about Ben.

Luckily, there were police officers and TSA employees waiting to shepherd us through ticketing and security, so with a few hundred more flashes and questions, the photographers blessedly disappeared. Only then did Daisy give me a hug and seem to notice Ben by my side.

“Huh,” she said, staring almost directly up at him with her sea-blue gaze. “I knew you were nailing someone, Holly Bear, but I thought it was Vaughn. Don’t worry, I’ve done plenty of grips and electricians in my time.” Maybe I’d given her too much credit for her heightened maturity level. Then again, maturity doesn’t necessarily make you smarter.

Ben turned white and shifted his eyes toward me, remaining silent.

“Ben’s a production designer,” I replied.

“Oh, so you’re like a carpenter?”

Ben shot me another look, clearly not sure how to respond. “I run the art department.” He paused, then added, “I picked out that furniture in your house.”

“Cool,” Daisy replied, slapping him on the arm. “You guys will love the W Hotel. The beds are awesome for sex.”

Before I had to invent an adequate response for that, an airline employee walked up and offered to get us settled into our seats. As we walked the Jetway, Ben cast a longing glance over his shoulder like a man about to be led to the gallows.

•  •  •

T
hough we weren’t permitted to personally accompany Daisy to
The View
(from here on out, the publisher didn’t want to give the
media any opportunity to connect me to her book), Ben and I had VIP tickets to the show. I’d never seen a live show taped before, and it moved at an alarmingly efficient pace. But the most unexpected moment of that morning came when Daisy entered the studio with not only her mother but a smarmy, terribly unattractive man.

“Who do you think that is?” I whispered loudly to Ben.

He gave me a strange look in return. “That’s her father.”

In more than two months, I’d seen neither hide nor hair of this man. He’d purposefully avoided every second of his daughter’s meltdown and recovery, only to reappear once there was more money to be made.

My assessment was confirmed as soon as the show returned from commercial break and Daisy began her talk with the ladies of
The View
. The conversation started out much like any celebrity interview, except that Daisy introduced her parents to the hosts and the people at home. But it quickly moved on from being upbeat and fun; the show landing Daisy’s first televised interview post-rehab was a major get, and the hosts didn’t waste any time zeroing in on the controversy.

Over the hour-long show, Daisy talked about the evils of the Hollywood fame machine and how it was now her duty to help struggling young people everywhere exorcise the demons of addiction. God had called her to write a book, and who was she to question God? She was beautiful, poised, articulate, and managed to sniffle at just the right moment to elicit emotion. I knew it was utter bullshit and I was on the edge of my seat.

But the performance of the morning went to Deacon, who kept one arm around his long-suffering wife and tightly gripped his daughter’s hand throughout the interview. With anguish in his voice, Deacon told Whoopi Goldberg how guilty he felt, trusting that the producers and managers had Daisy’s best interests in mind. “She thought she was making me proud,” he said, choking up. “And I thought I was making her happy.” The sick bastard came off like father of the year.

After the taping, Ben and I walked the fifteen blocks to Fairgate Publishing, enjoying the early fall day. The best part was that it was business as usual in New York; none of these people knew who I was, nor did they care. It was the most liberated I’d felt in weeks.

Due to the nondisclosure issues, Ben wasn’t allowed in the room with me when I signed my new contract for the book. Stephen Scott apologized profusely, but I didn’t really mind. I just wanted this entire affair over. I use the word
over
loosely—I knew perfectly well that there would be rewrites to the book, but right now that felt like child’s play compared to what I’d already endured. And given my ongoing difficulties getting paid, I’d already plotted the directions to the nearest branch of my bank. That check would be cashed before lunchtime.

My next shock of the day came when Stephen handed me the payment envelope. I knew it was uncouth of me, but I couldn’t help but peek under the flap. After everything, I wasn’t going to be careless now. But the check didn’t read fifty thousand dollars (or forty-two, which was the remaining balance); printed very clearly on the amount line was “one hundred thousand dollars.” I glanced up at Stephen, sure it was an error.

He must have anticipated my reaction because he smiled and said, “The rest came from Daisy’s advance. She thought you should have it.”

For a few seconds, I was worried I might pass out. The world suddenly got very quiet and I could no longer hear Stephen speaking or the midday Manhattan traffic outside. I waited for the onslaught of dizziness, but it never came. Instead, I merely shook the publisher’s hand and thanked him. After all of the times I overreacted to the most ridiculous, minuscule things, someone had just handed me a check for a hundred grand and I was fine. Perfectly fine.

“I know this must have been a traumatic experience for you,” Stephen said, laughing. “But they’re not all this bad.”

“Well, even if that’s true, it’s not like I can go around advertising
my services. That contract you had me sign says that I can never tell anyone what I’ve just done.”

“That’s true, but we can certainly call you again. Half of our business is celebrity memoirs. That is, if you’re interested.”

“Call anytime” was all I said. I wasn’t sure I really meant it, but I said it anyway.

•  •  •

W
hen I deposited the check, the bank teller gave me a suspicious look, glancing back and forth between my face and the readout of my account. “This is quite a bit of money,” he said.

“I’m very famous in Japan,” I said. From behind me, Ben swatted my arm.

•  •  •

F
eeling rich in so many ways, I spent the rest of the morning convinced I’d finally banished whatever cloud had been hovering over me. Daisy was off on some print interview and Ben and I had the afternoon to wander around the city until we were all supposed to meet up for dinner at Daniel on the Upper East Side. As we popped back into the hotel for a quick change, I was practically blissful.

That is, until I noticed Ben staring past me to the front desk. I didn’t even have time to turn all the way around when I heard, “Oh, hey there.”

And there was Vaughn, standing at the check-in desk, luggage at his feet. I couldn’t imagine what he was doing in New York, and at the very same hotel, no less. He had nothing to do with the book.

“Hi, Vaughn,” Ben said.

He took a step forward, but I didn’t immediately join him. It wasn’t until Ben prodded me with a hand to the small of my back that I was able to move. My legs practically creaked from their unwillingness to walk across the room. But once I got there, I did give Vaughn a (somewhat stiff) hug, and Ben politely shook his hand.

“Things going well with the book?” Vaughn asked.

I hoped Ben would answer that question for me, but he’s not the kind of guy to do that. The two men stood there, waiting for me to answer. “Great. New contract signed and everything.”

“I saw
The View
. Daisy came off like a real pro. I was proud of her.”

He was proud? A month ago he wanted to run screaming from her to any producing job that would have him. And now that she was back on the right track, he was proud of her?

“Listen, I was just headed out to grab lunch. Are you guys hungry?” he asked.

“Sorry, we’ve already eaten,” I said.

“That’s too bad. But I’ll see you at Daniel tonight?”

I was again annoyed by Vaughn’s presence. Why was he invited to Daniel? Why did he have to reappear in my life just when I’d managed to put him out of my head? “I’m sure you will.”

I headed for the elevator, Ben following close behind me. After I stabbed the elevator button, he put an arm around my shoulder. “We haven’t had lunch.”

“I know.”

“You have to talk to him sometime,” he said, kissing me on the forehead.

“I beg to differ.”

At the same moment, the elevator dinged and so did my phone. I pulled it out of my pocket and saw that it was a message from Vaughn. It read:
Can we talk? Alone?
I held it up for Ben to see. “Is this asshole serious? Like I wasn’t going to show you?”

“That’s only a statement on what he would do in this situation, not on you.” I liked Ben more every day, and I valued his intelligence, but sometimes his fortune cookie wisdom felt a little preachy. “You should go.”

“No way.”

We stepped into the elevator. Ben reached out and threaded
his fingers through mine. “Do you know why you’re so upset right now?”

I held up my phone with my free hand. “Yeah, I’m pretty clear on that.”

Ben shook his head. “It’s because you never got closure on what happened in Rome. So you should go, hear what he has to say.”

I couldn’t believe Ben was saying this. I know that he’s no immature, lovestruck teenage boy, but I wanted him to be at least a little bit jealous. The way Vaughn had been jealous of him. It was completely irrational, but that didn’t change how I felt.

“I don’t care what he has to say.” But that was a lie. I wanted to know. I was firmly infatuated with Ben, but that didn’t make me any less confused about what had happened with Vaughn. But the guy hadn’t been able to give me a straight answer a month ago, I couldn’t imagine anything had changed in the weeks since.

Ben’s gaze was carefully trained on the numbers of the elevator as we ascended. I could tell he didn’t really want to look at me, which made me very nervous. “You do care. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be upset.”

He had me there. “I’ll go if it’ll make you happy.”