India's Summer (14 page)

“Annie, I’ve left you alone as long as I could. But I went to get you some magazines and there’s something in the papers you should see,” he said.

Annabelle sat up as Joss fixed the pillow behind her back. Taking the coffee cup from him, she took a sip and put it down the second she saw the cover of Us Weekly.

MAX AND ADAM IN LOVE TRIANGLE? screamed the headline above a picture of India getting out of Max’s convertible, her dress barely skimming the tops of her thighs, and another of her in Adam’s arms on the beach.

“What the…?”

She threw it down and picked up the Enquirer, which carried a blurry image of Max’s mangled car alongside a separate photograph of India barefoot, surrounded by flames.

Annabelle sat bolt upright and began reading out loud.

“Was Max Seeing Double? Annabelle Butler’s Twin Sister Caught in Dangerous Love Fest.” She carried on: “Max … recently split from Pearl … crashed his car in the early hours of the morning…. Distraught Adam Brooks rushes to his friend’s bedside… I can’t read any more of this crap. Where’s India? What’s going on? I’m getting up,” she said, throwing back the bedcovers. “I’ll be down in a minute. Have you spoken to her this morning?”

“Not yet. She’s showing Maria how to make scrambled eggs English style.” He picked up the papers and the half-full coffee cup. “I had a feeling this might blow up after what you told me last night,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m still not sure how they’ve managed to spin this one.”

“Me either.” Annabelle pulled a long La Perla cream satin tee shirt over her head. “Give me two minutes to brush my teeth.”

India gave Annabelle a cheery grin when she appeared soon after. It’s important to keep up morale, she’d decided earlier, arranging fresh-cut peonies from the garden as a centerpiece and setting the table with an array of jams and marmalade.

“Perfect timing,” India said, setting down a fruit plate and a jug of soy milk. “How did you sleep?”

“Good darling, I slept surprisingly well. This looks wonderful.” Annabelle dragged out a chair and reached across the table for orange juice. “Want some?” she asked Joss.

“Sure,” he said, piling his plate with eggs and turkey bacon and waving a piece of toast on his fork. “Well done, Maria.”

“Gracias.” Maria smiled, balancing a full laundry basket under one arm and opening the utility room door with the other. “Enjoy your breakfast.”

India joined them. “That was fun. I think Spanish could be my second language. Much easier than French. Everything just seems to have an o on the end of it … plastico, bueno, and my new word of the day, cuchillo – bread knife.” She beamed.

“Darling, I’m sorry to ruin your moment, but you need to see these,” Annabelle said, pushing a few plates aside.

India looked at the magazines, openmouthed. “Omygod! “Omygod. I’m sorry but I…”

“No need for apologies, Indie, we live with this all the time,” Joss said, pouring himself more coffee. “But right now my priority is making sure Annie doesn’t get hassled. I’ll get a fucking injunction to keep them away from the house if I have to. And I’ll get CAA on the case too, but I need to know exactly what’s going on.”

“Of course … of course…,” India affirmed, realizing this was the first time she’d ever seen Joss so angry. She quickly outlined the night, starting with the drive to Chateau Marmont. “I’ve just remembered something else,” Her eyes widened with surprise. “Adam called Max’s mother to tell her what had happened. I thought he was kidding when he said she might call US Weekly. Do you think she did? Surely she wouldn’t, not right in the middle of that kind of crisis?” She hesitated for a second. “And I told Alanna I was your sister when I introduced myself.” “Okay. We need to deal with this before things get any worse. I’ll make some calls,” Joss stood up and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “That was a great breakfast, Indie. Thanks.”

Annabelle stared at the pile of papers spread out in front of them and sighed.

“What’s this?” she asked, flicking over the picture of India high-fiving.

“It’s me straight after the firewalk,” India said proudly. “I called you about it. It was incredible.”

Annabelle had a vague flashback to something about fire, but India had been gabbling, not making sense, and Annabelle was only just home from a shoot.

“You did a firewalk? You did? How? Why? Why would you do that?”

“Not only that, but I went first!” India announced, thoroughly thrilled all over again.

Annabelle’s jaw dropped.

“I know…” India smiled proudly. “I know.”

Then India clapped her hands over her mouth and gasped. “But where would they have got that picture from, Annie? Hang on. I’ll call Sarah.”

“There’s that picture of me at the firewalk in the papers today,” she blurted to Sarah,

“Good evening to you too.” Sarah laughed. “Here I am curled up with the cat on one of my rare nights off, with a nice mug of hot cocoa, watching a rerun of Pride and Prejudice. Have you no pity?”

“Sarah, it’s the one you sent me where I’m leaping up and down like a lunatic.”

“That wouldn’t exactly narrow it down,” Sarah quipped. “They must have got it from the Gazette, I suppose. One of your kids, Pete Davies, landed in the hospital last week. His latest thrill was joy riding. He was a very lucky boy, nearly killed himself. The article said something about adrenaline rush and linked it to the firewalk. I didn’t want to mention it.”

“That’s awful. Sarah, Pete had a death wish before I ever taught him. I’m really glad he’s okay, though. I’m sitting here with Annabelle trying to fill in some of the blanks. There’s a pack of paparazzi camped outside the house and well … look, get back to your program, I’ll e-mail you.”

“I hope Annabelle’s feeling okay. Call me again as soon as you have any news. I’ll be thinking about you both. Sorry I can’t help more. And India – breathe!”

“Thanks, I will.” India put down the phone on top of the papers.

“It’s a picture our local paper got hold of,” she explained. “Annie, it’s obscene how the gutter press go round making things up and twisting things, isn’t it?”

“Yep.” Annabelle stood up. “It is. And I’m sick of it. I’m going to take a shower and call Rand, find out when I’m going in. I told him I’d need a few days to sort out the kids for camp and get myself together.”

“Let me clear the dishes while you do that,” India said, scrap-ing off a couple of plates and gathering up the silverware. So is this how I get my five minutes of fame? she thought, glancing down at the papers again. If they’re looking for a scarlet woman, they’ve got the wrong girl. Me a femme fatale? Hardly. A love triangle – I don’t think so. God, Annie could do without this right now.

“Set up the swing over there. The rainbow goes in front of the lemon trees. Cover the pool; olive trees over here. Statue, to the right a little more. Why am I working with morons? Move sweetie; you can fix your nails after you’re fired.”

Standing by the French windows, India took in the scene and stepped out onto the lawn in the white cotton robe Annabelle had told her to wear.

What an entourage, she thought. Hadn’t Joss said “just a few photos?”

Roadies were everywhere, dragging giant reflectors and yards of steel lighting racks, erecting lines of canvas canopies. The garden was reminding India of an outpost in Out of Africa (minus the crystal glasses and Meryl Streep).

How long do they plan on staying? she thought, eyeing the foldaway tables of sandwiches, salads, and pastas, the Cokes and Arrowhead water bottles. They’ve even brought their own barbecue grill.

Andy Goldberg, Annabelle’s PR rep, had moved quickly to set up the exclusive with People magazine. He’d set out the ground rules: schmaltzy focus on twin sisters, inconsequential fluff, sound bite on Annabelle working with Adam, India meeting him on vacation. No romantic links, all “just good friends.” Scripted. Period.

“India?”

India swung round. A guy in a cutaway Zadig & Voltaire tee and harem pants tucked into biker boots was at her side.

“Enchanté… I am Cameron, your stylist today,” he announced.

Cocking his head and placing one heavily tattooed hand on his hip, he swept his eyes over her. “Hmm… You’re an eight. But I do like a challenge. Brings out my creative side.”

Cheeky bastard, India thought.

Following him into one of the tents, she stood waiting while he thumbed endlessly through racks of clothing.

“Too small, too fitted… What is Karl THINKING this season? Valentino – don’t think sooo. Too short, too low… Okay THIS is DIVINE. I can work with this. We can pin the back; you’re clearly between sizes.” He held up a diaphanous white Rozae Nichols shift.

“Thank you,” she said icily, then followed him to a makeshift changing room.

Next, India’s toes were painted ballet pink by a young man whose fascination with her feet would have made her decidedly uncomfortable, were it not for the fact that he was wearing the same shade of ballet pink himself. While he fanned her toes, someone named Sebastian blow-dried her hair and then the makeup artist, a girl in a black sheath dress, took over. India noticed she was wearing no makeup except for a bright Chanel-red lipstick. She’s clearly going for the Tilda Swinton Award, India thought. The girl scrutinized India for a few seconds.

“I’m aiming for a very soft, natural look. “You have beautiful skin. Close your eyes please.”

After what seemed an age, India squinted a bit, wondering what could possibly be taking the girl this long, and realized she was tweezing on false eyelashes, one tiny clump at a time. Three applications of eye shadow, two layers of mascara top and bottom, a sponged-on foundation, blusher, lip liner, lipstick and a dousing of fine powder later, India had begun to writhe in the chair.

“That’s it,” the girl announced, holding up a hand mirror. “Barely there, a honeydew glow, and they’ll correct any flaws when they digitally enhance the photographs.”

India was surprised. “Barely there? After all that, I should look like a cross between Coco the Clown and Mae West.” She laughed.

India looked across at Annabelle. She looks positively transcendent! she thought as Annabelle walked elegantly toward her in a long pink Alexander McQueen silk dress, chiffon scarf, and Manolo silver thongs.

Annabelle was grateful for the opportunity to premiere this new look. Randy had told her the scar would be thin but it would be a few months before it could be completely disguised. She planned on wearing accent scarves until then.

“Okay, Miss Butler. We’re ready for you.” The guy at their side hesitated. “Should it be Miss Butlers plural?” He laughed.

“Yes,” India said, turning to Annabelle. “If we were men it’d be ‘Messrs.’ as in ‘Messrs. Boodle and Dunthorne’ – you remember the jewelry store in London, Annie?”

Annabelle didn’t answer. She was already in role, prepping herself for the shoot.

So this is “magazine casual,” India thought, balancing precariously on one side of a double swing that was covered in garlands of old-fashioned pink roses and staged in front of a porcelain cherub statue.

“Does anybody seriously believe we hang out in rose-covered arbors of an evening?” she whispered to Annabelle. “Don’t answer that.” The wind machine blew off a rose and a girl in a faux leopard coat apologized and told them to stay still while she adjusted a petal. A redhead in a short red polka-dot dress and extremely high platform boots proceeded to spray each rose with water.

How do you get those jobs? India wondered.

India and Annabelle were directed into poses: asked to look at each other and laugh, throw their heads back in gay abandon, or put them together for a more intimate shot. Then they were directed to a squashy white linen couch where an anonymous voice from behind a still camera and a heap of trailing wires directed them.

“Heads together, laugh, look over here – lift your chin, India. Great. Good. Okay, lean forward. Lean back. Look up. Toss your hair. Powder please! We’re going shiny… Great smile. To the left, up here… Beautiful … yes…”

Make your mind up, India thought irritably. It must be a hundred degrees under this frigging canopy.

“Okay. It’s a wrap.”

It was over. My God, if only removal men in London worked like that, India thought, as within seconds the set was dismantled and the equipment disappeared into black vans.

Sasha the journalist arrived full of apologies for being late. She’s so tiny, she looks like she fell off a charm bracelet, India thought. She’s even thinner than Angel, that trainer of Adam’s. Blocking out the thought, India took in Sasha’s cream shift dress, which was cut wide at the neck and fell to one side revealing a razor-sharp shoulder blade. She arranged herself opposite them, and then, tucking one long leg behind the other, threw back her waist-length blonde streaked hair. She paused for effect before going through her list of tightly scripted questions, and the sisters gave their answers from crib sheets.

“Thank you both; this has been awesome,” Sasha gushed.

Annabelle stood up. “It’s been a pleasure,” She turned to the young man who had appeared at her side.

“Miss Butler, my friend is such a huge fan of yours … would you mind?” he said adoringly, holding out a pen.

This subterfuge still amused Annabelle. “Of course.” She signed his notepad with a practiced twirl.

Sidestepping crates and boxes to get to the house, India was horrified to see the “rose-arranger” trashing the roses, breaking the stems, and throwing them into a plastic bag. What a waste, she thought. I’d have loved to have had them in my room.

“That was great, darling. You were fantastic,” Annabelle said, climbing into the Lincoln next to India a short while later. “You handled it all like a pro.”

“I enjoyed it.” Understatement of the year, she thought, tugging at a few stray false eyelashes. Now I know what it feels like. It must be incredible to get paid so much to do what Annie does. It didn’t feel like work at all.

There was a mob of paparazzi at the end of the driveway. Paparazzi. India thought, Why do they have such an exotic name? They all look so scruffy and ordinary.