Hollywood Hot Mess (17 page)

“You don’t have to do that.” She pulls her hand away and rubs at her wrist like I hurt her. She turns back to the window and I rack my brain, trying to think of something...anything...to make her agree to stay. When I turn back to her the little bit of color in her cheeks has drained and she looks like her heart has quit beating.

“What?” I follow her gaze out the window and see the first shark arrive on the scene. He pulls out a long lens to snap my photo. I jump and Maria snaps around to hide her face with her dirty hair.

“They can’t see me.” She’s instantly fidgety and panicky with his arrival and looks like she wants to spontaneously combust and disappear. “Not with you. They might recognize me and then I’ll really be fucked.” She stands from the table, knocking her chair and coffee to the floor as she flees to the bathroom. I’m right behind her, but every eye is now following me, wondering who I am and why the paparazzi wants a photo of me. Damned TMI. They used to only care when I was failing at life. But now, because I’m supposedly making my comeback, grabbing coffee with a friend is front-page news.

We lock ourselves in the bathroom and she’s immediately in the mirror, trying to fluff her hair and pinch color into her cheeks. But nothing works. Tears pool in her eyes and I know exactly how she feels. If they snapped a photo of her looking like this and spread it over the news outlets, America would forget about it tomorrow. But for Maria? It would be the end of her career. No studio would touch her, because our industry is built on beauty, and image is everything.

“Here.” I take Heather’s glasses from my shirt and shove them at Maria. A moment later I find the makeup pouch in my bag and together we fix ourselves in the dimly lit mirror.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Go away!” I growl. After we have primped as much as we can we turn to each other. I grab her hand and write my number on her palm with the purple Sharpie. “Leave through the back. I’ll distract them by going out front.” I squeeze her shoulder for encouragement.

“I never thought you’d be the one taking care of me.” She hugs me and I blink away tears.

“It’s what sisters do.” I hold my breath because her hair really does stink. “Promise you’ll call me? Promise you’ll come stay at my place?” I put the huge sunglasses on her face and smooth her hair best I can. I hate Melvin LaCroix for stealing Maria’s beauty. For turning our innocence into darkness. One of these days, I’ll make him pay for what he did to us. Wanting revenge is new for me. I’ve only ever wanted to forget. But I’m stronger now, more confident in myself. And I know exactly why that is.

“Okay.” She forces a smile and we slip out the door. The moment I step from the coffee shop the horde gathered on the sidewalk starts snapping, flashing me into blindness. Normal people are pushing through to get my autograph. I sign every scrap of paper I can while being jostled about by the frenzied crowd of photographers. Thankfully the valet at a neighboring restaurant has hailed me a cab and the coffee shop manager helps usher me toward it.

“Carly! Carly! What’s it like working with Devon Hayes?” one shouts to me as I breeze past, secretly loving the attention but acting as if it’s a mild inconvenience like every well-trained starlet should.

“Best thing that’s ever happened to me!” I shout back playfully, because honestly? It is. As annoying as it is not to be able to finish a cup of coffee with a friend because of these fools, if I hadn’t gotten the part of Devon’s whore they wouldn’t care about me, and I would be just as lost as Maria instead of finding my way back to the light.

I sink back against the cloth seat of the cab and watch the chaos disappear outside my window, smiling to myself as we zip down the palm-tree-lined street. Oh, yes! Carly Klein is back.

Chapter Seventeen

“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” Jerrie sounds worried and condescending, like I invited the Grinch for Christmas dinner.

“Yes, I do. She needs help. You should have seen her.” I exhale a stream of smoke and stare at my computer screen where I have a picture of Devon, Angel and Heather on Christmas break in Aspen blown up to full screen. Lucky bitch. She’s wrapped in a black fur-trimmed parka and matching knee-high shearling boots. Of course she’s a lodge bunny. Skiing would mess her hair.

“I don’t think you should give her access to your apartment when you aren’t there, Carly. It doesn’t seem smart.” Jerrie is totally losing her patience with me, but I don’t care.

“Well, it’s not your decision. She’s moving in. Period.”

Jerrie sighs and I roll my eyes.

“What are you doing for your birthday tomorrow?” She finally gives up on the whole Maria thing and asks an even tougher question.

“Nothing. I’m staying right here on my couch with a movie marathon.” And photos of Devon
.
God bless the internet.

“Carly.” Her disapproving tone is the last thing I want to hear right now.

“What? I’m saving you a PR nightmare. Any reporter who’s ever watched
Easy Street
knows my birthday is Christmas day. They will make me look absolutely pathetic if I go anywhere by myself.” I crush out my cigarette and walk to the kitchen to refill my coffee cup. “If they don’t see me they won’t think about me and will assume I’m sunning my fabulous ass in the tropics. You should be thanking me.” The coffeepot clatters back onto its heating pad. I smooth my hair when I see my reflection staring back at me in the microwave’s glass door. I haven’t showered today. Still in PJs and yesterday’s makeup, I shuffle back to the couch to continue my online Devon stalking.

Jerrie sighs again, sensing the pointlessness of our argument.

I’m gloating over my tiny victory when there’s a knock at my door. I stop in my tracks, certain I’m hearing things. No one ever knocks on my door, especially not this late on Christmas Eve. They must have the wrong apartment. The knock comes again, louder this time.

“FedEx!” A voice echoes down the hallway. I peer through the peephole at a uniformed man holding a box. I’m instantly suspicious.

“I gotta go.” Against Jerrie’s escalating protests I snap the phone shut without even saying goodbye, smooth my hair and open the door.

“Miss Klein?” the man asks.

“Yes.” I warily up-down him between a sliver of open door, wondering if there’s a camera somewhere on his person. Because that’s how sneaky paps can be.

“Sign here?” He holds out the box and an electric signature pad that looks official enough. I reach a hand around the door and sign. He hands me the box with a nod of his cap; a quick
Merry Christmas
and he’s gone.

The box is really light, but I have to employ a kitchen knife to rip through the packing tape.

When I finally get it open, it nearly falls from my hands. It’s a dark purple velvet box. A shade of purple that’s synonymous with L.A.’s premier custom jewelry designer. On top of golden tissue paper, a thick cardstock note says:

Happy birthday
,
to you and Jesus.

Glad you lived to see another one.

—
D

You’ve got to be kidding me. He’s remembered my birthday. Something my parents, who actually birthed me into this fucked-up world, couldn’t even do. I rip away the tissue and find a golden chain looped through a small filigree cage loosely holding a familiar pearl. I’m shocked to motionless silence staring at the sparkly gold necklace in my palm and my insides feel empty, all the air having disappeared from my lungs.

He saved it! He saved it and he remembered! Men don’t do that if they don’t care. I run to the microwave and look at myself in the glass door as I fasten it around my neck. Hands trembling and a smile stretching over the entire width of my face. My heart is singing like a choir of angels and I want to shout from the rooftops that Devon Hayes loves me...but I wouldn’t dare.

Instead I settle for dancing around my apartment like a crazy woman.

My computer still sits open on the coffee table and I pick it up and plant a kiss on the screen right over Devon’s face. Oh, what I wouldn’t do for this man. Next I grab my phone from where I tossed it when I hung up on Jerrie and select Devon’s number to call him and thank him.

I stop just before I hit the send button and stare at the computer. He’s in Aspen. With his family. And even though this is an amazing gift, I know he won’t want me calling him now.

The phone vibrates in my hand as I’m holding it. It’s Jerrie. I sigh, and my celebration is temporarily snuffed.

“What?” I answer, beyond annoyed.

“Don’t hang up on me, Carly. It worries me,” she says in a brusque voice.

“Someone was at my door. What do you want?” My voice is harsher than it should be, but I really don’t appreciate her raining on my parade like I know she will.

“With all your Maria talk you didn’t give me time to share
my
news.” Ice cubes jingle on her end of the line. I lick my lips at the sound. But I’m so distracted by Devon that I don’t remember to recite my mantra.

“What news?” I huff impatiently, wanting to get back to making out with Devon’s photo and fantasizing about our reunion.

“Are you sitting down?” Her canned excitement is irritating.

“Sure,” I lie.

“I spoke with the studio yesterday. They love what they’ve seen of
The Mighty Fall
and want to sign you for two more movies! It’s not set in stone yet, but they wanted me to take your temperature on the idea.” Triumph makes her voice trill in my ear. But I don’t care. This is about the only news that could rip me away from my obsessive Devon fantasies.

“What?” The shock I felt over Devon’s gift is immediately trumped by the possibility of what this means. I stare blankly at beige carpet.

“Trilogies are big money right now. They think you can pull in a younger crossover crowd to match Devon’s appeal with older audiences.” I can tell she’s smiling and proud of herself, thinking she’s an awesome agent. If only she knew the real reason why I’m getting this offer. “Carly.” She pauses before she continues, to be sure she has my attention and I haven’t passed out from shock. “They’re offering ten million for each film.” My mouth goes dry and I sink to the dirty carpet, too dizzy to stand with the news she has just given me. I had no idea I could feel so empty and so electrified at the same time. The world is buzzing and my mind struggles to grasp the gravity of what she’s saying.

For someone like me, landing a blockbuster trilogy is like finding a grain of desert sand in Antarctica. It just doesn’t happen. “
Mighty
isn’t even done yet. How could they possibly know that?” Words are failing me right now because there really aren’t any that seem big or important enough to describe the odd mix of relief and fear and utter shock running through me. So my voice trails off and I clutch his necklace, staring into space. This has to be a joke. A cruel joke.

“Apparently Mr. Hayes shared some recent footage with them. They were blown away.” I’m mildly pricked by the mention of Devon’s name. A soft sound escapes me. A second gift from Devon. “They want to release the films back to back.”

“Well, I mean, yeah, but is there even a script yet?” Why is it so hard for me to say yes to anything? Of course I want this. I’ve never wanted anything more than to be back on top where I belong. But I’ve learned to be wary of good news.

“No, there’s no script,” Jerrie says impatiently, like discussing this is a total waste of time. “But it’s a historical movie. I’m sure it won’t stray too far from reality.” She lights a cigarette and takes a drag. “Same screenwriters, too.” She clears the smoke from her lungs.

“What happens after the king falls for the whore?” In my script we ride off into the sunset all happily ever after. Which is exactly how I imagine things go down in real life, too.

“Carly!” Jerrie scolds, and I can practically see the judgment dripping from her wrinkled eyes. “It’s an imaginative,
what if
adaptation loosely based on Anne Boleyn & Henry VIII. One of the most famous love stories ever. Don’t you remember your history?”

“You act like I had a regular education.” I turn back to the photo of Devon lighting up my laptop screen on the coffee table. History or not, I’d make a million films if it means more time with him. “But cool, whatever.” It’s the closest I can get to yes, and Jerrie knows it.

Again, her sigh says it all. She drops it.

“I talked to your mother yesterday,” she says. Immediately, I reach for a cigarette.

“I’m sorry,” I answer after my first drag, and run my fingers through my hair.

“She really wants to see you.” Jerrie is pleading with me before she even asks for anything.

“I really don’t want to see her.” I cross an arm over my chest resolutely. I left that woman in my past for a reason. And my life has gotten way too good in the past five minutes to be bothered by anything I don’t want to be bothered by.

“Oh, come on, Carly. She sounds different this time.” Jerrie drags out her words, waiting for me to say something. I say nothing. “She wouldn’t keep calling if she didn’t really want to see you. What harm can come from a little bit of conversation over lunch?”

I hate to admit it, but Jerrie’s right. There’s nothing my mother can possibly get from me now. I have total control of all my finances, Jerrie has to sign off on any major purchases and my mother knows better than to ask me for anything.

“Is she still with Dad?” Most of my anger has always been directed at my dad, but he was never sober enough to care, so my mom got to bear the brunt of my hate and rage. Which she definitely deserved. After all, she did leave me to raise myself while she spent every penny I made.

“No, she left him. They’re getting divorced.”

What in the hell did she just say? I’m beyond shocked—wide-eyed, openmouthed, stunned to silence kind of shocked. I thought the two of them would continue to wallow around in their shared toxic existence forever. Mom leaving his worthless ass is something I never thought I’d hear. Ever.

“Huh.” It’s all I allow myself to say, because any kind of reaction, good or bad, would show I still care about them. And I most definitely do
not
give a shit about what they do with their pathetic lives.

“Come on, Carly. It’s Christmas.” Jerrie is really working on me, and I feel like the bad guy here instead of the victim I’ve always made myself out to be. “Just lunch, that’s all she’s asking for.” I don’t know why I’m even considering it as Jerrie’s plea hangs on the phone line. Maybe because it’s Christmas. Maybe because I’m curious why she finally left Dad. Maybe because I don’t want to disappoint Jerrie, or maybe it’s because I’m feeling a little invincible these days with Devon and a multimillion-dollar movie deal in my pocket. After all, I’ll be back on location in two days. What’s the worst that could happen in an hour at lunch?

“Okay fine!” I practically yell into the phone. I’ll go, but it’s going to be on my terms. “Tomorrow at Hotel Bel-Air. Just lunch, though, nothing else. And I’m meeting her there,” I snap, and hang up the phone.

* * *

I’ve changed out of my standard issue black skinny jeans and managed to find a pretty dove-gray-and-navy-striped bell-sleeved dress in my closet for the occasion. It’s short and reveals the tan still browning my legs from Thanksgiving break. A pair of blood-red heels that match my leather cuff add a punch of color to the ensemble and I think I look pretty damn good as I breeze into the lobby past a tiny mob of flashing pap bulbs and find a chair to await my mother’s inevitably late arrival.

Thirty minutes later, my mother strolls through the revolving door—hair curled and fried, makeup overdone, tight sequined clothes proudly displaying her paid-for assets—the breathing version of a white trash Christmas tree. I wince and fake vomit to myself before she sees me. Why did I agree to do this? I wrap my hand around Devon’s necklace for strength, and approach the evil witch I have vowed to hate until I die. Seeing her again only reminds me how similar we are, down to the way we brush our hair away from our face. At least I was spared her awful sense of style.

“Hi, Mom,” I say as I approach. She takes the ridiculous sunglasses off her face and stares at me with buggy eyes. “Merry Christmas,” I add to fill the awkward silence she is completely oblivious to. I can only assume she’s shocked by how well I’m looking these days.

“Darling!” She overexaggerates the welcome when she recovers, just as she always has, squealing so loudly everyone turns to stare. She throws her arms in the air and then wraps them around me. My insides roll over themselves to know what a spectacle we are making and I want to slink away to a dark corner. But that’s not her style.

I’ve already asked the hostess to give us a secluded table inside, but my mother throws a fit, asking if they know who I am and demanding a table front and center. I force a smile, because
everyone
is looking by this time, and follow my satisfied mother and a confused hostess to a table outside in the middle of the restaurant terrace overlooking an immaculately lush garden. Thankfully most decent stars are still tucked away on fancy vacations so it is only a handful of hangers-on who witness my mortification.

My mother has had twenty years to remember my birthday. A solid five minutes to actually wish me happy birthday. But I can tell from the pompously stiff look on her face the thought hasn’t even crossed her mind. Because that’s my mother. It’s never about anyone but her. I sigh as I drop the napkin in my lap, feeling like the adult in the relationship.

“That’s a lovely necklace,” my mother says, eyeing the gift from Devon as she arranges her handbag in an empty chair and fluffs her hair. I consider throwing the fact that it’s a birthday gift in her face to see if she’ll remember, but what’s the point?

“Thanks.” I prop an elbow on the table and rest my chin in my hand with disinterest.