Just Like Me, Only Better (33 page)

“So Brady knows about the book?”

“Yup. I told him about it when I called to quit as his manager.”

“But doesn’t that leave you with . . .”

“A stand-up comic, a performance artist, and a handful of D-list actors who will be lucky to be cast in commercials. And, oh—a documentary filmmaker. Remember Kim Rueben, who we met at the film premiere?”

“But you said there’s no money in documentaries.”

“There isn’t. And there isn’t a lot of money in comedy or commercials, either.” He looked around the beautiful, expensive room. “Financially, I did pretty well as Haley’s manager. So it’s not like I’m starting from nothing. From now on, I’m only going to take on people who know what they want and are willing to work for it.”

“And who aren’t crazy?”

He looked at me and grinned. “That would leave me with nothing.”

“Was Haley always this way?” I asked.

He shook his head. “When I first met Haley, I was a production assistant on that sitcom,
The Crazy Life of Riley Poole
. It ran for three seasons, which I never understood since it didn’t seem like anyone watched it. It just got lucky on the time slot. But Haley always looked so thrilled to be on set. She stood out, too. Not because she was such a great actress, but because she just oozed innocence and enthusiasm.

“One evening I gave her a ride home. We hardly knew each other, but it was late and she couldn’t get ahold of her mother—which was pretty typical. Their neighborhood was crappy, so I walked her to the door. And then asked if I could have a drink of water.” He paused to sip his tea before continuing.

“The apartment was disgusting: clothes, filth, dirty dishes, papers. There wasn’t even a clean glass. I asked Haley if she was going to order a pizza or something for her dinner—there was no way anyone could cook in this place—and she said no because she didn’t have any money.”

His voice grew angry. “This kid had been working since she was nine years old, and her mother didn’t give her a dime. Supposedly it was all in a trust, but that was total bullshit. So, for the next few years, I helped Haley out—drove her places, got her dinner. I even bought her a new pair of sneakers once. And you’ve got to understand, I hardly made enough money to buy my own food and clothes.

“We made a deal: when she turned eighteen, she’d fire her mother, and I’d become her manager. I’m not going to lie. It wasn’t completely—or even mostly—altruistic. I knew this kid was going places, and I wanted to be along for the ride. But I really thought that once Haley got away from her mother, once she got some financial security, she’d be okay.”

He shook his head and finished his tea, still lost in his memories of a freckle-faced teenager who loved to perform.

“I never thought things would get this out of control,” he said.

I put my empty mug on the table. “I’d better go. Ben gets out of school at three.”

We stood up at the same time and carried our mugs to the kitchen, setting them side by side in the sink.

“How is my pal Ben?” he asked.

“Good,” I said. “Better now that I’m not pretending to be Haley.”

“Tell him I said hi.”

“I will.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

“For what?”

He ran a hand through his hair, which still needed a trim. “For sucking you into this whole mess. You’re just—you’re too nice. Too trusting. You see the best in people, even when there’s not a lot of good to see.”

“You mean Brady.”

“Actually, I meant me.”

We were standing very close, next to the sink. Outside the window, birds jumped among the tree branches. The afternoon sun brought out the gold in his eyes.

He said, “My comic is doing the opening monologue at the Brea Improv this weekend. So if you’re free Saturday—or Friday or whatever works—”

“I’d love to,” I said.

“Great.”

And then I remembered. “But I can’t. It’s my weekend with Ben.” Nothing kills a romantic mood like the mention of a child, but Ben had to come first.

“Maybe I could come out early then. Take the two of you out to dinner?”

“He’d love that. I’d love that.” Mischief bubbled up inside of me. “How about Red Lobster? They’ve got one at the Brea Mall.”

Jay paled. On impulse, I leaned forward and kissed him. “Gotcha.”

He hesitated for only a moment before taking me in his arms. When we broke apart I was almost afraid to look at his face. Was he thinking about Haley?

He smiled. “That was nice.”

“Not like kissing Haley?”

He looked horrified. “I never kissed Haley. And I never wanted to. What I meant that time you were here, what I should have said earlier—” He sighed in exasperation.

“What?”

“From the day we had lunch and you walked in looking all sweet and school teacher-y, I just, I just—”

“What?”

“That was it. I was done for. The only thing that put me off was how much you looked like her. But the more I got to know you, the less I even saw the resemblance. And then when you were here, out on the deck . . . It felt so right. And then the kiss . . .”

“Yeah. The kiss.”

“It was all so perfect, and then I opened my eyes, and there you were with Haley’s hair and makeup and dress and it was just—
aargh
!”

“You mean, you didn’t kiss me because I looked like Haley?”

“God, no! I
stopped
kissing you because you looked like Haley.”

“I wish you’d said that at the time.”

“Me, too.” He smoothed my hair. He gave me one more kiss and then said, “You’d better go. Don’t want to keep Ben waiting.”

I got to Las Palmas Elementary School five minutes early. The moms and dads were waiting, perched on benches or pacing the blacktop, ready to feed their children sliced apples and peanut butter crackers, to ferry them to Little League, piano lessons, tutors, or ballet. There were no cameras on hand to record the moment, no stylists or screaming fans.

Finally, the bell rang, and the doors swung open. The children streamed out, as their parents called:

The children looked up and smiled, basking in the glow.

 

 

 

I was maybe a hundred pages into telling this story before I realized that I didn’t know nearly as much about the entertainment industry—or even Los Angeles—as I thought I did. And so: a bazillion thanks to my good friend Rafael Suarez, who gave me guided tours through West Hollywood, Los Angeles, and Beverly Hills; answered multiple phone queries; and reviewed my final manuscript. Any inaccuracies in this book are entirely Rafael’s fault, so please direct all complaints to him.

I am indebted to the people who posted YouTube videos of themselves getting hair extensions and spray tans. They were very helpful. Bonnie Largent was nice enough to answer my questions about substitute teaching, which is why I named a character after her. The real Mrs. Largent is not pregnant. At least, not that I know of.

Thank you to Cindy Hwang, Leis Pederson, and all the wonderful people at Berkley for turning my manuscript into a real-live book; to the art department for designing yet another clever cover; and the sales department for getting the final pretty product into stores.

I am, as always, grateful to Stephanie Kip Rostan for being such a brilliant agent, sounding board, and friend, as well as Monika Verma, Miek Coccia, Elizabeth Bishop, and everyone else at the Levine Greenberg Literary Agency for their smarts, professionalism, and overall niceness.

Finally, thanks and love to my parents, Tom and Peggy Snow, for giving me a normal childhood, and to my husband, Andrew Todhunter, for cheering me on, making me pizzas, and reminding me that I always panic halfway through my books—and yet they always turn out just fine. At least, I think they do.