Absolutely True Lies (9 page)

“Awww,” Daisy responded, starting to skip up the walkway. “You’re so sweet.”

•  •  •

I
would love to tell you that I enjoyed my first yachting experience, but I was so far into my own head that I barely paid attention to where we were. We could have been spectators at the Space Olympics and I might not have noticed. As I sprawled out on a deck chair that cost more than my entire wardrobe, I heard Sharla loudly
whooping from the stern of the boat and Daisy call out, “Axel, make out with me for a little while!” On a normal Saturday, I would have been very interested to watch how a flamboyantly gay man makes out with the world’s girliest girl, but I didn’t have the mental bandwidth just then. The yacht was also blindingly white and shiny; even with sunglasses on, looking at it was like staring into a supernova. I had a headache inside the first ten minutes.

Christos approached me, in all of his baby-oiled, bronzy goodness, and offered me a glass of champagne. “You like the champagne?” he asked. “My family own the company.”

“I’m sure they do,” I replied, taking the glass. I’ll admit, I was slightly amused by his bastardized English. Especially since I guessed he’d learned the language long enough ago that he should have mastered it by now, but no one had wanted to correct the world’s youngest trillionaire.

“Daisy say you print book about her life?” he asked, leaning back and striking a weird, greasy, Adonis-like pose. “Must be I am whole chapter to myself. Very much we were in love. I buy her racehorse.”

I stared at him, trying to decipher if he meant he had bought her a racehorse, or if he had purchased one from her. But I doubted he would try to impress me with the latter, so I chose to go with the gift theory. The most expensive present a man had ever given me was a hundred-dollar Zales necklace. I’d never even gotten flowers that didn’t come from the grocery store.

“Daisy doesn’t like to kiss and tell,” I replied. “She wants to keep those memories just for herself.” Even with my limited exposure to Daisy, I knew this was a total lie. I wasn’t convinced she could have a thought without saying it out loud.

“Oh,” Christos responded, looking a little puzzled. I’m certain he was trying to decide if he was flattered or disappointed. “I understand. I no tell the press about the many mothers of my children.”

I made a mental note to ask Axel later to properly quantify the
mothers and children. This guy was more fun than I’d had in weeks. “That’s very noble of you,” I said.

He nodded toward the galley, where Sharla was drinking some frozen concoction right out of a blender. That girl could really drink. “We have many foods for you to enjoy. Whatever the baby need to be happy, my chef make.”

Yes, my imaginary baby with my imaginary lover. I was also a little disturbed that he thought I was pregnant and had no qualms about offering me champagne. I wondered if Dom Pérignon was a pregnancy craving of his many baby mamas. “I’m fine, thanks.”

At that moment, Daisy came stomping up from the galley, Jameson following quickly on her heels. I noticed she was carrying the oversize Mountain Dew cup again. Didn’t that conflict with her no-sugar policy?

“But I
want
to
go
to
Havana
. Christos says we can be there in four hours. And everybody says they have the best clubs in the world!”

“We are not going to a Communist country, and that’s final! If anyone gets a picture of you—”

“And who’s gonna take a picture?” Daisy asked, taunting him. “Don’t Communists think cameras steal your soul?”

“Cubans aren’t tribal African pygmies, you fucking idiot,” Jamie roared in her face. Though I’d witnessed his wrath on a number of occasions, it was nothing compared to this. The agent’s eyes were as close to murderous as I’d yet seen, and his fists were clenched at his sides. If Daisy had been an eighteen-year-old guy, I bet Jamie would have slugged her.

The party atmosphere of the boat ground to a halt and everyone drifted toward the argument.

“You treat me like I’m a stupid baby,” Daisy screamed back, tears springing to her eyes. “You tell me what to say, what to wear, what projects I should and shouldn’t take, and I’m sick of it!”

“I tell you what to do because that’s my job,” he yelled back. “You pay me to keep the work coming and keep your parents’ grubby
little fingers off your money. Which I’ve managed to do quite well these last ten years, no thanks to you and your pea brain.”

Daisy shoved Jameson as hard as she could, but the effect was a little like a marshmallow hitting a wall. “You all act like you made me,” she spat back in a singsong tone. “But I’m the one keeping all of you in your fancy Bentleys and Alfa Romeos. You’d be a damn window washer without me!”

Hearing this, Jamie barked with laughter, throwing his head back. “Yeah, your lovely singing voice and unparalleled acting ability have kept us all employed. We’d be lost without you,” he continued. “You know what, you dumb little bitch, go ahead and find a way to weasel out of our contract. Hire Faith to represent you. That way you’ll be broke and addicted to crack by twenty-one.”

For the second time, the mention of Faith seemed to be Daisy’s dividing line. She yanked the top off the Mountain Dew cup and threw the liquid in Jamie’s face. He immediately yelped in pain and doubled over, covering his eyes with his hands.

Sharla dashed over and grabbed Jamie, pulling him back toward the galley. “We need to rinse out his eyes with water,” she cried. Axel and one of the bodyguards quickly joined her, half-dragging, half-carrying Jamie down the stairs. Even when they disappeared from sight, I could still hear him sobbing in pain.

Daisy, on the other hand, didn’t look the slightest bit upset. She tossed the empty cup at her other bodyguard and waved him away. “I’m going to lay out for a little while,” she said, yawning.

As she headed to the front of the yacht, I was again left alone with Christos. “Is Mountain Dew corrosive or something?” I couldn’t figure out if Jamie was actually hurt or if he was just being melodramatic. I thought it would be kind of awesome if he turned out to have Munchausen syndrome or acute hypochondria.

“What you mean?” Christos asked me, confused. His reaction didn’t immediately raise any red flags for me, as I got the feeling that he was confused by a great many things.

“I mean, why’s he crying over Mountain Dew in his eyes?”

Christos looked at me like I was simple. I recognized the look because I’d been giving it to him all afternoon. “Mountain Dew? You think there was soda pop in the cup?”

“Yes . . .” I said. Daisy carried that thing around like a baby blanket. Maybe it was her one real vice (next to sex, of course), and in her infinite anorexic wisdom she didn’t recognize it as sugar.

Christos started to laugh. “Oh, no, Holly . . . there is no soda in the cup. . . .” He chuckled so hard he had to bend over a little. “Daisy like the vodka.”

I stared back at him, sure he was mistaken. “Vodka?”

The greasy Greek continued to laugh heartily. “Yes.” He leaned over and ruffled my hair, and I reached up and swatted his hand away before I could stop myself. “Daisy almost always drunk off her butt. You can’t tell?”

I flashed back to the night at the club, when I’d wondered about the propriety of her presence in a twenty-one-and-over establishment. Compared with the inebriated messes that were Sharla and Axel, Daisy really had seemed perfectly sober to me. Either I was more of a prude than I thought or Daisy was just so desensitized to alcohol that a boatload of vodka barely altered her at all.

Christos finally stopped laughing and wiped the tears away from his eyes. He squinted off toward the water, then looked back at me. “So what you think? Jamie let us go to Cuba or no?”

CHAPTER 8

It’s true that not many people my age have employees, and I’ve seen plenty of celebs abuse their assistants and stylists. But I could never do that. My mom always made sure I knew how hard my team was working and how we’re all in this together. So when they need something, if it’s money or a recommendation or even just a sympathetic ear, I make sure I’m always available. I want my team to enjoy the time we spend together. They’re some of my favorite people and the only ones I want along on this crazy adventure.

I have a great life because of these folks, so I think it’s important that I give them great lives, too!

W
e didn’t go to Havana. I’ll admit, I was half-relieved, half-­disappointed. I was curious to see what the fuss was all about. There was something exciting about sneaking into the harbor of a so-called illicit nation and then back out again with no one being the wiser. I felt like one of the femmes fatales from James Bond.

Despite the copious amounts of water Sharla and Axel poured into Jamie’s eyes, he was still in a lot of pain, and they worried he might have burned his corneas. So we turned the boat around and went back to dock, with Daisy crying alone in the corner about how no one ever thought about her feelings. She screamed that no one
really cared what she wanted, and I have to say, she was probably right. But not in the way she thought.

This pampered, spoiled little princess truly believed that she was getting the raw end of the deal. She was so out of touch with reality she refused to see that the entire world rearranged schedules, dates, and lifestyles to give her what she wanted. Or thought she wanted. But because she didn’t recognize—or couldn’t be bothered to notice—any of these massive efforts, she made those same people hate her. So ultimately, I doubt they really did care. And that was entirely her fault.

When we arrived back in Miami, the ever-silent bodyguards (I never did learn their names) escorted Daisy to the hotel, while Sharla, Axel, and I took Jamie to the Mount Sinai Medical Center emergency room. I thought Jamie’s status would get us in faster, but we still had to wait nearly two hours alongside surfing accidents and raging cases of the flu. By the time Jamie was released with a bottle of eye drops and fugly-looking blue-blockers, it was almost midnight.

The four of us slumped into a cab, and I assumed everyone else was as tired as I was. Jamie started snoring even as we pulled away from the ER. But as I sat in the front seat, Axel leaned forward and tapped me on the shoulder.

“I heard a rumor about an underground club at the Port,” he whispered. “You wanna come with?”

I turned back and saw Sharla nodding in encouragement. I didn’t know what an underground club was, but it sounded like one of my worst nightmares. “I think I’m going to go to sleep, but thanks.”

“Just because you wear old lady shoes doesn’t mean you can’t dance like an idiot.”

“Next time. I promise.” It was a lie, but when would there be a next time? I thought Axel and Sharla were fantastic, but I held no illusion that they’d want to hang out with me back in our real lives.

“Fine.” I waited for Axel to lean back into his seat, but he tapped me on the shoulder again. “But you do wear old lady shoes. Just saying.”

“Got it.”

Now it was Sharla’s turn to lean forward. “Does this mean we’re going shoe shopping?”

•  •  •

I
t wasn’t until I fell into bed at twelve-forty-five that I thought to check my messages. I was still waiting for parental fallout from the fake baby announcement. Barely able to keep my eyes open, I dialed my voice mail.

“Hey, Holly. This is Vaughn. Some of the show’s crew is headed out to this amazing restaurant tonight and I wondered if you wanted to tag along. Give me a call back.”

I moved to erase the message, but stopped myself at the last second. Instead, I pressed 9 to save it. Though I felt weak doing it, I wanted to hear his sexy growl on loop. So I saved it, pledging to never tell anyone.

Then I fell asleep.

•  •  •

A
t 10:40 the next morning, the room phone rang. I struggled to open my eyes, but mostly failed and had to find the receiver by blindly smacking my way across the nightstand. I finally answered it, hoping in vain that it would be Vaughn.

“Good morning, Sleeping . . . um . . . Lady,” Minka said.

Why did this woman have to ruin all my days within seconds of my waking up?

“Morning, Minka, what can I do for you?” I rolled over and finally managed to pry my eyes open and check the time.

“Well, I was wondering if you were planning to stay longer than the rest of your party,” she replied, her tone again laced with acid. “We expected you would be checking out today.”

“Oh . . . okay.”

I scrambled out of the bed in panic. We were leaving today? No one had bothered to tell me that. Of course, they rarely told me anything, but I would have thought someone might mention having to take a cross-country flight today. I dimly remembered Vaughn saying the crew left today, but I didn’t know that applied to Daisy and her entourage.

“Then, yes, I’m leaving, too, I guess,” I replied, angry that she was catching me so thoroughly off guard.

“Checkout is in twenty minutes,” she told me dubiously. “You clearly just woke up. Are you
sure
you’ll be able to vacate the suite by then?”

“As sure as I am that you’d weep with joy if I fail,” I shot back. I’d been a slob while staying at the Fontainebleau. My clothes were strewn across every piece of furniture and I didn’t even remember where I’d put my duffel bag. I had no idea how to get ready before I turned into a pumpkin at 11:00
A.M
.
, but I wasn’t about to tell her that. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

I dropped the phone, very likely just onto the nightstand and not anywhere near the receiver. At that moment, I couldn’t have cared less. Much like the morning of my trip out here, I raced through the rooms, grabbing anything that looked remotely familiar. Then with armfuls of tank tops, sandals, and toiletries, I found my bag and dumped everything inside.

I made it to the lobby at exactly 10:58, and was chagrined to discover Minka waiting for me, her eyes expectantly glued to her watch. I swear she looked disappointed when she saw me dragging my bag across the marble.

“I’m impressed,” Minka said coldly, turning and walking back to the front desk. “I thought I’d have to send the bellhops to help you pack.”

“Well, I made it just fine,” I said breathlessly, abandoning my bag somewhere near the middle of the floor. I approached her and
dropped my purse on the counter. “Where are the others?” I had the forethought not to use Daisy’s name in the lobby, recalling all the paparazzi insanity whenever we came or went. I looked around and noticed that the lobby was quieter than it had been over the last few days, and wondered if people had tired of Daisy. I know I was certainly beginning to.

“Oh, the rest of your group checked out hours ago,” she said matter-of-factly. “They had an eight
A.M.
flight back to Los Angeles.”

My heart had one of those roller-coaster moments where it dropped into my stomach like a fifty-pound chunk of concrete. “They left?” I asked, now not just breathless but also having chest pains. “They just left and didn’t even tell me we had a flight?”

Minka stopped typing into the computer and stared up at me. She looked completely unsympathetic, and perhaps even a little sorry she wasn’t already rid of me. “Your name wasn’t on the list of boarding passes I printed out for Mr. Lloyd,” she told me and smiled tightly. “I assumed you had a later flight.”

They wouldn’t have just forgotten about me . . . right? Maybe their flight was already fully booked and they had to put me on another one. And maybe they’d just forgotten to tell me about it. They were pretty unreliable people. But I had to have a flight home . . . right? Or was I supposed to book it myself and bill them later?

If I felt nauseous before, it was nothing compared to the near-blackout ripples of consciousness that occurred when Minka handed me the checkout form.

“Will you be paying by credit card?” she asked sweetly.

I looked down at the paper and saw a number that was so large it couldn’t possibly have been real. It had to be some sort of a confirmation or registration number. This couldn’t be my bill.

“I’m sorry,” I choked. “What is this?”

“You do have to
pay
for the room.”

“I was a guest of Dai—Mr. Lloyd,” I corrected myself quickly. “I am his hired employee.”

I put the piece of paper down on the counter and slid it toward Minka, almost afraid to touch it. I had the irrational thought that if I maintained contact, it would somehow burn me. She immediately pushed it right back to me.

“Then you will certainly have to submit the bill to him for reimbursement,” she replied cheerfully. “But he didn’t say anything to me about paying for your room.”

I glanced down at the bill, still unwilling to touch it. I knew that if I did, if I admitted that the hotel suite the size of Rhode Island was my financial responsibility, I was screwed. The total due to the Fontainebleau was $4,800, nearly half of my original retainer fee. And I still didn’t have a ticket home, nor had I paid for the rental car I’d only used once. Adding that to the fact that I’d already spent more than two grand of the money on my monthly bills and other expenses, I was now almost back where I’d started. I’d gotten this big job and I was officially nowhere.

I didn’t argue with Minka. I knew there was no point. Had I refused to pay the bill, I’m sure she would have delighted in calling the police. I remembered what happened to that famous couple who’d skipped out on a hotel in Santa Barbara. And I wasn’t famous; no one would care if I went to jail.

I just took my credit card out of my wallet and numbly handed it over to her. I shouldn’t have even had a card with a limit that high, but for once, I was thankful that a lot of banks like to hand out irresponsible lines of credit. And I couldn’t give her my debit card because the bill exceeded my daily limit. By a
lot
.

Minka ran the card and then handed me a pen to sign the sales slip. I no longer cared that she was giggling inside at my misery. If she wanted to be the wicked bitch of Miami, I was all for it.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Yes,” I sighed, taking my credit card back and instantly handing her my debit card in exchange. “Can you please book me a ticket home?”

•  •  •

T
he earliest flight Minka could find was a 5:00
P.M.
that stopped in Atlanta for some reason. I spent my entire afternoon trying to call Jameson, but his phone was—of course—off while he was in the air. I knew that they had a direct flight and had landed by the time I made it to Hartsfield-Jackson, but he still didn’t answer. I wondered if he was avoiding me. As though I wasn’t eventually going to bring this up, even if it involved driving to the house and banging on the front door.

My second flight didn’t take off until after 9:00
P.M.
, and with the time difference, I landed just after 10:00
P.M.
Pacific time. I still had no return call from Jamie, and I’d just realized I now had to pay to get my car out of long-term parking, at a bargain price of sixteen dollars a day.

Depressed, I tried to call Camille on my drive home, but Donnie said she was still at a casting session for
STD Island 2: Hot, Wet, and Dangerous
(it wasn’t really called
STD Island
,
but I’m sure you’ve guessed I can’t say the name). He tried to talk to me with food in his mouth, presumably his favorite Hershey’s miniatures, but he gave me the heebie-jeebies even over the phone, so I quickly ended the conversation.

I thought about calling Vaughn, but I knew I shouldn’t. He probably thought I’d stood him up yesterday, not to mention that the act of calling him for a pick-me-up at this hour was all-around inappropriate. I barely knew the guy, despite our late-night balcony dinner.

So I drove back to my tiny shack of a studio apartment with the sudden—and unwelcome—realization that nothing had really changed in my life. In the last several days, I’d glimpsed a flashier, more glamorous existence, but it wasn’t mine. In most ways, I was grateful for that. God knows I had no interest in spending my days with vapid Hollywood hangers-on . . . but I would have appreciated keeping just a tiny bit of that sheen on my everyday life.

Despite the new job and my new friends, I was still going home—alone—to a neighborhood the local grandmothers liked to call Diablorado Street. By the time I dragged my suitcase up to the second floor, my neighbor’s apartment was already dark and I had to accept the fact that I would have to spend the night without my Smitty.

It was all I could do to put on my pajamas and crawl into bed. I was exhausted, but I wasn’t really sleepy. I felt defeated, like I’d just wasted weeks of my life on an enterprise that no one would believe, anyway. My last thought before the blessed blackness of sleep was that at that moment, I didn’t care so much about being a writer anymore. I’d built it up in my head as this magical profession that made all your dreams come true, but it wasn’t magic at all. It was just as harsh and real as anything else in life . . . and I desperately needed to believe that the good would come right along with the bad. I needed to believe it would eventually balance out.