B009R9RGU2 EBOK (10 page)

“That’s insane.”

“I know. What are you auctioning this year?”

Billy looks back at the program. “A trip to Tahiti, someone’s condo in Paris for Christmas, and check this out—access to a private jet.”

“A
what
?!”

“Yeah… look.” At this point we are both hunched over the program as Billy points to the picture of a state-of-the-art G5. “There’s a time limit.”

“No kidding. Still…”

“But it says to anywhere in the US. Now,
that’s
first class.”

I love that Billy is as impressed by the auction item as I am. I mean, let’s be real here… Surely he’s been in private jets before. He’s worth millions. He could probably negotiate for a private jet at his disposal for his next movie project if he wanted. But like the rest of us, he still is “normal” about how cool it sounds.

I am standing backstage
as Billy makes his opening remarks. I’m now holding another Diet Coke (with a well-disguised
shot of rum because, basically, my work here is done). It’s all up to Billy now. And I have this ridiculous sense of pride, especially considering I’ve only worked with him for two weeks now, as he gets a huge round of applause and even some hoots and hollers from the ladies—and a handful of guys—in the crowd. But Billy takes it all in stride and launches right into a real tug-on-your-heartstrings version of the speech the hospital’s PR team had written for him. He tells a story about a kid he went to school with who died of leukemia. I have no idea if it’s even true or not (actors make up stories all the time for talk show appearances and stuff), but it doesn’t matter. I can practically hear the ladies whipping out their checkbooks. And then, with perfect timing, he lightens the mood and gets the crowd ready for what turns out to be a lively auction.

Billy clearly has a backup career if ever needed. He has an amazing talent for rallying all the wealthy patrons at their tables of ten into competing over who can give the most. He even uses my Kobe story to get a bidder all riled up so that he’ll outbid everyone for the trip to Tahiti. Someone is spending more on a trip to Tahiti than I get paid in a year… but as Billy keeps pointing out, “It’s for charity!”

Darren is rushing around behind me like a madman cueing people in the wings, arguing with the lighting guy, but Billy is on stage making everything go smoothly. He talks to the little girl who is this year’s “poster patient” for the hospital, and has her giggling and telling adorable stories about her trip to Disneyland just like any other ten-year-old. But her present wheelchair and baldness tell a different, poignant story. The audience is wiping tears from their eyes. I make a mental note
to log on to the hospital’s website tomorrow to make my own donation.

“He’s doing great. This is so fantastic!” Darren whispers in my ear, still for probably the first time all day. And we both just watch the magic play out on stage.

By the end of the evening I am, as always, wishing I wasn’t so vain as to force my feet into high heels. No matter how much it hurts now, I know I’m going to slip into them next time, again thinking how perfect they look with this skirt. I lean pleasantly against the plush leather seats in the back of the limo and sigh with relief, knowing at least I don’t have to drive myself home. The two rum and Diet Cokes I snuck backstage have left me feeling way more comfortable than I did on the way over.

Billy eases down next to me and I realize that I didn’t slide in far enough to sit on the opposite or even sideways section of the car. Once again we’re sitting right next to each other. Which, if we were in a normal car, would be no problem. It’s just disconcerting to be right next to Billy in the back of this huge ten-person limousine, where you could easily stretch out and sleep on its buttery leather seats. But I can’t move now; that would only call attention to the awkwardness of the moment. And for all I know, Billy isn’t even aware of it, so why point it out?

He is the first to break the silence. “I had a good time tonight.” He leans forward and helps himself to the limo bar setup, bypassing the bottled water.

“I’m glad. You did a killer job. The hospital is ecstatic. They don’t have final numbers yet, but they think your auctioneering broke a record.”

“Really? Cool.” He seems content with that answer and
doesn’t say anything else as he pops open a Red Bull and pours it into two glasses. He adds vodka and hands me a glass and then sits back next to me with a sigh. I think we’re going to sit in silence for a while. Which I’m okay with; I certainly don’t want to be all Chatty Cathy if he needs some downtime. I sip at my drink, and it helps me feel more comfortable in the quiet.

“So, what’s your boyfriend like?”

Wow
. A sucker punch right to the jaw. I did not see that coming.

“Uh, Jacob?” I stall… and take another sip.

“
Jacob
, huh? Not Jake?” I hear humor in his voice. Is he teasing me?

“Yeah, he likes to be called Jacob. He hates the name Jake.” Really, he’s not a big fan of nicknames in general, but I manage not to say that to the adult who still is going by Billy.

“So? What’s he like?”

“He’s a great guy. Really smart. He’s in banking.” It’s not that I can’t think of better things to say about Jacob, it’s just that my mind is not actually functioning properly at this moment.

“How long have you been going out?”

“Two years.” I am longing for this conversation to be over and hope my short answers help put me out of my misery.

“Are you living together?”

Since when did guys ask questions like this anyway? Maybe now is the time to go on the offensive.

“No. We’re not. What about you? Girlfriend?”

“Nope. As the entire blogosphere knows, I broke up with
someone I’d been seeing for a while, and now I’m just, you know, laying low.”

“Did you love her?” Now where the hell did
that
intrusive question come from? Sophie, shut up!

“I thought I did. We were really happy together, and we had a lot in common. But when we broke up, I guess I wasn’t as upset as I thought I’d be. I realized that we were just going through the motions by the end. You know?”

I think about Jacob and me. After two years, are
we
just “going through the motions?” In some ways maybe we are. I don’t know. And does Billy really care or is he just looking for empathy?

“What about you? Do you love him?” Billy asks.

“Yes. Of course I do.” Did that sound too defensive? I can’t tell.

“Okay. Sorry. I didn’t mean to get too personal.” He actually sounds a bit hurt.

“I didn’t mean to snap at you. I guess I’m a little sensitive. About us. I mean, about him and me.” Is that even proper English? I look for a place to rest my drink and really can’t see how to get it back to the bar without showing Billy a healthy view of my backside. I know I’m not fat, but it’s still not the most flattering angle.

“Why?” Oh sure, the one guy on the planet who actually wants to talk about relationships happens to be the hottest guy in Hollywood and is sitting a foot away from me in the dark backseat of a limo.
Danger, Will Robinson, danger
. I swallow the rest of my drink and just put the glass on the floor at my feet.

“I don’t know. I guess it’s awkward. Because we’ve been together so long people ask when we’re going to get engaged. And it
is
the next logical step, but I guess maybe I also worry that we are in a rut, or bored, or boring or something. I don’t know.” Yes, I know I said that twice. Because I really
don’t know
. I don’t know a lot of things, starting with why I’m opening up to Billy Fox about my relationship with Jacob.

I peer outside the window and watch as we merge onto the 10 freeway. No traffic at this hour, thank God. The limo is starting to feel very warm and claustrophobic.

“Do you want to get married? Does Jacob?”

For no reason, that I will admit to anyway, I find myself wanting to confide in him. You know how you can tell your manicurist anything? Or a friendly bartender. And it’s okay because neither knows anything except your side of the story. And they won’t meet any of the other people involved, right? So, that must be it. I’m overcome by that same compulsion to confess everything I’ve been stressing about to Billy Fox. Or maybe it’s just because he’s a good-looking guy who’s asking me sensitive-sounding questions.

“We’ve been dating two years and he hasn’t said anything about marriage. He doesn’t bring it up and I’m not about to.”

“Ah.” The condescension is not difficult to sense.

“What?” I turn to look him in the eye, and our proximity makes my stomach do a flip-flop. But the smirk on his face manages to get my libido under control.

“Well, we’re men, not mind readers. You can’t expect him to just know what’s going on inside your beautiful head.” Save me from smooth-talking Southerners. His accent, usually so subtle,
has become more pronounced as the evening has worn on. And the compliment, of course, counteracts the arrogance and his know-it-all attitude.

“For your information, I don’t want Jacob to propose to me just because I want him to!” Maybe it’s the Red Bull and vodka in my system, but now I’m riled. “It’s supposed to be something couples do because it’s what they
both
want. I’m not desperate for a ring. I just want to know where we stand. If
he
sees a future for us.” Nice sidestepping. Very confident.

“You know what I think?” He is smiling, but I feel the intensity of his gaze as the limo pulls up in front of my building. I glance out the window as we stop, trying to think of something witty to say. In the end I just look back at him and our eyes lock. “I think you don’t know what you want, Sophie Atwater. Not yet.” I swallow.

And with perfect or horrible timing, depending on how you look at it, the car door opens beside Billy. The spell is broken as Billy throws me a killer smile before getting out of the car. He helps me to my feet with his perfect Southern manners, and the cold air shocks me back to reality. What the hell is going on with me?

“Good night, Sophie. Thank you for tonight.” He leans down and kisses me on the cheek. I force myself not to think about how it feels.

“Good night, Billy.”

He disappears back into the stretch behind tinted windows as I head to the front door of my building. The car idles there until I unlock the door and throw what I hope seems like a casual wave as I step inside.

My stomach is in knots as I slowly climb the stairs to my condo. In a daze, I go through the motions of getting ready for bed. It’s only when I climb under the covers and lay my head on the pillow that I finally step back for some perspective. And one thought keeps running through my mind like a screen saver:
You are in big trouble, Sophie
.

My head was already ringing when the alarm clock
joined in this morning. For the most part, my job allows me the flexibility to roll in between 9 and 9:30
A.M.
Nice, right? Well, it makes up for the late nights I often work at red carpet events. But occasionally, I am required to be up at the crack of dawn. Like today. After a restless night of Billy-on-the-brain minimal sleep, the 5:45
A.M.
wake-up call was definitely unwelcome.

And here I am on the set of KTLA’s morning news show. They occasionally book celebrity guests to cohost the show when one of the anchors is away. I scored my client Megan Keef a spot this morning. It’s pretty cool exposure for her; she’s a soap star who’s about to break out of daytime. On
Black Mountain Valley
, she plays Annabelle, the perfect, sweet heroine. In real life, she’s equally sweet and one of my favorite clients. There’s just one tiny issue I struggle to keep out of the tabloids. Megan habitually “test drives” clothing and other small items from boutiques and hotels… often without the establishment’s knowledge, much less consent. So far the kleptomania on my watch has been kept to a few hotel spa robes, a pair of Gucci sunglasses, two flatware settings, and some cashmere gloves
and hosiery that “accidentally” fell into her handbag, which I then discreetly returned with abundant apologies for the
oops!
The most random of all was when a hotel billed us for a Gideon Bible.

It’s now 9
A.M
. and—after two cups of coffee and a deeply satisfying eggs and bacon on a roll—my brain is finally starting to function properly. Once the show is over I’m heading straight to the office, which means I won’t have time to change before I meet Billy Fox for a lunch interview with Lisha Hasbert. I would love to hold off seeing Billy again until I clear my head, but I still have a job to do. And there is no way I would let this particular reporter interview any of my clients alone. In journalist circles, Lisha is known as a pit viper, known for sensing weakness and going in for the kill. She’s written up some pretty brutal—though probably honest—interviews with celebrities. Why then am I letting her interview him at all? It’s going to be a
GQ
cover story. Like her or not, she writes a great interview, and the notable magazines—
People, GQ, Vanity Fair
, etc.—love her, specifically because she gets exclusive stories from big stars. My job is to make certain that she doesn’t get anything out of Billy that he doesn’t want to tell her.