Messy (22 page)

“I trust your judgment,” Molly said sincerely.

“So I will just chill out and keep rolling with it. Whatever it is,” Max stated, almost like a resolution.

Her phone rang.
JAKE DONOVAN
, it read. Max picked it up and waved it at Molly. “See? The universe agrees with me.”

Max accepted the call. “Hey, Jake!” she said. “Awesome to hear from you!” Then she recoiled a little inside—it sounded too hearty, too false.

“Hey! So we’re still on for Saturday, right?” he asked.

“Yep,” she said, trying to sound supremely relaxed and confident.

“… AND SO THEN ANNA FURY
was, like, ‘I hold you in
contempt
,’ and I had to be, like, ‘Honey, you are not your mother, and these people are not here because one of them is suing a roommate for puking in the dishwasher,’ and Justine was all, ‘Oh, snap,’ and then I adjourned the meeting and came here. And that’s all you missed.”

“Interesting,” Brooke said, eyeing her apprentice. “Did you change your hair, Brie?”

Brie touched her head gingerly. Her light brown locks, once straight, had been jazzed up with golden highlights, curls, and what looked like extensions. “Do you like it?” she asked. “I just felt like I needed something more… authoritative.”

“Everyone listens more to blondes,” Brooke averred.

Brie crossed her arms proudly. “I even got a near-unanimous majority when we voted on the theme.”

Brooke covered her eyes. “Please tell me they didn’t pick the one where Mavis Moore wanted every ride to be named after an internal organ. That girl is so weird.”

“As if,” Brie said. “We actually went with my idea for a regular carnival. I won everyone over by saying we could have a Hollywood bit at the entrance—like, a patch of red carpet so people can get fake-papped on their way in, and then a booth where you can put on loaner gowns and get your picture taken to see if they’re see-through. That sort of stuff.”

“We should invite some
real
celebrities to that,” Brooke said. “Did you see what that chick who used to be on
Greek
wore to The Ivy last weekend?”

“Right? I saw more nipple than her gynecologist does,” Brie said, sitting down on Brooke’s chaise longue and crossing her legs.

Brooke snorted. “You sound like me.”

Brie gave her a hopeful smile. “That’s the idea!”

Brooke stood up and stretched. “Well, that should do it,” she said. “Thanks for the update. Now I need complete solitude to prepare for my date tonight. It’s very important.”

Brie stood back up, gathered her stuff, and headed for Brooke’s door. “It’ll be great, no matter what you wear,” she said loyally. “That boy doesn’t stand a chance.”

“
Obviously
,” Brooke said, with a tinkling laugh.

But as soon as the bedroom door closed, Brooke headed
straight to her picture window for some therapeutic pacing (well, as therapeutic as it could be in four-inch Brian Atwoods; Brooke never went long without wearing stilettos, in case her arches got complacent). She was nervous. And tired. It was her first day off after a triumphant week of shooting, and instead of going with Arugula to Burke Williams for a massage and a mud bath, she was gearing up for more acting—this time, on her big date with Brady.

She had total confidence that she’d nail the visuals. Wearing a wig every day, rather than styling her own hair, left her blonde tresses less overworked and a bit shinier than usual. She’d double-dipped on the Crest Whitestrips that morning and had one more set ready to go, to negate any negative effects from her 4
PM
Diet Coke. She’d squeezed in a quick leg wax on the way home from the studio yesterday, and she’d picked out the perfect dress: a gray ombre Elizabeth and James silk-satin shift that made her blue eyes pop, and which looked relaxed but chic when she added a wide belt and booties. Those Olsen twins might look like pint-sized Wiccan hobos in person, but they definitely knew how to design a dress.

The other part of the date, the actual
out loud
part, was causing Brooke more stress. All week she’d seen Brady having animated chats with Brick—who had brought Brady a custom Green Tea Power Bar to try, which was basically the equivalent of adopting him—and laughing in corners with Max about whatever Syfy movie about mutant eels had just aired. But she herself had only
grabbed Brady for very brief exchanges so far. In part, that was because every day had been just busy enough that they kept getting interrupted—either she was on set, or he was, or both of them were—but mostly, to be honest, Brooke deliberately kept things light and short. She secretly liked how it felt when Brady asked her intelligent questions and expected her to know the answers. Unfortunately, she sometimes didn’t. He hadn’t tripped her up yet, but what if she burned through all her good luck? She wanted to save up all her universe-allotted high-IQ moments for when they were out alone, so that she didn’t find herself sitting at Craft staring stupidly at one of Tom Colicchio’s steaks. Because she
wasn’t
stupid. She just wasn’t Max.

Brooke rested her head on the sliding door out to the balcony and heard a stream of chatter through the glass.

Max.

Brooke pasted on her most accessible, innocent smile and flounced onto the patio. Max and Molly were sitting on Molly’s end, sorting through an enormous pile of clothes.

“Making a Goodwill run?” Brooke asked sunnily. “I’m pretty sure I have some Marc Jacobs stuff that needs to be evicted.”

Max glowered at her. “These are my actual clothes. We’re… going through them.” She shivered. “I had to get out of my house. Teddy is driving me insane. He’s so nervous about the band competition tonight that he drank four Red Bulls in a row.”

“Shouldn’t you be over there with him, soothing his troubled brow or whatever it is that devoted girlfriends are supposed to do?” Brooke asked Molly.

Molly shook her head. “He said he wants to focus. So I’m meeting up with Max and Jake at the House of Blues for the show, and I’ll see him then.”

Max looked horrified. “I told you not to say anything about Jake in front of her.”

“Relax,” Brooke said. “You’re forgetting that I’m friends with Jake’s ex-girlfriend. Jennifer screamed at me about your date for an hour last night. Something about him not valuing her enough to wait a month before his rebound girl.”

“Brooke,” Molly warned, as Max’s expression turned slightly queasy.

“Not that I think you are a rebound,” Brooke amended sweetly, sitting down on one of the patio chairs. “
She
said that. She’s a little insane right now. I wouldn’t be surprised if she stalks you around town the whole night.”

Max looked stricken. “Maybe this is a bad idea.”

“Oh,
please
,” Brooke said. “Twitter was invented to find out what celebrities eat for lunch, not for yelling at your boyfriend. I love Jennifer, but she deserved to get dumped. Now, what do we have here?”

She reached into the pile, then thought better of it and grabbed a pair of tweezers she’d left sitting on the table. “What
is
this?” she asked, using them to lift up something stripey.

“Tights,” Max said.

“No,” Brooke said, throwing them off to the side. “You are not in a Tim Burton movie. Next?”

Max dug around and pulled out a T-shirt whose sleeves were covered in grommets, as Brooke’s tweezers hooked one that said
GOOD GRAMMAR COSTS NOTHING
.

“No, and no,” Brooke said again. “You are not a walking PSA, and you are also not looking for a curtain rod to hang from.” She sighed. “This is a mess. You need help. You need…” Her face darkened, then lit up so brightly the sun would’ve felt irrelevant. She had her plan. “You need
me
.”

“Oh, God, here we go,” Molly muttered.

“No way,” Max said. “No makeovers, remember?”

“Come on, just this one time?” Brooke wheedled. “You want to knock Jake off his feet, right? You want this to be memorable, right?” Max appeared to be listening. “And you want to know he’s not going to look at you all night and think,
Man, Jennifer’s hair was such a nice, normal color
, right?” she pressed.

“Seriously, Brooke, lay off,” Molly said.

“I’m just saying, this is big. And so I think she should bring in the big guns.” Brooke looked triumphant. “And I am heavy artillery. I am, like, the bazooka of makeovers.”

“She kind of has a point,” Max said, turning to Molly. “I mean, I brought half my closet over here in a duffel bag because I couldn’t deal with this on my own.”

“Then you definitely need my help,” Brooke said. “And you’d only need to do, like, one
tiny
thing for me in return.”

“I knew it,” Molly said.

Brooke made them wait another second for dramatic effect—she considered it good practice for her day job—and then announced, “You have to make it a double date with me and Brady.”

Max stood up and went a little white. Well,
whiter
. “What? No.”

“It’ll be fun!” Brooke said, even starting to believe it. Now that she’d thought of this, it seemed like she couldn’t
not
take Max, in case she got into some kind of intellectual muddle.

“What, the four of us sitting at a table pretending it isn’t totally
awkward
that we’re on a group first date? Yeah, that sounds super fun,” Max said sarcastically. “My presence will really add to the ambience when you’re sitting in Brady’s lap feeding him fries or whatever.”

“It’s just that you’re so
smart
,” Brooke began in earnest.

“So is Arugula. Take her.”

Brooke rolled her eyes. “She doesn’t even know Brady. And she’d probably bring some boring science major from UCLA and then talk to us for three hours about how her dad invented a new kind of lettuce.”

“Not my problem. I’m not going with you.”

“Pleeeeeease?”

“I don’t need to watch you lead him on.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Brooke said crossly. “This is just a casual getting-to-know-you. I’m sure nothing’s actually going to happen.”

“Does
he
know that?”

Brooke waved her hand. “Details,” she said. “It’s more convincing this way, which is good for publicity.”
And for Brick
.
And for me.
She raised her right hand. “I swear on some invisible religious text that I won’t lead him on in any way. Does that help?”

“I’m still not coming.”

Brooke sprang off the edge of her patio lounger and walked to the railing, where she stared down at the pool. She knew Max being less than pliable was a good thing for their joint project, but she found that trait frustrating when it meant that she couldn’t BS her way through moments like this. To Brooke, honesty was rarely the best policy; it usually was more like ammunition for the enemy. She would know. She’d been on the firing squad before. Still, with no other options…

“I can’t believe you’re going to make me say this,” she said, pouting. “But… fine. I feel like I might screw this up if you’re not there to bail me out. Like, what if he asks me about
Hunger Games
again? I only read the first and last chapters.”

“You’re an actress,” Max said. “Fake it.”

“I don’t think you realize how much acting I’m already
doing
,” Brooke whined.

“That’s not my problem! I’m not going to be some kind of intellectual translator service,” Max said. “Anyway, I’m sure the first time you bat your eyelashes he’ll get so distracted that you could answer him in Farsi and be fine.”

Brooke considered this. It was possible. But while she firmly believed that her eyelashes had powers, she didn’t fancy her chances of rendering him mute for
that
many hours.

“No. I need the help,” she said plainly. “Daddy gave him a limited-edition Power Bar, Max. I can’t blow this.”

Silence. Max wasn’t budging. Brooke simply stared at her, trying to read her face (or intimidate her into saying yes). Why was Max being so stubborn? She was acting like a jealous…
Oh, God. Of course.

“I asked if you liked him and you said no,” Brooke said. “Was that a lie? Are you the one leading somebody on here? Do I need to call Jennifer?”

“Give her a break, Brooke,” Molly intervened. “She doesn’t want to do it.”

“But what is her hang-up? She was on board enough to help arrange this thing in the first place.” Brooke turned to Max, exasperated. She wasn’t used to not getting her way, and it was making her bratty. “Listen, Brady will thank us when the
Us Weekly
coverage lands him on the B-plus-list,” she insisted. “It’s what every actor wants. And don’t you think it’d hurt him more if this evening goes badly and then he’s stuck working with me every day? It might tank his performance, Max. So do this for
him
.”

Max tensed her jaw, and then finally she looked up at Brooke with a resigned expression on her face. “Maybe I
can
make you a cheat sheet or something,” she said. “But that’s as far as I go.”

Brooke clasped her hands together, thrilled. “Really? Max, you are the best,” she crowed. “But let’s not call it a cheat sheet, okay? It sounds so lowbrow.”

Max rolled her eyes. “Fine. Flash cards,” she said. “I’ll write down a couple things you might want to know, or something you can talk about, and whenever you get stuck, just pretend you’re looking for your lip gloss in your purse and then read one. Is that enough? Can we please stop all this blah-blah about a double date?”

Brooke beamed. “Whatever you say,” she said. “And in return, you get the full Brooke Berlin glamour treatment.” Max started to back away but Brooke grabbed her by the sleeve. “I insist,” she said. “It’s the least I can do. Come with me.”

“Am I going to regret this?” Max asked.

Brooke placed her hands on Max’s shoulders. “Beautification is my specialty, Max. Let me use
my
talent for
you
,” she said, feeling a burst of altruism. Brooke Berlin, social philanthropist. “Just leave it to me. Jake won’t know what hit him.”

And neither will Brady.

In a totally platonic, publicity-friendly way, of course.