Halfway Perfect (9 page)

October 10, 8:30 p.m.

EVE
: $300/wk to walk a dog! Is he
insane?!

I laugh at Eve's text, glad John contacted her so quickly. I'm not sure what will be required of me as a return favor, and frankly I'm a little scared, but hearing the relief in her voice on the phone earlier made it worth it. I don't know what the fuck is going on with her and Wes, but based on how shaken she looked the rest of the day, I can only assume it wasn't a friendly chat to catch up. Could he still be that pissed at her after all this time? Even though things are going great for him, career-wise.

Man, last time I asked John for a favor, more specifically for World Series tickets, I ended up in his apartment trying on some weird-ass punk version of a Scottish kilt, knee socks included, and a vest with no shirt underneath. I wouldn't let him take any pictures though. But still, I'm pretty much scarred for life.

ME
: Yes, he's insane. But its pennies to
him.

The car pulls up to Elana's agency apartment, and I stow my phone away and jump out to open the door for her. She walks out alone, wearing half a dress. Or at least it looks like half is missing. It's blue and black, of course, matching my black shirt and blue tie that Wes sent over for me to wear tonight.

Elana looks pretty nervous, even stumbles a little in her heels.

“Hey,” I say. “Nice dress.”

She smiles at me as I open the door for her. “Thank you. I really don't like it, to be frank. I feel like if I bend to pick up something, it will break open.”

I laugh and slide in beside her. “The photographers will love that.” Her eyes widen, and I can tell I've made her more nervous. “If you drop something, I'll pick it up for you. How's that sound?”

“Thank you.”

My phone buzzes again, and I pull it out to read Eve's reply text.

EVE
:
John just asked me if I've ever dressed a dog before! Wtf?

I glance at Elana who's watching me carefully and then I think about all the people that might be looking over my shoulder, reading “Eve Nowakowski” on my phone. I quickly delete her name and then hesitate before saving her number with a secret nickname…
Harvard
.

ME
:
Jamiroquai only wears designer clothes. She's never
naked.

HARVARD
:
The dog's name is
Jamiroquai?

ME
:
Yep. After the singer. Virtual insanity. Canned
Heat.

HARVARD
:
Oh boy…what did u have to wear in that show? I can't even
imagine.

ME
: No you can't. I still need
therapy.

HARVARD
: Are you ignoring your
date?

ME
: Maybe. We're in the
car.

HARVARD
: Pay attention to her for a while and then I'll tell you what you wanted to know
earlier.

ME
: Deal.

I tuck my phone away and sit in silence for a minute, twiddling my thumbs. “So, Eve's French is really good, huh? Mine's terrible.”

“Yes,” Elana nods. “She's very nice. I don't believe anything they say about her.”

My eyebrows shoot up. This girl doesn't beat around the bush. “Really?”

Elana angles her body to face me, giving me a clear view of way too much skin in the front. I force my eyes up.

“The agency claimed she was going to rehab, but if a model goes to drug rehab the reports always say, oh she has exhaustion and is dehydrated.” She waves a hand around as if mimicking Hugo during one of his gossip sessions. “If they say drugs, it means they're hiding something much worse.”

“What's worse than drug addiction?”

I stop thinking about it because Eve is slowly becoming more
Harvard
and less Eve Castle and I don't want that to change.

“I don't know,” Elana says slowly, every word laced with her thick French accent. “She looks even more beautiful now, doesn't she?”

I'm not sure how to respond to that since Elana is my fake girlfriend and all, and honestly, I haven't seen many pictures of Eve from her time in the spotlight. “She looks…
healthier
,” I say finally.

Elana nods, her dark eyes staring into mine. “I can't wait until I'm an actress. I'll eat bread every day and gain fifteen pounds. Maybe I'll even have curves. I love curves on women.”

Me
too
. At least we have one thing in common.

“Actress, huh?” I say, hiding a smile. She's confident in the way a five-year-old is telling you she wants to be an astronaut. Like it's so easy, it's already a done deal. I think my sister Katie still secretly wants to be a pop star, though she won't say it anymore now that her Hannah Montana phase is long behind her.

Katie who has been giving me hell via text message about the
US
Weekly
article. Worse than my parents even. She wants to know every detail about Elana and our relationship. I hate lying to her.

I flip through the family text messages I've acquired and ignored throughout the day.

KATIE
: I can't believe Elana has that Prada bag! Do they pay her to walk around with
it?

BRAD
: Hey little bro, they're gonna get the French chick some implants before she does Victoria's Secret, right? Let me know asap. We've got a bet going at the bar
tonight.

MOM
: You look bigger. You're not taking steroids like that Twilight werewolf boy, are you? Dr. Weinstein just told me they have long-term side effects. Call me right
now!

JARED
: Don't worry, I calmed Mom down. Told her if you were taking roids you'd actually be able to grow some facial hair. She's fine
now.

KATIE
: Think I could pull off a belly button ring? This girl in my gym class says she can do it for
me.

I feel my blood boil and I quickly type in a response to that last text.

ME
: Great idea. Enjoy the Hepatitis C and the staph
infection.

KATIE
: Okay, okay. It was just an
idea.

I shake my head and stuff my phone away. I can deal with the rest of them later.

“Yes,” Elana says, reminding me that I had just asked her a question about the actress thing. “And singer. I've studied dance some too, so Broadway is a possibility.”

Right. And I'm going to climb
Everest
.

We've arrived at the apartment building where the party is being held. I turn to Elana before the driver opens the door. “You're okay with this, right? There's photographers and…it's not real…I don't want it to be real. You understand that?”

I had to ask. What if she does get attached? She's fourteen. Isn't she supposed to get crushes on idiot older boys? Better someone else than me.

Her face turns completely serious and she says, “Yes, and no offense to you, Alex, but I would never be interested in a boy who agrees to something like this.”

I should be offended. But coming from this girl, it just makes me laugh. She's not a complete naive princess. “If that's true, then promise you won't date any models, because they'd all probably agree to something like this. Even the girls.”

She smiles at me as the door opens, and already I see cameras flashing. “I promise.”

I feel about 10 percent better when we step out of the car. I'm comfortable enough to rest my hand on the small of her back and look like a couple. We pose for a few photos and one photographer shouts at us, “What about the language barrier? Do you speak French, Alex? How are you communicating?”

I give my best smirk. “Her English is way better than my French. Hell, her English might be better than my English.”

Elana smiles but looks incredibly shy and not willing to speak up. We head inside, refusing any more questions.

With Elana wearing those heels, we're exactly the same height. But she almost looks taller because her legs go on forever. Eve's legs look like that too. (Yes, I've checked out Eve's legs. I am a dude.) In build, Elana is basically a dark-skinned version of Eve. Eve's freckles and the small strands of curly hair that slip out of her messy bun make her a little more like the girl next door, whereas Elana's bone structure and facial features are sharper and more intense.

There are no photographers inside the party, but we do get a few heads turning our way after entering. I'm holding Elana's hand now, but she seems to be a little steadier in her heels and less nervous.

A waiter approaches us with a tray of champagne glasses. Elana picks one up right away. I follow her movement even though I'm not a champagne kind of guy.

Everything about this party is stuffy and formal. I hate it after only two minutes. We make our way around the large main room in this penthouse apartment, stopping to talk and shake hands with various industry people. Elana does a great job, kissing everyone on both cheeks and giving me lots of sideways glances that could be deemed as romantic. I guess. After nearly an hour of this (though it feels like six hours), we end up separated. I'm leaning against a black grand piano, downing a vodka club when I get another text from Eve.

HARVARD
: How's the
party?

ME
: *snore* please tell me you are at a much cooler party. I can live vicariously through
you.

HARVARD
: Sorry. I'm alone with my calculus book. We've been together for hours. Barely pulling a C in this class. Math is my greatest
weakness.

ME
: Can't you just find some college boy/math geek to seduce into free
tutoring?

HARVARD
: You watch too much TV. And clearly overestimate my ability to seduce
anyone.

ME
: Come on. It's not that hard. You were a
model.

HARVARD
: I took direction very well. On my own=Epic
fail.

ME
: Ok. Tell me the big secret with
Elana.

HARVARD
: It's not big. She's worried about the rest of the week. So far it's been pretty tame and since it's CK…you
know…

ME
: Foursomes on big billboards over Time
Square.

HARVARD
: Exactly.

ME
: Do you know the concepts for the rest of the
shoot?

HARVARD
: I heard Russ and Janessa talking
today.

ME
: And…? Elana's gonna be topless, right? Great.

HARVARD
: Probably. But I don't think topless is a problem for her. It's the kissing…that kind of
stuff.

ME
: Well I'm not really looking forward to that either but I kinda figured there'd be some lovemaking in
jeans.

HARVARD
: Lol. I'm sure she'll be fine. Speaking of your gf…Where is she?! Are you watching
her?!

Shit!

I look up from my phone and the room forms right in front of me. It had dissolved for a little while. Probably due to my strong desire to be anywhere but here. Wishful thinking. I glance around searching for the tall girl in half a dress.

“Looking for your girlfriend?”

“Actually, I am—” My voice cuts off when I come face-to-face with Jennifer, the
GQ
intern I left asleep in my apartment last week. And had not called again since. My eyes widen with panic. “Oh…hey, Jennifer.”

Do
I
get
points
for
remembering
her
name?

She grins—huge and uninhibited.
Oh
boy
. “Awkward, huh? You look so uncomfortable, I'm gonna let you off the hook. This time.”

Okay, no more interns. No matter what Wes tells me to do.

She tugs at my tie, holding me in place for a second. “One question?” I nod and swallow hard. I don't think I'm being let off the hook at all. “How far did we—”

Thank you, gods of one-night stands.

I rest my hands on her shoulders. “Nowhere. I swear. You fell asleep, and I crashed on the couch.”

“Great.” She sighs with relief. “Elana disappeared into the last door on the right about ten minutes ago. She's with Devin Stone.”

Fuck
almighty
. Devin Stone is the scummiest of scummy models and he's beaten me for jobs more times than I can count. Ten minutes is more than enough for that dude to have removed what's left of her dress.

I try not to look too concerned or in a hurry as I'm rushing down the hall, heading toward the last door on the right. I hear laughing right before I turn the doorknob. The first thing I see is a wall covered by a giant painting. Some kind of trendy graffiti thing.

“It's by a street artist in Paris,” Devin says. “She had it flown in a few weeks ago. Paid at least a million for it.”

“It looks like schoolchildren got in a paint fight,” Elana says.