Sleeping Beauty (21 page)

“Either way, I can get you in to see someone right away–tomorrow. You let me know.”

“Okay.”

She rubs my arm. “You going to be okay?”

I grip the arm rests of the chair. “No. I’m absolutely not going to be okay. Not the least little bit.”

I wander back to the waiting room. Davin drops his magazine when he sees me. He wordlessly crosses the room and holds the door for me. No surprise there; he would never ask me anything in front of other people, especially not in a place where fifty percent of them are already pointing at me and whispering to each other over copies of
US Magazine
.

I get into Davin’s van, feeling like I’ve just been Tasered.
But I must not look that bad
, I think, watching Davin as he maneuvers the van out of the lot and onto the road.
He would have asked. He would see it
.

Wrong and wrong.

We’re turning into Andy’s long driveway, winding down the hill past the main house when he reaches for the radio knob and turns the volume down. “Do you have a particular time in mind, Claire-Bo?” he says as he eases the car into the guest house garage. “Because I have kind of a busy schedule today.”

I jump. “A time for what?”

“For when you’re going to tell me what’s wrong.” The car slows to a stop. He kills the ignition, leaving us in silence save the ticking of the engine.

I open my door, but I don’t get out. “Nothing’s wrong. I was just trying to figure out how to fill this, uh, antibiotics prescription,” I say, waving the blue paper at him.

“Well, why the hell didn’t we stop somewhere on the way?” he huffs.

He tries to snatch it from my hand, but I hold it out of reach. He eyes me for a few seconds while my heart hammers away.

“What’s going on, gidget?” he says.

“Nothing’s going on,” I say.

“That’s crap.”

I turn on him. “What do you care for anyway? Do you know how many times I’ve called you in the last month? I’ve emailed you, sent you text messages, and you never answer!”

“I answered today, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you did. Thank you.” I pause. “Davin, are you and West–”

“You want me to fill that prescription for you, or what?”

“I know it’s none of my business, but I wonder if you not calling me has anything to do–”

“I can be back in an hour with it.”

“I don’t need you to fill my prescription, okay?”

He wordlessly watches my close brush with a nervous breakdown. “Well, in that case, I’d appreciate it if you’d get out of my car so I can resume activities that were already in progress.”

I fight a sob, my entire body shuddering at the effort and practically shoot out of the car before the dim overhead light shows my face. I yank my purse out after me without looking back. I swallow hard and turn around to try one last time. “Davin, I just want to tell you that no matter what’s happened between you and West, that I love you like–”

“Don’t you dare say–” he starts. His words are cut short by the pounding of his fist on the steering wheel. “Fuck!” Without looking at me, he throws the van into reverse, does a squealing, three-point turn on the driveway apron, and he’s gone.

Chapter Sixteen

October 31
^st

Andy Gordon has rented an entire three-story L.A. club, The Snake Pit, on Halloween for the
Evensong
wrap party, so naturally everyone’s been ordered to appear in costume. In expectation of the huge crowd of screaming teens who will turn out to catch a glimpse of Jonathan Varner, the street’s been cordoned off for half a block in every direction.

“Just follow everyone else,” I say to Brendan, pointing to the orange cones that are diverting regular traffic away from the club a full block before the entrance. “Once you get on the side street, Andy says you’ll see the parking garage on the right.”

Even if we hadn’t been given excellent directions, the orange neon sign reading
EVENSONG OVERFLOW—PREPARE TO SHOW INVITATION
would probably have tipped us off. Brendan turns into the underground lot, the front of his car dipping downward into the yawning mouth of concrete.

“I still think this is a mistake,” he says once he’s flashed our invite to the attendant and the gate arm rises to let us through. His eyes are flitting around, like he’s waiting for some crazed fan to jump out of the cracks in the wall.

I sigh. “I don’t want to wait in a line of limousines. I’ve got no interest in making a grand entrance.” His jaw tightens. I reach over and touch his hand. “Hey. It’ll be fine, okay? I mean, who’s going to recognize me? My brother wouldn’t recognize me in this. We’ll be able to just sneak right in. And we can have a valet get the car if we want to leave early.”

I run my hand over the bright red yarn of my Raggedy Ann wig. “And I wish you had at least tried. I mean, you can’t dress as a doctor for Halloween if you actually
are
a doctor. It’s against the law, I think.”

“It is, huh?” he says, distracted by the task of finding a parking space. “Who arrests you? A special division of the fashion police?”

“I’m just saying that I can’t believe I had to ask
Andy
to be Raggedy Andy.”

He adjusts the stethoscope around his neck and smoothes the collar of his white physician’s coat. “I barely got away from the hospital after fourteen hours,” he says, rubbing his eyes, both of which are blood-shot and sporting darker-than-usual circles underneath. “I apologize if I didn’t have a movie makeup department at my disposal to come up with something better.” He glances at me. “Not to mention an Oscar-winning designer for my costume.”

I flip the sun visor down to check my makeup in the mirror. Alex has covered my face with a flesh color that’s a few shades darker than my own skin, and drawn the black lines of the famous doll’s smile off to either side of my mouth before painting the red triangular nose and outlining it in black.

Acting is supposed to be my thing, but right now it’s a good thing there’s a smile painted on my face, because I’m feeling as far from cheerful as it’s possible for someone to be. I’ve been in a high state of anxiety for the past three days, and I still can’t think of how to tell him that I’m pregnant, partly because I’m terrified that he’s going to be wallow in some more guilt if he finds out that I conceived during my four “missing weeks.” I definitely don’t want to go back to playing Spin the Bottle.

“You look fine. Are we going?” says Brendan.

“Hold on, I have to put in the lenses.”

He grimaces. “God, Claire, please don’t wear those. You look like something out of a zombie movie.”

“Raggedy Ann has black glass eyes,” I say. “I want my costume to be perfect.”

I balance the lens case on my knee to keep my hands free. It’s hard work to stretch your upper and lower lids far enough apart to get the full-coverage black lenses in, but I manage it in one try both times. Once they’re in place, I blink very slowly and carefully until I feel the air bubbles trapped underneath the lenses break free. Then I check the mirror. The lenses cover my entire eye–pupil, iris, whites. Alex painted white circles around each eye, and added a few strokes of black paint to simulate Raggedy Ann’s lower lashes.

“Why didn’t you just put those in at home?” says Brendan.

“I told you. They’re thick. I can’t see through them very well.”

We both get out at the same time. I wobble around to his side on my black platform Mary Janes, the only part of the outfit that is definitely
not
true Raggedy Ann. “Well? How do I look?” I shimmy once, and the flounce of the dress kicks up enough to reveal the tops of the red-and-white-striped thigh-highs.

He looks me over, his lips puckering the way he does when he’s faintly amused. “You look cute. And really, really creepy.” He grabs my hand and starts walking towards the garage exit. “I’d say you’ve managed to push all the way to the top of the ‘adorable and sinister’ category.”

“What did I beat out?” I say, trying to keep up with his longer stride.

“Circus clowns and snowmen.”

“Perfect.”

As I suspect, not a single person between the parking garage and the entrance to the club recognizes me. I breeze right past hordes of paparazzi, their cameras at the ready, without a single person shouting “Claire!” or “Ms. Beau! Over here, Ms. Beau!”

“That’s it, I’m dressing like this every single day,” I say as we get closer to the place, electronica music shaking the walls of the club so hard I can feel my skull vibrating.

The line into the club slowly inches forward. I get impatient, craning my head to see what’s causing the hold-up. It takes me a second to figure out the problem. “Oh, god, we’re going to be here until New Year’s.”

“What?” says Brendan. He leans out of the line, trying to see what I’m seeing.

A front-of-the-line sampler: a Storm Trooper from Star Wars, a fully-armored gladiator, and Kali, the Hindu goddess of death. The latter has been painted azure blue from head to toe, and has half a dozen prosthetic arms jutting from her torso, one of which is gripping a very realistic-looking decapitated head.

Unfortunately, the big, burly guy at the door has been charged with the unenviable task of confirming the identities of the people in line, cross-referencing the actual person and name on the invitation with a photo in front of him –a black and white headshot no doubt provided by the film studio–all while trying to prevent actual weapons from getting through the doors.

Ahhh, what to do when your headshot doesn’t resemble the Queen of Hearts from Alice in Wonderland
? I muse to myself.

“Raggedy Ann! There you are! Get over here!”

The entire line turns to watch a life-sized Raggedy Andy Gordon heading straight for me. It takes me a second to remember that “Ann” is me. “Andy! Oh, my god, look at you!”

His blue overalls and plaid shirt are just right, even if they weren’t made by Ivana Ivanova. The makeup department was game for making both of our wigs, and the red yarn hair peeping from the sides and front of his blue and white cap is picture-perfect. I convinced him to get the same black full contact lenses that I had, but now that I see them on someone else I agree that they’re pretty freaky.

“Doc,” he says, greeting Brendan with a hand shake and a thump on the back. “Working late again, or is this bullshit costume the best you could do?”

Brendan groans. “Is there alcohol in this place or what? I have a feeling I’m going to be hearing that complaint all night.”

“Open bar,” says Andy, leading the way past the doorman and a cluster of uniformed police officers. “Private rooms for a select few. Right this way!”

“Wait! Where’s the–?” But they’re gone before I can ask for the directions to the restroom.
I’ll ask the doorman
. When I turn around, a disembodied blue arm smacks me in the nose, hard enough to make my eyes water.

“Sorry, Claire!”

“Alex?” I bat the blue arm aside so I can see her face.

She strikes a pose and grins. “Ta-da!”

I take in all the different pieces of her costume, and shake my head. “Did you see the Blue Man Group one too many times or something? You look like a genetically-engineered Smurf.”

She scowls at me. “Someone dressed like an alien that’s body-snatched a rag doll shouldn’t be talking.” She studies my full-coverage black lenses and shudders. “Seriously, don’t make a habit of wearing those. The last movie I worked on, they almost caused permanent damage to one of the actor’s corneas.” She glances behind me, a puzzled expression on her face.

“What?”

“Six up,” she says, looking back and forth several times from me to something over my shoulder.

“Six up?” I repeat, utterly confused.

“Cops!” she hisses.

“Six cops? Oh, yeah,” I nod. “I saw them too. A lot of security.”

“No, dumb-ass! They’re right behind–”

“Claire Beau?”

I spin around to find one of L.A.’s finest holding out a pocket-sized notepad and pen.

“Do you mind signing an autograph?”

He says this in a monotone, with no enthusiasm whatsoever. I’ve had cops request my signature on a speeding ticket with more zeal than this would-be fan.

“Sure,” I say, reaching for the pad and pen. “What’s your name?” He doesn’t respond. I look up to find him scanning the lobby.

The cop next to him gives him a nudge in the arm. “She wants your name, Cawley.”

The man snaps back to our conversation. Instead of his name he says, “Did you check in at the podium?”

I don’t know how to answer, the question is so absurd. I peek at Alex for her reaction. She shrugs. “Check in?” I say, scratching a few words on the pad. I snap it closed and hand it back to him.

He nods towards the podium where the still-frazzled gatekeeper is trying to positively identify a woman painted as a marble statue, complete with marble base. “Did you bring a guest, Ms. Beau? Come here alone?”

Oh, great
, I think.
A stalker
and
a cop…just what I need
. Then it dawns on me.
Wait a minute
…

It wasn’t exactly a state secret among the
Evensong
cast and crew what I was dressing up as tonight. Everyone knew I was playing Ann to Andy Gordon’s Raggedy Andy, but even the paparazzi didn’t recognize me. I study the officer. “How did you know who I was?”

Officer Cawley clears his throat, stalling. Finally, he thrusts a piece of paper at me. “Here’s my business card. I’d like you to call me so we can talk.”

Alex pushes me towards the double doors leading to the main part of the club. “Sorry, officer,” she says. “No interviews.”

Once we clear the doorway, Alex shoves me sideways. We stand there, me holding one of her six blue hands, our backs pressed against the wall. It’s difficult to see anything through the dark lenses, but under the flashing lights I can just make out the humanish shapes of the cast, crew and plus-ones writhing to the beat, the music so deafening that the empty drink glasses at a nearby table are literally bouncing up and down.