A Safe Space (Someone Else's Fairytale Book 4) (9 page)

“Better.”

“This is for when she testifies in court in the second episode,” says the costume designer.

“Wait,” I say, “in court?”

She gives me a look that lets me know that I am Being Very Difficult.

“I’ve been to court, like when I got emancipated. My lawyer was really strict because she said I could be sent away to change if I was inappropriate. Nothing above the knee, and nothing like this sweater.”

“It’s called poetic license,” she says.

Julian nods subtly, just enough to let me know to let it slide.

“And then around her house, you’ll be wearing things like this.”

She holds up tight-fitting yoga pants that are fine. Those are the sort of thing I work out in. Then she holds up a shirt that is slashed open to below the breastbone, low enough that it’ll be a challenge not to have my bra showing. Though maybe I’m supposed to have my bra showing. Or maybe I’m not supposed to be wearing a bra.

“The idea,” she goes on, “is to be classy about it, not trashy. We’ll have the hair department put your hair up more, show that nice long neck of yours. If you could please not wear a bra with straps in the mornings, that’ll ensure you don’t have marks on your skin when you wear this.” She holds up a tube top. “I think this’ll all come together well.”

I’m too stunned to say anything. The thought of kissing Kevin wasn’t appealing anyway, but doing it in clothing like this, when one false move means flashing the world? Yeah…

“And there will be a few scenes in which you wear a bikini, so actually if you could not wear any underwear when you arrive on those days, that’ll take care of any elastic marks on your waistline.”

I have never gone commando in my life. Not even when walking the red carpet in a tight fitting dress.

“I suggest,” says Julian, “that when you have her out working with the police, you dress her appropriately. You want a character that is still taken seriously as an intelligent, professional woman.”

Just then, Kevin walks in. At the sight of me, he bursts out laughing. “You a little uncomfortable?”

“You want to wear these costumes?” I retort.

Rather than come up with some clever rejoinder, he looks as if there’s something wrong with me, as if I should just
know
that talking back to him is not okay. He’s like a teacher trying to be tolerant with a rambunctious student.

I step down from the platform and duck back into the changing room to put my own clothes back on. When I emerge, my phone rings and Cleo’s name pops up on the display.

“Hey,” I answer.

“Hey. How are you today?”

“Managing. You?”

“I’m fine. So Maree…whoever has the Twitter handle @HeyItsMeee is pregnant and—”

“Wait,
what?”

“Is that bad?”

“No, I’m just pretty sure it isn’t true. You sure that’s her? Where’d you hear this?” I ask.

“She just messaged you on Twitter.”

“I really hope that isn’t some kind of prank.”

“Why would it be?”

“Maree had stage-three liver cancer when she was four. She underwent so much radiation and chemo that, by the time I saw her when she was sixteen, she was already over the lifetime limit on chemo hours and the radiation had sterilized her.”

“Liver cancer? She survived liver cancer?”

“So far, so good, yeah. Double-check the pregnancy thing, because I’d be really surprised.”

“Okay, I can do that. You’ve got a fan in the hospital in South Carolina. Car accident, supposed to be a bad one. I can set up the Skype call for whenever you want.”

“This evening? Early evening our time, so late evening there?”

“Right, okay,” she says. “And I started looking for Mackenzie Schaller and found three Facebook profiles. I’m emailing you the pictures to see if any of them are good leads there. I also found a Pinterest board with no profile picture, just pins.”

“Great,” I say. “Sounds like a good start.”

“And we’re caught up on your mail. I just need you to sign some stuff. I can stop by this evening?”

“Okay. Wait, my mail?”

“Yeah, it didn’t take too long. Just fan letters and stuff, and the instructions I found for how to reply with signed pictures were really clear, so I got those together.”

“You don’t have to—”

“So I have a question. Could I… You can say no—I’ll understand. But can I see the Skype call?”

“Absolutely.”

“Yes! Okay. See you tonight!”

I look over at Julian. “You found the perfect personal assistant.”

He just smiles, as if he knew this all along.

Our next stop is for that photoshoot Julian arranged for me. I’ll be on the cover of
Entertainment Weekly
, and for this, they put me in a little black dress with a slightly high hemline and a neckline that shows cleavage. For makeup, they spread fire-engine-red lipstick on my lips and leave everything else very subtle. While I can see that this is classy, I’m uncomfortable all the same. When I step up in front of the all-white photo backdrop, I feel entirely out of my element. The broad grin I’d wear as Veronica isn’t what they’re going for. This, like the set, needs to be a safe space, but it’s not. I feel like an amateur.

The photographer is a man with graying hair and a brusque manner that puts me even more on edge, but once he looks at me, his expression softens. “Okay, relax a little there.”

I bite my lip and take a deep breath, willing myself to be calm. Everyone here wants the same thing—for me to look good. There are no jeering paparazzi, no obsessed fans, just a room full of professionals.

“Oh, perfect.” He starts snapping away. “Twist and pout.”

I’m not sure if he’s joking.

He peeks out from behind his camera and winks at me. “Actually, just touch your skin above your neckline with your fingertips.”

He demonstrates and I copy him, dropping one hip.

“Bite your lip again.”

I do, although it’s not something I ever did as Veronica. It’s one of those habits that’s all me, and my previous manager got after me for it, saying it made me look nervous. I find, though, that if I gaze straight at the camera, I don’t feel like I’m being all that shy.

“Flirt with the camera.”

This time, I assume he’s joking, but all the same, I pretend that the camera is Devon about to make some wise crack that I’ve got a stinging response to.

“Perfect!” He snaps away. “And now some with a smile.”

That I can do. I smile, laugh, turn and look over my shoulder—the usual routine.

Once it’s over, I hop down and Julian claps me on the shoulder. “No problem, right?”

“I guess. I don’t really know how I did there.”

“This will get easier with practice.”

I’m not convinced though, given that I’m not sure what I need to practice. I feel like a little girl trying on new clothes and I can’t help but think that, while trying to mature my image, I’ll end up looking like a six-year-old in high-heels that are ten sizes too big.

That evening I’m relieved when Cleo calls over the apartment intercom.

“Hey,” I say to her as I buzz her in. “I am so ready for something different.”

As she rides up the elevator, I unpack some edamame salad and hummus and pita chips from the fridge. When she steps in, we exchange a quick hug.

“Oh, hey,” says Kyra, who peeks out from her room. “Cleo?”

“Yeah. Kyra, right?”

My roommate smiles, nods, and retreats back into her room.

“I don’t know if you’re hungry,” I say, pointing to the food I’ve set out on the counter. “We’ve got twenty minutes until the call.”

“Great, thanks.” She’s entirely at ease in my place with it’s loft style living room and wall of windows that look out on the city. “Let’s look at Facebook profiles for Mackenzie Schaller.”

She pulls her laptop from her courier bag and sets it up on the counter. The first profile she pulls up is of a girl with dark-brown hair.

“I dunno,” I say. “I never saw her with hair.”

“Yeah, that’s the thing, isn’t it?” she says.

“Let me go get the picture I do have.” I dart to my room and grab the framed photo off my nightstand. “Here,” I say, holding it out once I return to the kitchen. “I know. It’s really old.” The three smiling faces aren’t faded at all—I made sure to put it behind UV protective glass—but the age still shows in the clothes we wear.

She looks it over. “She might be a redhead, with all those freckles. Look.”

“I guess that’d kind of fit the name Mackenzie, huh?”

“There’s a redhead on Facebook.” She taps on her touchpad and calls up the profile.

This girl has round, full cheeks, a lot of freckles, and long, red hair. In every single picture we can access, she’s grinning at the camera.

“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s hard to tell because she was so skinny when I saw her last. Wouldn’t that be awesome if this is her though?”

“That’s what I was thinking. She’s so alive. Here’s another hint.” She scrolls down to the ‘Likes’ section and points to a link to the Veronica Pryce fan page. “I’m just thinking she might be a little older than who we’re looking for. Mackenzie’d only be fifteen, and she looks more eighteen.”

I nod. “That’s a really good lead though.”

“I’m gonna message her and explain who I’m looking for. That okay?”

“Yeah, go for it.”

She taps away, placing each finger carefully so that she can depress the keys even with her long nails. “Do you know this guy’s name?” she asks, pointing to the image of Mackenzie’s brother in my picture.

“No. Sorry.” He had been painfully shy and withdrawn and it had taken a lot of patience to get him to talk at all. He was twig thin, perpetually fidgeting, and clearly in over his head, but he soldiered on anyway, holding his sister’s hand and telling her he’d be there no matter what. In the years since, I’ve met quite a few people like him; family members and friends who are silent heroes, putting in hours, days, months, and even years of service little to no reward. It’s such a contrast to my own family.

I look at more pictures of Mackenzies until it’s time to Skype. Cleo starts the call and I stand in front of the camera and wait while the connection sets up.

The line goes live with a hiss and the video shows a grainy face. “You Lizzie’s personal assistant?” the person asks. As the video resolution improves, I see that she’s a nurse in scrubs. “Oh,” she says, “you’re Lizzie.”

“Yep. Hi.”

“Is it still Lizzie that you go by?”

“Mmm-hmm, yeah.”

“Or should I call you Ms. Warner?”

“Uh, no. Definitely Lizzie.”

“So, you and I need to talk for a moment.”

I nod. “Okay.”

“This accident ruptured the girl’s liver,” she says. “It’s bad—very bad.”

“So what’s the prognosis?” I ask.

“Not good. Really not good.”

“Can she get a transplant?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss any more than that,” is her reply. “The family told me what I could say.” The picture bobs as she walks down the hall with the computer or tablet, whatever it is she’s using for this call.

“Hello?” she calls out. “I’ve got Lizzie Warner here. You ready for your Skype chat?”

“Yes,” says high pitched, feminine voice.

I brace myself. The prognosis is bad, but it doesn’t mean she’ll die. I really don’t need another child’s face to haunt my dreams, but I also can’t ever say no to a fan in need.