“She’s missing?”
“Rodrigo popped out to get her some Pinkberry last night,” Jay told me, his voice tense. “And when he came back she was gone.”
“What about her car?”
“She took the truck.”
Haley, the truck, and Mulholland Drive were a frightening combination. But surely someone would have noticed if a bright yellow truck had driven off the edge.
“Have you called the police?”
“No. I’m sure she’s fine. And like you pointed out, she’s an adult. She can do what she wants.” He was a lousy actor. “Just—call me if you hear anything.”
I refused to worry about Haley.
I closed out the computer and got down to the business of a normal life, vacuuming and dusting, cleaning the shower and scrubbing the toilet (which was getting pretty disgusting). And then I headed to my favorite Target, the one in Amerige Heights.
I had just finished loading my cereal and was headed for women’s clothing when I ran into Nina.
“Hey!” I wanted to give her a big hug, sneak off to Starbucks, and tell her all of my secrets. But I couldn’t, of course.
“Hello.” She did not appear to be in a mood to hear my secrets, anyway.
“Where are the kids?”
“Home.” She crossed her arms.
“Oh. Ben’s at Hank’s this weekend.”
She looked around the store. “Ken here?”
“Ken Drucker? No. Why?”
“I heard you were with him this morning.”
“I was home this morning. I cleaned the toilet.” My back tightened with irritation. Nina was mad at me because she thought I was going out with Ken and hadn’t told her? How do these rumors start?
“Well, that’s weird.” She couldn’t decide whether or not to believe me. “Because Terri just called me. She went to Yogurtland after church. She swears she saw you there with Ken. She said you smiled at her and everything.”
Oh. My. God.
Nina saw my expression. “So you were there?”
“I gotta go!”
“But what about the stuff in your cart?”
“Later! I just, I just—I’ll see you later.”
Ken’s ranch-style house, painted two shades of green, was smaller than the Motts’. It had a flat, neat lawn in front and big, leafy trees on either side. Haley’s big yellow truck was parked in the concrete driveway.
When no one answered the doorbell, I turned to leave, only to see Ken and Haley, pink-cheeked and holding hands, walking up the driveway, a chocolate Lab at Ken’s side. Ken wore cargo shorts and a black shirt, both made of some high-tech moisture-wicking material. Haley wore her usual velour sweats (mint green today), which for some reason looked plusher in Fullerton than they had in Beverly Hills. Her messy hair was pulled back. She wore a baseball cap that said MAMMOTH MOUNTAIN. It had to be Ken’s.
“Veronica—hi!” Ken said. “I was just showing Haley some of the trails.” She refused to meet my eyes.
“I heard you went for yogurt this morning,” I said. The dog trotted over, sniffed my crotch, and returned to Ken.
Ken said, “Haley told me she liked Pinkberry, and I told her, Haley, you’ve got to try Yogurtland! She likes it even better. Don’t you, babe?” He leaned down to check her expression: sweet, wide-eyed bliss. Of course, she was an actress. She probably had an entire catalog of facial expressions.
“I didn’t realize you two had even met,” I said.
“Really? I thought you two told each other everything.” He dropped Haley’s hand and put his arm around her shoulders.
“Not everything,” Haley said in a little baby voice.
Oh, God. Had they had sex? Was I in trouble? Jay was going to kill me.
“How did you . . .” I began. “How did she find you?”
“She e-mailed me!” Ken said, beaming. “Last weekend. Said you’d told her we’d be perfect for each other. And, you know, I’m starting to think there’s something to that.” He squeezed her shoulders.
“I finally got up the nerve to call her last night.” Ken continued. “And we talked for, what—two hours?”
Haley looked at the ground. “Three.”
Tinny country music filled the air: a John Denver ringtone. Ken reached into one of his many pants pockets, pulled out a cell phone, and checked the screen.
“Pamela.” He and Haley wrinkled their noses. He hit a button. “Hi, Pam.”
“How did you get his e-mail address?” I whispered to Haley.
She licked her lips. “The website you showed me listed the pack leader guy. So I just wrote to him and said, like, I need to talk to Ken about my cookie order. He gave me the e-mail.”
My nostrils flared. “Cookies are a Girl Scout thing. Cub Scouts sell popcorn.”
She rolled her eyes. “What. Ever.”
“Did you tell the pack leader who you were?”
She squatted down to the dog’s level and rubbed his ears. “I said I was you.”
“You can’t do that!”
She looked up and narrowed her blue (but not bright blue) eyes. “Why not? You say you’re me all the time.”
“That’s different. You can’t just walk around Fullerton pretending to be someone else.”
She straightened. “I wasn’t pretending anything. Nobody thought I was you.”
“Of course they did. I live here, remember?”
“At least five people asked for my autograph. They knew who I was.”
The people who know me don’t ask for my autograph—but there was no point fighting about it.
Ken was deep in conversation with Pamela, a line of irritation settling between his eyebrows. I continued my interrogation. “Didn’t Rodrigo think it was weird that you were on the phone for three hours Friday night? He never even mentioned it to Jay.”
“Rodrigo wasn’t there.”
“But he told Jay that he just popped out to get you Pinkberry.”
She raised her eyebrows (both at the same time since she couldn’t do just one) and spoke slowly. “He lied. If he came over at all on Friday, it’s because he called the home number and I didn’t answer.”
“But . . . but . . .”
“Jay thinks I can’t be left alone,” she said. “Which is so fucking stupid. I mean, what am I going to do?”
I resisted the temptation to offer suggestions. Drive Mulholland while drunk? Crawl down steep hillsides in the dark? Visit men you’ve met on the Internet?
“Rodrigo and I have a deal,” she continued. “Sometimes he comes over—we really are good friends—but most of the time we agree to tell Jay he’s been there. Rodrigo gets paid, and I get to be left alone. It works out for everyone.”
“Jay is really worried about you,” I said.
She laughed bitterly. “Jay only worries about himself and how much money he’s going to make.”
Ken slipped his phone back into one of his pockets, closing it with Velcro for added safety. He looked at Haley, at me, then back to Haley.
“Like seeing double, right?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t actually think you look that much alike.”
Jay answered on the first ring. “Veronica.”
“Haley’s here.”
“Oh, thank God.” He exhaled with relief. “She’s with you?”
“Well, no. But she’s in Fullerton.”
There was silence. “Because . . . ?”
“She met somebody. A man. And he lives here.”
“Quite a coincidence.” His voice was flat and accusatory. I liked him better when he was worried.
“It’s somebody I know. Obviously. And I mentioned him to Haley, and she took it upon herself to contact him.”
“Somebody you know? What—you mean a boyfriend?”
“As you know, I don’t have a boyfriend.” And probably never will.
“That’s just great,” Jay said. “Now we’re screwed. This guy will fuck around with her, and then she’ll have another breakdown, and then he’ll go to the press and—”
“He’s not like that,” I interrupted. “He’s a nice guy. Ethical. It’s all been very wholesome. They talked and ate yogurt and went for a hike.”
Suddenly I had a vision of Haley selling her Beverly Hills mansion and moving into Ken’s little ranch house, walking the boys to school, tending a garden in the backyard. Hollywood made her miserable. Why shouldn’t she just give it up? Perhaps Ken and Haley weren’t such a ridiculous match, after all.
“Haley has a recording session tomorrow,” Jay said. “If she misses it, we risk losing the contract.”
“She’ll be home in a few hours,” I said. “Ken has to pick up his kids from his ex-wife at three, and he thinks it’s too early to introduce them to Haley.”
“He has
kids
?”
“Yes, Jay,” I hissed. “Out here in the real world, people have children. They have normal jobs, responsibilities, and a sense of perspective.”
“It was just a question,” he muttered.
Chapter Twenty-one
W
hen my phone rang the next Friday, I was sitting in my little living room, reading
OK!
magazine. No pictures of me—damn!
“Hello?”
“Hey, is this . . . Veronica?” It wasn’t Jay. Too bad: I hadn’t worked since the film premiere.
“Yes.”
“Hey,” he said. “How’s it going?”
Was he a telemarketer? I didn’t have time for this. I mean, I could be . . . cleaning my toilet. Or Googling “Haley Rush.” Or finishing an in-depth article about Violet Affleck’s wardrobe.
“Who is this?”
“Oh! Sorry.” He laughed. “It’s Brady.” A week had passed without him calling; I had given up hope.
For a moment I couldn’t breathe. And then I made a weird sound, kind of like, “Oh-mu-wah,” gasped a little and said, “Hi!”
“Sorry I haven’t called sooner,” he said. “Life’s been crazy busy. But I’ve been thinking about you.”
I said, “You have? Because I, um. The thing is, I, uh . . . okay . . .”
“Just okay?” I could hear the smile in his voice.
My brain buzzed so loudly with excitement, it was hard to think straight. “I didn’t mean okay as in just-okay,” I blurted. “I meant it as in, I understand. So um . . . hi!” I laughed with embarrassment.
“Hi.” He laughed with something other than embarrassment. “Are you doing anything tonight?”
“Tonight?” It was Friday. I had Ben. Brady was asking me out.
“Nothing much. Why?”
“I was thinking maybe we could go out. Have some drinks. Talk.”
Brady liked me—for real! I felt just like the girl in
Bling
. “That would be . . . I’d love that!” An alarm went off in the inner reaches of my brain. “But—is it okay with Jay?”
“I don’t have to ask my manager permission to go on a date.”
“Of course you don’t. But if I’m pretending to be Haley, and he doesn’t even know . . .” Oh, God. Was I talking him out of the date? What was wrong with me?
“You don’t have to pretend to be Haley. Just be yourself. This isn’t a photo session or a film premiere. We don’t have to answer anyone’s questions. And if they assume you’re someone else—hey, that’s their problem, not ours. I’m not asking Haley to go out with me. I’m asking you.”
“In that case, I say yes.” Yes, yes, yes!!!
“You want me to pick you up? Where do you live?”
Transformers, Rescue Heroes, and Legos littered the coffee table in front of me. Brady didn’t even know I had a kid. I’d tell him, of course, but not now. Not on the phone.
“I live kind of far out of the way. How about I meet you at your place?”
At one o’clock, Deborah Mott was freshly dressed for the day, her hair still wet from the shower. I found her in her kitchen, standing at the island, eating what looked like cold spaghetti out of a giant Tupperware bowl.
“Hi, Deborah. I was wondering—”
“You are picking up the kids today, aren’t you?” Two spots of tomato sauce clung to the corners of her mouth.
“Yes. Of course.”
“Because I was just on my way to Costco, and I wouldn’t be able to make it back on time.” She pushed the top back onto the Tupperware and put it in the fridge.
“No problem,” I assured her. “In fact—take your time at Costco. I’ll keep an eye on the kids.”
“Oh! As long as it doesn’t put you out!” Her grin revealed a fleck of something brownish-green—parsley? basil?—stuck between her two front teeth.
“Not at all.” I took a deep breath. “But, Deborah, I was just wondering. Shavonne’s getting so grown-up. I mean, she’s almost in junior high. So I was wondering what you’d think, how you’d feel, if she, say, babysat for Ben.”
“Babysat?” She scrunched up her face.
“I’d pay her, of course. I’d have my cell phone with me the whole time, and she’s got you on the other side of the yard.”
“Huh.” Deborah looked concerned—afraid, probably, that she’d have to do some of the work herself. “I’d have to think about it. And talk to Shavonne. When were you thinking of?”
“Um . . . tonight, actually.”
“Oh! Goodness! So soon. Is it to see . . . that man?” She meant Jay.
“No,” I said. “No. That’s over. I mean, it was never not over—it was never on.”
“That’s too bad. He was really . . . yum.” She licked her lips, which for some reason just really, really grossed me out.
“So—is Shavonne free?”
“You have a date with someone else?”
I was about to say no when I saw the eagerness in Deborah’s eyes. If I said I was just meeting a friend, she probably wouldn’t let Shavonne babysit. So I gave her what she wanted, which, oddly enough, happened to be the truth.
“Actually—yes.” I smiled.
“Tell me!”
“It’s just this guy I’ve met a couple of times. It probably won’t go anywhere, but you never know. I mean, Hank’s already remarried and I haven’t even started dating. It’s about time I put myself out there.”
“You’d be a fool not to.”
“But I hate Shavonne,” Ben declared several hours later as I stood in front of the mirror, messing with my mounds of freshly washed-and-dried blond hair.