Absolutely True Lies (24 page)

“So you need to know this for her therapy?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. I leave the substance counseling to my staff. My concern is making sure that when Daisy is ready to step back into her life again, there’s still a life worth living.” He didn’t say it, but I was sure he meant that a “life worth living” had to be a profitable one. Chace paused, returning to his best evening news stare. “Now, let’s go back to ‘hectic.’ Walk me through what you mean.”

Was this guy for real? “Hectic,” I repeated, fighting the urge to let my voice drip with sarcasm. “As in, very busy, very turbulent. There are always a ton of people around her.” I wanted to add that Daisy seemed afraid to be alone, but I knew that would be crossing the line. In some circles, it might even be considered slander. If I understood my contract right, I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone I knew Daisy even if she was standing right next to me.

“Busy, busy.” The doctor was proving himself to be a highly photogenic parrot, always speaking in perfect little sound bites. No wonder the talk shows loved him so much. “Turbulent, yes. Continue.”

“Um . . .” This dude was knocking me off my game. I didn’t know what he was looking for. I thought I was here to help with her drug treatment, but Dr. Rehab himself didn’t seem at all interested in that. “You know, maybe I just think there are too many cooks in the kitchen. Daisy’s an adult, I think it’s time everyone stepped back and let her take control of her own life.” Now I was insulting not Daisy but Dr. Chace. I wanted him to know that I didn’t think he had the Dixsons’ best interests at heart.

“Too many cooks. So true, so true. What you’re saying is, I need to take a look at Daisy’s circle and weed out a few of the unnecessary elements.”

He wasn’t kidding. He really didn’t get that
he
was an unnecessary element. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to start laughing or crying. “What is it you need from me, Dr. Chace? Your assistant said you very much wanted to speak with me. I’m happy to help in any way I can, but I’m not going to lie, I’m very tired.”

He leaned forward in his chair, crossing his legs like a scientist contemplating the deepest mysteries of the universe. “Life is a very tiring endeavor, indeed.” The doctor paused for a moment, staring off into space. After a few seconds, he continued, “I think you’re very important to Daisy’s recovery. She thinks very highly of you, not to mention that through your work together, you’ve come to know her better than just about anyone else.”

None of that was even remotely true. “You still haven’t told me what you need.”

“I would like you to start coming down here every day to work with Daisy. I think the conversations would be a form of therapy for her, and then we can also make sure our little project stays on track.”

I didn’t miss his use of the word
our
.
“So you’ll be involved from here on out,” I said.

Chace nodded, his brow crinkling. More like folding. I could only assume that he was Botoxed into oblivion. It made him look simultaneously twenty-five and eighty. “I think that’s best for every­one,” he replied. “You see, I
want
my patients to succeed. I
want
them to prosper. Just not at the expense of their health and well-­being. If I’m part of this awesome team, then I can ensure that Daisy continues to grow in her professional life as well as in her psyche.”

I would never find out for sure, but in that moment, I was convinced that Dr. Chace must have signed some sort of management contract with Faith. I know I’m a cynical person, but what was the likelihood that the media-darling doctor was really just being selfless? I wondered if every project Daisy secured from here on out would be “produced” by Dr. Chace. Nice work if you can get it, I suppose.

“I’m happy to come back whenever you want,” I told him, before quickly adding, “Although I’d like tomorrow to myself to get over my jet lag and run a few errands.”

“The day after tomorrow, then?” Dr. Chace asked, standing up and shaking my hand.

“Absolutely.” I followed him out of his office and down a hallway toward the lobby. “Can I ask you a question? Why do you call yourself Dr. Chace? That’s your first name, right?”

The doctor laughed, slapping me on the back. “Chace is my first name, yes. But my last name is too long and complicated for TV.”

“What is it?”

“Connelly,” he replied.

“But that’s a really common name,” I blurted out. “And it’s only three syllables.”

“Trust me,” Chace replied, winking down at me. “Two is the maximum, but one is better.” As we reached the reception desk, Chace patted me on the back again. “I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

He turned and headed back down the hall, leaving me with pretty brunette receptionist 2.0. This girl was slightly more exotic-­looking than the first and had sandy, muted green eyes, but from ten feet back, I wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart.

“Hi,” I said to her. “Could you tell Mrs. Dixson that I’m ready to go home now?”

The green-eyed vixen gave me the same blank stare as her day-shift counterpart. “Um . . . Mrs. Dixson left to check into her hotel two hours ago. And her instructions were very clear about not calling to disturb her until tomorrow—she was very tired.”

I pulled out my cell phone, trying to hide my frustration. One of my earlier activities had been downloading endless new apps and games over the rehab center’s free Wi-Fi. Among them was Uber. I pulled up the app and asked for a fare quote back to my apartment, thinking this would be the easiest way home. Until I saw that the ride would cost $150. Even if I could charge it, I couldn’t waste that on a one-way trip.

Camille was going to kill me. “I’m going to need to wait in the lobby for a couple of hours until someone can come pick me up.”

“Our café is open until ten,” Green Eyes said brightly. “You should try our award-winning crème brûlée.”

•  •  •

I
f I thought my night was going to get any better after I left the Dana Point rehab center, I was wrong. Camille was, indeed, pissed when she finally got down to Orange County, but the grumpy ride home got even worse when she dropped me off at my apartment.

I knew something was wrong the instant I walked up to the
second-­floor landing. There were clothes and shoes strewn all over the concrete, and I nearly dropped poor little Smitty—locked in a cage under my arm—when I realized that the mess was the remains of my luggage. Whatever idiot was responsible for our baggage being retrieved from the airport had apparently decided it was perfectly acceptable to leave my suitcase outside and unprotected. My building had a security gate, but as usual, someone had propped it open. The words
BITCH
and
WHORE
(spelled
HORE
) were written on my door with lipstick, and scratched underneath in the peeling paint was the suggestion
GET BETTER SHIT
. I agree, nameless thief.

Luckily, all of my important documents were in my carry-on, so I wasn’t worried about someone selling my passport or driver’s license, but my souvenirs were gone, including my peace offering to my mother, the blessed Vatican rosary. The irony of someone having stolen a rosary was not lost on me, and I only hoped the recipient of said religious artifact would appreciate it. Mostly, I was just annoyed that I had to spend twenty minutes outside in the dark, rounding up my unmentionables.

But the hits just kept on coming. By the time I got to settle properly into my apartment, it was after midnight, and I stupidly decided to listen to my messages before scarfing down stale cereal and going to bed. I should have done so at Rehabilication, but I have a remarkable ability to ignore anything that makes me uncomfortable. I almost let the messages go until tomorrow, but I forced myself to hit play.

There was the embarrassed, mostly silent message from Vaughn that basically said, “Ummm . . . yeah, I’m sorry, let’s talk tomorrow”; the confused, slightly hurt message from Ben wondering what had happened; one from my mother asking if I’d landed all right (
dammit,
Camille); and finally, a message from Jamie that nearly stopped my heart.

“Heyyyyyy, Hols . . .” it began. Even before the third word, I knew that Jamie had been drunk when he left the message. “Listen,
about that check . . . er . . . We’re havin’ some problems with the budgeting and stuff and . . . yeah . . . You don’t want to cash that thing just yet. I’ll get back at ya soon.”

I sank onto my aging, sagging couch and Smitty sauntered over and settled into my lap. If I stayed on this job for another month, I’d probably be homeless.

•  •  •

N
ot surprisingly, Jamie didn’t return my calls the next day. I did go to the bank my paycheck was written from, only to discover that less than several hundred dollars remained in the account—nowhere near enough to cover my salary. I exchanged my euros and was thankful not to have spent that much in Rome. At least I had five hundred dollars in cash and a tiny bit of room left on my credit card until I could resolve this money debacle.

I tried to reach Faith, but her phone was off all day, going directly to voice mail. I figured I would see her the next day at Rehabilication, but unless I reached her today, I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to get there. My car has a ninety-minute time limit, and driving down to Dana Point from my apartment would far exceed that. I was willing to bet my engine would explode somewhere around Long Beach, leaving me nearly an hour from my destination, not to mention without a way to get back home. I knew I could always ask Camille for help, but I didn’t think that was fair, nor was I in the mood to see her. She’d warned me about not getting that check before Italy, and the last thing I needed right now was an “I told you so.”

So that left me with renting a car, but I was dangerously close to maxing out my credit card. I’d never charged more than three hundred dollars at any one time, and now I was inching ever closer to the seven-thousand-dollar limit. The minimum payment was low enough, but I still needed my paycheck if I had any hope of putting a dent into that bill.

I knew I needed to be frugal, but staying cooped up in the house all day would only make it that much easier to obsess. I made the executive decision to find a cheap place for lunch and then “splurge” on a matinee movie. I was midway through my BBQ chicken pizza when a bartender switched one of the overhead TVs to the E! Network, which was right in the middle of
E! News
.
I was sliding off my chair to request a channel change when the screen cut to a shot of Jamie, playfully squeezing a beautiful and familiar looking Hispanic teenager.

“Can you turn that up?” I found myself asking the bartender.

“Sure,” he replied.

On TV, Jamie and the unnamed girl were beaming at each other like old pals. I had a bad feeling about this.

“So tell me, what prompted this switch?” the perfectly coiffed interviewer asked, shoving a microphone in Jamie’s face.

“It was a mutual decision. Daisy has been looking to take her career in a new direction, and while I wish her nothing but the best of luck, pop music is really my home. I’m excited about working with Ariceli and securing her future in the music world.”

I knew I’d heard the name before. I didn’t know the whole story, but I remembered hearing that Ariceli was discovered from a YouTube video of her singing at her high school dance. She’d gotten more than a million views in the first week, and now every record label was tripping over themselves to get to her. As for Jamie, apparently the years he’d spent molding Daisy’s career had meant nothing more to him than a paycheck. At the first sign of trouble, he’d bolted to the next moneymaking warm body that entered the room.

This was exactly what I’d been trying to point out to Dr. Chace. The only people in Daisy’s life who truly seemed to care about her were a makeup artist and a hairstylist who didn’t rate a dinner at La Pergola or a room in the fancy hotel. Everyone wanted a piece of her, but only so long as that piece paid constant dividends. Daisy had a ten-year, wildly successful career that had benefited hundreds
of people. I had wanted to believe that those around her would continue to rearrange deck chairs until the
Titanic
sank out of sight, but they’d fled as soon as her ship sprung a leak. Aside from her mother and the opportunistic doctor, no one was even trying to plug the hole.

The worst part of this realization about Jamie was that it reminded me of Vaughn. As soon as Daisy was arrested, Vaughn had been concerned about his next job. He’d moved on before she was even released from jail. I didn’t understand him, and I was increasingly confused as to why I had been attracted to him, or if I still was.

I’d tuned out the television for a few seconds, but just as I drifted back, I heard the anchor say, “. . . doubt that we’re getting the full story from Daisy’s camp or Jamie Lloyd.
E! News
has confirmed that Nickelodeon has canceled Daisy’s show and recalled the crew from their Rome location shoot. At this point, rumors that Daisy escaped Italy only hours before her bail was revoked remain just that. In other TV news, NBC’s fall lineup . . .”

The anchor kept talking, but I stopped listening. I wasn’t particularly upset, I was just sad for Daisy. She was being hung out to dry. I suppose the only consolation was that for the next several weeks, she was probably shielded from all the bad news. At least, I hoped she was. I didn’t imagine this kind of media pressure was conducive to recovery.

I spent the rest of the day wandering around town with no particular direction. I went to see a mildly funny movie about an old man, his ne’er-do-well grandson, and a mischievous dog, bought a new book, then hit up a grocery store for supplies. I played blind and dumb in the checkout line as two teenagers giggled over the horrible tabloid photos of Daisy. The girl’s so gorgeous, I couldn’t figure out how they’d gotten such terrible pictures of her. The whole time I was silently counting the ever-shrinking amount of cash in my wallet. I knew I should’ve stayed home and spent the day working through a box of frozen veggie burgers, but after all of this
drama, I had to believe everything would work out. I had to believe I would get paid.