Absolutely True Lies (3 page)

“What a gorgeous kitchen,” I said. I can’t help it; I’m a sucker for gourmet kitchens and appliances. Sometimes I like to hug the Maytag front-loading washers at Best Buy, just so they know I’ll be back for them when I can finally afford it. At the moment, I’ve accomplished nothing greater than an Emerson microwave with a dedicated popcorn setting. But a girl can dream.

“That’s all Mama,” Daisy said, smiling. “I can barely turn on the coffeepot.”

“It’s true.” Faith giggled, her laugh like the tinkling of a wind chime. “But I couldn’t cook when I was Daisy’s age, either. It all comes to us in our own time.”

I was instantly charmed by these two, happy to see that Daisy’s good-girl image was real, instead of some corporate facsimile of the ideal teenage girl. I was also more than a little in love with their home and easy, flowing relationship. The Dixsons looked and acted like the
quintessential American family, and I was immediately jealous. Don’t get me wrong; my mother and I love each other, but the woman can make me crazy and no one would ever mistake us for friends.

“Sit down, Holly.” Faith waved as she poured me a glass of iced tea. “Jamie’ll join us in just a minute, he’s just hammering out a deal with De Niro’s people.”

As I sat down, I looked at Daisy in astonishment, but the caliber of the name seemed to have no effect on her.

“We ran into him at the Tribeca Grill last month,” Daisy said, taking a seat next to me at the table. “He has a script Jamie wants for me. I don’t get it—way too artsy and talky, but Jamie says it could get me an Oscar, or at least a Golden Globe. The working title is ‘Alley’ something, I think.”

“Back Alley?” Though he refuses to pick up the phone and attempt to get me a real job, my agent does e-mail me all of the scripts that were sold that week, along with their sales figures. He claims it will help me learn what producers are looking for, but as I have never had any inclination to become a screenwriter, I think it’s really his way of showing me how much money I’m
not
making him. I’d read “Back Alley”—twice, actually, because it was highly convoluted.

“I think that’s it,” Faith agreed. “So dark and mysterious, just what the academy looks for. I swear, I didn’t even understand half of the scenes.”

“That’s because they don’t make sense,” I said before I could stop myself. I am perpetually in need of a verbal shoehorn. I was pretty sure I’d just lost this job, but just in case the situation could be salvaged, I quickly added, “I didn’t . . .
hate
the script. . . . It’s just that the source material is so much better.”

Like twins, Daisy and Faith stared at me with huge, blank eyes. “What do you mean?” Faith asked.

Neither of them had ever heard the term
source material
before? Daisy had been in this business since her bike had training wheels. “Um . . . the book,” I said, trying to hide my disbelief. “It’s based on the memoir of a pregnant prostitute. I just didn’t think the script did the story justice.”

I could tell Daisy was listening to what I had to say, but Faith was already back at the kitchen counter, waving me away dismissively with a dish towel. “We’re not one of you egghead types. Jamie decides those things,” Faith answered quickly. She almost seemed insulted that I thought she might have an opinion of her own.

“Oh . . . okay,” I said, nodding and trying to gauge the level of damage I had done here. I needed a paycheck, it didn’t matter anymore where it came from. “I’m sure he’ll pick what’s best for your career.”

“It’s really about time I started getting these offers,” Daisy said, the weight of the world clearly pressing down on her shoulders. “I’ve been trying to break into drama for years.”

“It’s all happening,” Faith said, bringing over the glass of tea and setting it in front of me. She leaned down and kissed her daughter on the top of the head. The mother looked at me and said, “I’m just so impressed with her drive and talent. Believe me, her father and I resisted letting her get into acting, but Daisy was absolutely determined. You just thank the Lord that you have no idea what it’s like to be ambitious. It’s quite the burden.”

I stared up at Faith Dixson for a moment, trying to figure out if her last words were a slip of the tongue or an intentional dig at me, but I chose to go with the former.

Before I had too much time to think about it, Jameson Lloyd came into the room. He was in his mid-forties and ruggedly handsome; I could see why the Dixson ladies liked having him around. Then I thought of my balding, pudgy, and belching Uncle Bob, and suddenly knew why he’d never made it out of suburban New York.

“Hols, glad you found the place,” Jameson said, grabbing my hand and practically crushing it. “My directions were okay?”

Barely sufficient, actually,
I thought.

“Just fine, thanks.”

Jameson pulled out a chair and swung it around so that it faced the opposite way, then plopped himself down backward. He offered
me a stunning, toothy grin that made me a little dizzy. “So how’s the meet-and-greet going?”

“Great,” Daisy said, smiling at me. “I really like Holly.”

“I knew you would,” Jameson replied, ruffling Daisy’s hair like she was an adorable six-year-old. “She and I haven’t had nearly enough time to work out the fine print, but I was struck by how well she got you, Daise. I just knew you’d be two peas in a pod.”

I stared at Jameson, dumbfounded. We’d spoken on the phone for maybe five minutes, and he’d never once mentioned Daisy’s name. I didn’t even know what kind of writing I was expected to do. He must have seen the confusion in my face, because he winked knowingly, then briefly gave me a thumbs-up. I had no idea what that was supposed to mean.

“So . . . can we pull the trigger on this deal?” he asked, looking back and forth between Daisy and Faith.

I assumed Jameson was talking about the De Niro movie deal, but a beat later, I realized he was referring to me.

“Yes, yes,” Daisy said, tugging on Jameson’s shirt. “You said we could have this done for my birthday!”

Jameson turned to me, shrugging. “What do you think, Hols? You up to the task?”

“Of course,” I said, wondering what the task was.

“Isn’t this just the greatest birthday present ever?” Daisy gushed, kissing Jameson on the cheek. “You’re the best, Jamie.”

Faith took the last seat at the table, smiling and shaking her head. “I just don’t know how your father and I are going to compete with Jamie having your autobiography written. We’ll have to launch you into space or something.”

Ohhh . . . So I was ghostwriting her autobiography. This simultaneously answered and created a whole host of questions. I’d never written a book before, even though I’d spent a lot of time thinking about it. I was used to writing one- to two-page articles. Books needed to be three to four
hundred
pages. At most, I’d thought I
was being hired to write some celebrity’s guest piece for
Cosmo
so she wouldn’t have to. But a
whole book
? I hoped the terror wasn’t evident on my face.

As the others laughed at Faith’s joke, I joined in, just so that I didn’t start crying in panic. Ha, ha,
launch Daisy into space, how ridiculous,
we all seemed to be saying. But a moment later, I realized how ridiculous my entire world had just become.

“Oooh, could we really do that, you think?” Daisy cooed. “I mean, everybody is taking that stupid Richard Branson space plane, but that’s just up and right back down. What if I went to the space station? I could sing for the astronauts.” She looked first to her mother, then to Jameson. “I bet I’d even get the cover of
Vogue
for that!”

“I’ll call NASA. I’m sure they can use the publicity.” And just like that, he stood up from the table, pulling out his cell phone.

“Jamie, do you really think this is a good idea?” Faith said, cringing. “I don’t like the idea of sending a teenager into orbit. Sounds awfully dangerous.” She turned to me, her expression that of any mother concerned about the welfare of her child. Her child, who could afford to have herself launched into space. “What do you think, Holly?”

“Er . . .” I stalled, trying to come up with a suitably noncommittal and inoffensive response. “I don’t think NASA would put a civilian in danger.” Daisy was a civilian, right? I was fighting hard not to hyperventilate. Everything I’d ever hoped for had just been dropped into my lap . . . and I simply wasn’t ready.

Jamie held up his hands for calm. “I’m only going to put some feelers out, nothing concrete,” he said. He then snapped his fingers and pointed at me. “You can stick around for another few minutes, right? We’ll work out a price and get you a retainer check.”

“Sure.”

Retainer
check.
As far as I was concerned, the two greatest words in the English language. Who knew that they had the power to
create the wave of excitement that rippled through my entire body. My first thought was,
Smitty’s getting gourmet cat food tonight.
My second thought was,
God, my life is depressing.

Daisy yawned, her mouth making a perfect little sleepy O that didn’t even crease her face. Seriously, was this girl made out of clay?

“Do we have to start today? This meeting has worn me out.”

I didn’t point out that I’d only been there for fifteen minutes. “Of course not,” I said. “I can come back tomorrow, if you like.”

Faith clucked her tongue and shook her head. “Can’t do tomorrow,” she said. “We’ve got that photo shoot with
Elle
. And we’ll be on vacation in Nice next week. How about the week after?”

“Sure. You said you wanted the book done for Daisy’s birthday? When is that, exactly?”

“Four months and six days! Magic Mountain is shutting down for the day to host my birthday party . . . Ooooh, you’ll come, right?”

“Sounds like a lot of fun,” I replied, barely paying attention. Did she just say four months? I had to write an entire book in four months? Even with three extensions, I still hadn’t finished that library book I took out
six
months ago.

Jameson appeared in the doorway and waved for me to follow him. “You’re up, Hols.” Did he really just get NASA on the phone in three minutes?

“It was lovely to meet you, Holly,” Faith said, giving me a hug.

“I’m sure we’ll be the best of friends,” Daisy told me, waving.

I smiled and waved at Daisy and her mother and then followed Jameson into the hall, wondering what the hell I had just gotten myself into.

•  •  •

“
Y
ou’re good with a standard thirty-five/thirty-five, right?” Jameson asked me as soon as we stepped into his office. Even though he was her manager, I still found it creepy not only that he had an
office inside Daisy’s family home but that the walls were plastered with publicity shots of an eighteen-year-old girl. Some of them in very suggestive poses.

And surprise, surprise, I had no clue what a 35/35 was.

I blinked back at him, trying to reason out what he might be talking about. Money, percentages, the number of cattle being bartered in this deal . . . Luckily, Jameson mistook my confusion for calculation.

“Okay, okay.” He laughed, holding up his enormous hands. “I’m sorry I lowballed you, but hey, I’m a businessman . . . I had to try.”

I laughed back, more out of relief than anything else. I wagged a finger at him jokingly. “Did you think I wouldn’t do my homework?” I hoped it wouldn’t occur to him that I couldn’t possibly have priced a job I knew nothing about.

“Forty-five?” he tried, raising his eyebrows.

I studied Jameson’s face for a few seconds, trying to read his expression. I still didn’t know what game we were playing here, but I sensed that I had more wiggle room on the number. “Fifty,” I replied, sounding as firm as I could manage. “Fifty/fifty.”

He didn’t even pause. “Done.” Jameson sat down at the giant mahogany desk and pulled out a checkbook. “Should I make out the check to you, or do you have a corporation?”

“Just make it out to me,” I said, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. “My agent will take care of the rest.”

Jameson nodded, filling out the check. Over his shoulder, he asked, “I can hook up with your agent later today, if you want. I’d like to have the contract signed by close of business tomorrow.”

“Oh, I can take care of that,” I added hastily. “He’s looked into you.”

Again, Jameson laughed. “I like you, Hols, I really do.” He signed the check with a flourish, then tore it off and passed it to me. I had to resist the urge to read the amount right then and there; I couldn’t risk being betrayed by my reaction. “But the most important thing
is that Daisy likes you. We’ve interviewed so many writers, and she’s hated every one.”

“Really?” Our meeting hadn’t seemed like much of an interview to me, and they hadn’t requested a single sample of my writing. Not to mention, I’d barely spoken . . . I wasn’t sure how they could have taken a liking to me.

“You’re our sixteenth writer this month,” he said, shaking his head. “She’s vetoed every last one, until you. Now get on out of here and cash that check, missy. I’ll have the contract messengered over this afternoon.”

He shook my hand, again with enough force to break a few bones. “Welcome aboard, Holly.”

CHAPTER 3

I’ve heard people call L.A. “Hollyweird,” and this hurts my feelings. It’s been my home for almost half my life
, and I swear, it’s not all that weird. We work and live and love, just like everywhere else. It might be a little different than what you’re used to, but it’s the world we know. And the fancy cars and nice clothes may make us seem superficial, but they’re just things. Deep down, most of us are good, honest people, just like you.

A
n hour later, I was sitting in my apartment, staring down at the check. I knew I needed to go to the bank—I’d promised Jameson as much—but when I had finally pulled out of the Dixson compound and glanced down at the amount, I was so distracted I could barely find my way back home, let alone run errands. I had just made it into the apartment when a messenger appeared at my door with several copies of my contract.

Ten thousand dollars. My retainer for this four-month job was ten thousand dollars. And if my limited understanding of the contract was correct, my fifty/fifty deal was for a total of
fifty
thousand, double my salary for last year. In fact, if I could finish this job, I’d finally be above the poverty line for the first time in my adult life. It was another ten minutes before I could inhale properly and continue reading the endless document. I then quickly realized the other “fifty” was a percentage.

I read those lines of the contract four times before the realization finally sunk in and I began to hyperventilate, convinced I was one shallow breath away from a blackout.
It couldn’t be,
I thought. I couldn’t possibly be reading the contract correctly. But right there, in black and white, it said that I was guaranteed fifty percent of the book’s royalties.
Half
of every dollar that Daisy Mae Dixson, a girl who once sold out Staples Center in twenty-four minutes, made with this book.

I’d love to tell you that my next thought was about the work, about the possibility that I could carve out a new career for myself and make some good money at the same time. But those things never once crossed my mind, at least not at that point.
"I wasn’t qualified to do this job, not in any way, shape, or form, and I guessed it was just a matter of time before Jameson discovered this and canned my ass. So my first real concern was how much money I could get out of the deal before they realized I was a talentless hack.

I dutifully signed the contract and headed back out of my apartment; I was surprised to see that the messenger had waited all this time. I immediately felt like a jerk because, despite having a ten-thousand-dollar check burning a hole in my wallet, I didn’t have a single dollar with which to tip the poor kid. I apologized profusely, offering him a glass of water or use of my bathroom, but he just waved me away. Which was probably for the best, as I didn’t have a washed glass and I hadn’t cleaned my bathroom in a month.

“Mr. Lloyd takes care of me,” he said, taking the envelope back. Of course he does.

I followed him back out to the street and was dismayed to discover that this kid, who couldn’t have been a day over twenty, drove a Mercedes.

“Nice car,” I told him, purposely not moving toward my fifteen-year-old heap of scrap metal.

“Eh. I should’ve gone for the S-Class.”

Clearly, I had been working with the wrong people.

•  •  •

O
ne of the strangest things about this town is the erratic work schedules. Sometimes people work fifteen-hour days, six days a week, and other times, those same people are off for an entire month. It’s not really unemployment, at least not the way the rest of the country thinks about it—my best friend, Camille, likes to call it
fun
employment. They go off to do a movie, fall off the face of the earth for six weeks to three months, then reappear with money to burn and endless free time. Rinse, repeat.

On that particular Sunday night, I was in luck. Camille had just gotten back from shooting a Fox reality show in Mexico and could stay up for nine days straight if she wanted. We’d met my first month on the job at
Westside Weekly,
when I was writing an article about one of her earlier reality shows,
Man vs. Sea
. My boss had tried valiantly to get me an interview with the show’s “star,” but Camille was as close as she could get (and I have been forever grateful). As Camille’s always had the better job, our friendship’s largely made possible by her generosity. For the first time in the entire four years since I’d met her, I was beyond excited to take
her
out to dinner. She readily agreed to this, with the stipulation that we take a cab—partly so we could both drink, and partly because she was embarrassed to be seen getting out of my car. I swear to you, Camille’s not really as shallow as I’m making it sound, these are real-live networking concerns in a town as glossy and superficial as L.A.

We started off at Il Sole, an upscale Italian restaurant on the Sunset Strip. I’d promised myself that Camille could choose the place and I wouldn’t worry about the bill—in fact, I wasn’t even going to look at the prices on the menu. It had been months since I’d been anywhere that didn’t have a kids’ meal, an early-bird special, or require their servers to wear the appropriate amount of “flair.” And I’d certainly never been able to afford a place like Il Sole before. For the first time since I’d gotten to L.A., I felt like I belonged to
the special little club that is the Hollywood elite. I almost passed out from the excitement.

As we settled in over a glass of Cab Sav and I excitedly told Camille about my new job, she didn’t react quite the way I’d hoped.

“You took the job?” she asked, dumbfounded.

“Yeah, why?” I asked, confused. I’d expected a squeal of glee and maybe an over-the-table hug. Not a blank stare and obvious incredulity.

I noticed that Camille took a deliberately endless sip of her wine before responding. “It’s just that, well, you never take
any
job offers.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” This night was quickly going downhill, and we hadn’t even ordered yet.

“Oh, babe,” she rushed on, reaching across the table and squeezing my hand. “I didn’t mean anything by it. But when I got you in for that story editor job last year, you canceled the final interview.”

“I was sick.” I’d woken up that morning with a migraine. It had disappeared shortly after my original interview time, but that wasn’t my fault. Besides, I didn’t want to be a story editor, no matter how much it paid. I’d seen Camille get sucked into the cushy, miserable life of reality TV, and I didn’t want to join her.

“And when that recruiter from
LA Weekly
asked for samples of your writing?” she pressed on, eyebrows raised.

“I . . . I just forgot to send them,” I said. I had forgotten, right? “And he wasn’t going to hire me, anyway. He was just being nice.”

Camille’s expression was dubious, but she didn’t push me any further. Instead, she broke into a sympathetic smile. “You know what? It doesn’t matter what happened last year or even yesterday.” She raised her glass. “Today you are the new personal pet of Daisy Mae Dixson, and that is definitely something to celebrate.”

Uncertainly, I raised my glass and allowed her to clink it with hers.

She seemed determined to move on from the sensitive subject. “She’s an uberbitch, right?” Camille giggled. “Please tell me she’s a brain-dead, oversexed, stuck-up bitch.”

I wanted to be mad at her, but I couldn’t. After all, there wouldn’t be many nights as good as this one and I didn’t want to waste it by pouting.

“Sorry to disappoint you.” I shrugged. “But Daisy was pretty nice. Her mom, too. They’re a little odd, but what teenage gazillionaire isn’t just a bit warped?”

“Nice?” Camille cried, throwing up her hands. “Nice? I can’t sell ‘nice’ to TMZ. They’ll want the real dirt.”

“No selling anything to TMZ,” I warned her. “You have to keep your mouth shut.”

Camille groaned, then drained the rest of her glass and promptly refilled it. “But that’s boring. Why do you get to have all the fun?”

I rolled my eyes. “You just came back from shooting
STD Island,
or whatever this one’s called. You can’t tell me that wasn’t an adventure.”

Camille is a producer for a reality show company that specializes in ruining people’s lives and making them look like whorish morons on network TV. She started as a production assistant right out of college and found that her ability not to have sex with any of the contestants was the elevator to success. Though she loathes every minute of every day, it pays alarmingly well and there never seems to be a shortage of work.

“One of the wives tried to lure me into the hot tub at the hotel. . . . Said she’d always been bi-curious, and with me around, she knew the cameras wouldn’t be rolling.” Camille shook her head slowly. “I told her I’d been propositioned by much hotter women and none of them had succeeded. I swear to God, I don’t know what it is about reality TV and casual bisexuality.”

“Boredom?” I suggested.

“I dunno.” She shrugged, sighing. “But it’s making me nuts. It’s bad enough having to fend off the men, but the women just don’t give up.”

“Cam, those people didn’t sign up for reality shows because
they’re fabulously well adjusted.” I’ve never believed that claim that people are doing it “to make a little extra money.” If you feel the need to have your face plastered all over prime-time TV for the number of bugs you can eat in sixty seconds, there are deeper psychological issues at work.

“I suppose you’re right.” In the space of two minutes, Camille had drained another glass of wine and was reaching for the bottle. The persistently casual bisexual must have taken a toll on her. She looked up me, crestfallen. “But really, Daisy Dixson is pretty normal? I mean, you can’t even lie to me and say she has a hidden tail or something?”

I laughed loudly. “I didn’t say she was
normal
. For her birthday, she wants to be launched into space. Honest to God, outer space.”

A tiny spurt of wine escaped Camille’s surprised lips as she started to giggle. “Oh, that’s more like it. Please tell me there’s more.”

Little did I know there would be oh so much more.

•  •  •

B
y 1:00
A.M.
, Camille and I were staggering out of the bar at the Chateau Marmont, where, if I hadn’t been drunk off my ass, I might have sworn that we were standing about twenty feet away from Adele. I could have just walked up and talked to her if I’d really wanted to be sure, but you learn quickly to ignore the celebrities in their natural habitats. That, and I’m just too chicken. It’s probably why, after four years, I didn’t have a single really juicy celebrity story.

Cam and I stumbled out onto Sunset Boulevard and got all the way to the curb before it occurred to either of us that we hadn’t called a cab. She pulled out her phone and loaded Uber, squinting at the swirling cars in the area. It’s one of the perks of living in a big city that you can find a local cab in the middle of the night just by pressing a few buttons. At least, you can on a smartphone. Mine only makes phone calls and you have to press the two halves together tightly to get that to happen.

“Do we pay more for a taxi or use UberX? I’m sure there are lots of people out tonight looking for a few extra bucks.”

“Taxi. I’m not getting in some rando’s car.” I couldn’t help but think how many torture porn movies start just this way, two girls alone on a dark street, climbing into an anonymous car. Not that Sunset is ever particularly dark or empty, even in the middle of the night.

“Shit,” Camille said, rubbing her eye tiredly and smearing eyeliner down her face. “I told Donovan I’d be home by midnight at the latest.”

Donovan is Camille’s fake producer/poser/live-in boyfriend. He’s forty-two, his real name is Donnie, and the only thing he’s produced in the last ten years is a tuna fish sandwich. But like most people in L.A., he’s always got some “big project” in the works and wants to attach me as the writer. Every few months, he corners me in their apartment and tells me about what he’s supposedly working on, and each time, the roster of producers and so-called investors changes. I’m never sure if these are guys he met down at the Laundromat or if he’s just randomly picking names off the Internet. And though Cam refuses to believe it, Donovan’s been trying to knock her up for the last year, just so he knows he’ll never be alone. The guy’s a real winner.

“Oh, what does he care? He’s just on the couch watching infomercials and eating Hershey’s miniatures.” The man has an unnatural obsession with child-size bars of chocolate.

“He doesn’t like to be alone at night,” Camille whined, sympathy creeping into her tone. “And you know Donovan’s had a lot of trouble with his weight the last couple years. He says he feels more in control of his snacking with the miniatures.”

“He’s not in control if he’s eating the whole bag,” I replied, leaning on a streetlamp to keep from falling off the curb.

“I know, I know,” she said, shaking her head with a level of empathy I couldn’t understand. “It’s just that the financing on his latest
project fell apart and he’s very depressed. He says we can’t afford to get engaged this year because he just doesn’t have the money for a ring. Like I care about a stupid diamond.”

They’ve been together for five years. Every year he tells her they can’t afford to get engaged, even though Camille makes well over a hundred grand. Usually I can keep my opinion of that bottom-­feeder to myself, but on this night, I was too far into Jäger country to keep my mouth shut.

“What is it with you and that loser? There are like four million eligible men in Los Angeles and you can’t get away from a guy who thinks leather pants are appropriate funeral attire.”

Understandably, this riled her up a bit. “Four million eligible men? This from the woman who hasn’t gotten laid since Obama’s first term? Where are all these eligible men? Huh?”

She had me there. I paused for a moment and put on my most serious, contemplative expression. “Well . . . I’m sure they must be around here somewhere.” I turned my head to the right and left, but all I saw were similarly inebriated Angelenos leaving the bars and clubs, most of them laughing or shouting obnoxiously. It wasn’t doing much for my cause. “If you’ll just give me a minute, I’ll find one for you.”