Absolutely True Lies (23 page)

“That’s good,” I said, trying to be supportive. Dr. Chace (his first name, not his last) seemed like a pompous douche, but he was known for getting results.

“He says we should have the book ready for a publisher within a week of Daisy getting out of his facility.”

Faith phrased this as a statement rather than a question, which confused me greatly. “Um . . . when would that be?” I asked, wondering how it wasn’t an obvious question.

“Daisy would like to spend a few days at home first, but I’m thinking we should take her down there as soon as we land. It’ll look better in the press.”

Still didn’t answer my question. I’d never even smoked a cigarette, let alone done illegal drugs, so I had no clue how long rehab lasted. “So when does the book have to be finished, exactly?”

“Oh, of course, dear.” Faith laughed. “Four weeks.”

I’m not sure if it was terror or my ever-worsening hangover, but I threw up a little in my mouth. I barely made it to the bathroom before my two dinners and endless parade of alcoholic beverages streamed out of me and into the gross airplane chemical toilet. I had to be done in four weeks. Of course I did.

CHAPTER 17

Life as a celeb is like living in a box made of one-way glass, and I’m the one on the inside. Everyone can see my every move, but I can’t tell who’s watching. I’m not allowed to have privacy. I’m expected to tweet and Instagram everything I do to millions of people I don’t know, and this makes them think they have every right to judge my decisions.

I’ve had people come up to me and say that my last boyfriend is too good for me, or not good enough. They’ve said that they hated/loved/went out and bought the shorts I was wearing at lunch two weeks ago. Most of the people who criticize me claim that they’re not even my fans. My question to them is: if you don’t like me, why are you still reading about me?

F
ifteen hours later, we touched down in Los Angeles. By this point, I was exhausted and fighting tears of confusion and fear. My life felt like a mess and I didn’t know what to do to fix it. I had kissed Vaughn and left Rome without a single word to Ben. I also somehow had to write three quarters of a book in four weeks, a feat that seemed impossible, given that I’d already used every last bit of information Daisy and her family had offered and I highly doubted I would suddenly have more access to her once she was under lock and key in rehab.

I wanted to go home and cry until my body lost the ability to
produce moisture. But before I could take out my cell phone to call Camille, a limo driver appeared in baggage claim and Faith grasped my hand tightly. When we landed, I was tired but fairly relieved that it was still only 1:00
P.M.
Pacific time; now I realized that I was going nowhere near Diablorado Street in the foreseeable future.

Making things worse, someone had tipped off the paparazzi. Since the flight had literally been booked three hours before departure and you can’t use cell phones while in the air, I was floored that a secret this big could have been leaked to the press. But I suppose fifteen hours is a long time in a world that’s so connected. All it might have taken was one asshole in coach using the plane’s Wi-Fi to brag on Facebook about passing Daisy on the way to the bathroom.

Inside the baggage claim area, there were one or two photographers doing a terrible job of trying to stay incognito. They bobbed and weaved through the crowd, ducking behind passengers as though we wouldn’t notice their enormous lenses. But just outside the automatic doors . . . there were so many people packed so tightly together—all with those same humongous cameras—that I couldn’t even see the taxi stand. The most surreal part was that the paparazzi were completely silent. I was used to hearing them shout inane questions at Daisy, idiotic queries like “Is it true you sleep in Louboutins?” and “What do you say to the rumor that you can’t read?” Seeing them now, quiet and ready to pounce like a pack of Saharan predators, was even more strange and unsettling.

Just as I’d predicted, the baseball cap did nothing to hide Daisy’s identity. Even before we reached the crowd of vultures, a few plucky little girls ran up and asked for selfies. The weirdest part was that Daisy obliged, even offering the girls one of her phony smiles. The sky was falling and Daisy was taking goofy pictures.

At the same time the bodyguards began rounding up our luggage, what looked to be an entire precinct shift of police officers appeared and surrounded us. I hadn’t seen anyone call them, and not a word was exchanged with Daisy, Faith, or the bodyguards,
but the cops immediately fell into a well-spaced circle and moved us toward the door. So this is where all of my tax dollars go?

And then, just as soon as Daisy’s foot crossed the threshold of the terminal, the world exploded. There’s no other word for it. One second, we were moving in an orderly fashion while silent photographers snapped pictures, and then the next, it was sheer pandemonium. In my time with Daisy, I’d seen plenty of interactions with the paparazzi, but I’d never witnessed anything like this. I hadn’t thought it possible, but the shoving was harder, the shouting was louder, and absolutely no one was concerned about hurting her. It took me only about a minute to realize what had changed—Daisy was no longer America’s Sweetheart. They wanted to see her break, even if they had to make it happen.

Questions were yelled over and over again, but it was nearly impossible to make out any of them because of the noise level. We hadn’t even made it to the curb when Daisy began to sob hysterically, her sunglasses hiding very little of her emotional outburst. As the tears dripped untouched down her face, I knew that it would be only minutes before that close-up appeared on every gossip site in the universe. And no one would feel sorry for her, despite the fact that this was likely the first true emotion Daisy had felt in years. People would click on the picture again and again and laugh because this is what passes for entertainment.

It also struck me that even as Daisy’s net worth went down in her own career, her capital had just skyrocketed in other ways. All of those tabloids who’d tried desperately to dig up dirt on her for years had just been handed a golden goose that would lay eggs for months, if not years to come. My suspicions were confirmed when my new cell phone rang less than thirty minutes into our limo ride.

“Hi,” I said, trying to preempt whatever Camille was no doubt about to yell. “How did you”—I didn’t want to say “get this number,” because I knew it would sound highly suspect—“know how to get a hold of me right now? I just got off the plane.”

“Your mom gave me your new number,” Camille said. “I just saw you on the news!”

I inconspicuously turned down the speaker volume and tried to figure out how to have this conversation without upsetting Daisy further. “Oh, really . . .” I replied stupidly, at a total loss for words. “Um . . . what are you watching?”

“Are you deaf?” Camille yelled. “I just told you, the news.”

From the other side of the limo, Daisy groaned and said, “Stop talking.”

“I’ll just be a sec, it’s my . . .” Think fast, think fast. My gynecologist? No, too gross. My financial planner? I don’t even know what you say to those guys. “Agent.” They didn’t know Gerry was semifictitious and the most I’d seen of him lately was his signature on my checks.

“Huh? Oh, right. . . . You’re still with them, aren’t you?”

“I’m not sure when I’ll be free,” I said.

“Okay, then I can be your agent for a few minutes. Pay me ten grand and do the chicken dance,” Camille said, whistling loudly. I knew the sound had to carry into the limo. “This Daisy thing is insane. It’s everywhere. I’m at work and I just flipped on the KTLA news at one, and there you were! Daisy’s the top story!”

“I’m not really sure I’m okay with that
deal
.” I don’t always think well under pressure.

“Hol-
ly,
shut the eff
up,
” Daisy said, pulling the baseball down over her eyes. “Your voice makes me wanna vom.”

“Oh my God, I can hear her,” Camille whispered, giggling. “Were you there when she had her meltdown? I can’t
believe
you didn’t call to tell me about this.”

I glanced up at Daisy before I spoke again, my voice decidedly softer this time. “We can discuss the particulars later.”

“Oh, yeah. I figured. In the meantime, you need some rest, or a facial or something. You look like you were kicked in the face by a horse.”

“Thank you,” I replied. Couldn’t just one person lie and tell me I looked gorgeous? “I may need a ride back from that meeting. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Sure thing, where from?”

That was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. We’d gotten on the 405 south from the airport and hadn’t stopped since. It was especially strange since Los Angeles technically ends just a few miles below LAX, so I didn’t know where we were going. “Um. I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

Before Camille could answer, Daisy leaned over and snatched the phone out of my hand, ending the call. She made a face at the cell and then tossed it back to me. “Your agent can wait.” Then she balled herself up on the seat and either fell asleep or feigned it.

I was almost afraid to speak again, but Camille had brought up a good point. I had no idea where we were headed. I glanced out the window and saw some sort of bizarre, Blade Runner–looking structure made out of steel and white lights. “Where are we?”

Faith followed my gaze and stared at the odd little construction that was surprisingly close to the beach. “I think it’s the Naval Weapons Station in Seal Beach.”

I’d never been to Seal Beach, but I knew it was somewhere in Orange County. And we were in the far left lane of the freeway, so I was fairly certain the driver wasn’t getting off anytime soon. “Where are we going?”

“To Dr. Chace’s facility in Dana Point.”

All I wanted to do was take off my shoes, maybe puke a few more times, and then go to sleep for at least a week. I’d brushed my teeth on the plane, but my mouth tasted like a small woodland creature had died in the back of my throat. Not to mention that my sunglasses were packed in my still-missing luggage and the blinding California sun was doing nothing to help the raging hangover headache that was blossoming at the base of my skull. I was being kidnapped.

“And how far away is that?” I asked, hoping the desperation in my voice wasn’t obvious.

“We should be there in another hour, as long as traffic isn’t too bad.”

•  •  •

B
y 4:00
P.M.
, I was sitting in the lobby of what looked like a really ritzy country club. It was supposed to be a top-notch rehab facility, but there was a golf course out back and a fancy little café with umbrellas and a coffee bar. I suppose if you’re going to charge someone seventy thousand dollars for a month of care, you’d better make it worth the money.

No one had spoken to me in almost two hours, and I’d long since read through all the pamphlets, including “Put Down That Crack Pipe—For Good!” and “Nymphomania—The Silent, Sexy Shame.” I’d spent the last forty minutes destroying the human race in Plague Inc. on my new cell, but even that wasn’t holding my attention anymore.

Both Vaughn and Ben had called me, but I hadn’t answered either time. I was feeling really guilty about my own actions, but also increasingly suspicious about why I was here.

The more I thought about it, the less sense it all made. When I’d been pulled out of bed at three-thirty, I’d assumed that the bodyguards’ actions were simply to protect me. But the truth was, they wouldn’t have cared if I’d leapt out of the plane at thirty-five thousand feet, so long as Daisy was safe. Which begged the question—why was
I
removed from Italy with the two women? No one else, even Jamie, had been along on the flight. I could have just as easily been booked on a flight later that day or the next, as Sharla apparently was. No, there had to be some ulterior motive at work here. I just wasn’t sure what it was. And I definitely didn’t like being a pawn in someone else’s game.

“Excuse me?” A stunningly pretty brunette bent down and smiled at me. “Can I get you anything? A Pellegrino? An espresso?”

I wanted to ask her for a bed, a bath, and an industrial-size bottle of aspirin. “Flat water would be amazing, actually. I’m a little dehydrated from the flight.” As this was a rehab facility, I decided to refrain from detailing the several bottles of wine I’d ingested in the last day or so.

“Of course,” the brunette said sweetly. “Mrs. Dixson said you just came from Rome. And I know Dr. Chace is sorry he can’t see you until six-thirty. He’s in the city doing an interview with CNN.”

Up until that moment, I’d thought I was just waiting for Faith or a ride home. I had no idea I was there to meet with the media-whore addiction specialist himself. I momentarily worried that someone was about to try to commit me to treatment for some imagined vice, but then I remembered that I was no one special and didn’t have any money. I was useless to Dr. Chace.

I glanced at the time on my cell phone and nearly burst into tears. “I wasn’t aware he wanted to see me. I was just waiting for someone to take me home.”

“Dr. Chace was very insistent about meeting with you.” I stared at her flawless eyeliner and perfect curling-iron waves and wondered if she was an aspiring actress. Or, given the good doctor’s career, a talk show host. “Why don’t you have a snack in the café? Our chef makes an award-winning crème brûlée.”

Despite the fact that I hadn’t eaten since the night before, I had no interest in five-star rehab cuisine. “Listen, I don’t even have any money. We left so unexpectedly that all I have are euros.”

“We accept all major credit cards,” she replied.

“I don’t want a snack,” I said, a little louder than I intended. I was officially angry. “I want to go home. With the exception of a two-hour nap, I’ve been awake for two days and I stink like airplane seats. I just want to go home. I am happy to come back tomorrow—or whenever’s convenient—to meet with Dr. Chace.”

The brunette stared at me blankly, apparently unsure how to handle my outburst. I would have thought a rehab employee would
be used to unruly behavior, but this chick looked like I’d just thrown a banana cream pie in her face.

“We can comp the snack,” she said uncertainly. “I’m sure no one will mind.”

I was beginning to think the collective IQ of the entertainment industry was fifty-eight. I wasn’t going to be able to argue my way out of this. “Whatever you want.”

•  •  •

“G
ive me your impression of Daisy’s world. And be honest.” Dr. Chace leaned his chin onto his hand and stared at me pensively.

I couldn’t stop staring at the guy’s eyebrows. They were overly plucked and then drawn on again. It was bizarre, like looking at a drag queen Liza Minnelli impersonator. I’d been with this guy for ten minutes and I’d already realized he was as vacuous as a hot-air balloon. I desperately wanted to know what clown college he’d gotten his medical degree from.

“Well . . .” I started, not sure if I was even legally allowed to be honest, “it’s certainly hectic.”

“Mm-hmm . . .” he said, nodding. The expression was so contrived and phony that I glanced around to make sure we weren’t being filmed. When I realized that we were, in fact, alone, I decided that Chace spent so much time in front of a camera his affectations must just come naturally now. “
Hectic.
Interesting word. Expand on that.”