Just Like Me, Only Better (28 page)

“Well, it’s not hard to lay low when you’re halfway around the world,” I said. “How’s the filming going?”

“It’s okay,” he said. “Kind of slow. Plus, it’s hard to concentrate when all I can think about is you.”

Oh. My. God.

“I’d better run,” he said—before I could decide whether or not to admit that he was all I could think about, too. “Don’t want to run up this guy’s phone bill.”

“I miss you,” I said.

“I miss you, too.”

I still hadn’t told him about Ben.

 

 

 

T
he Haley Rush sex tape—soon to be known as the “Haley Rush Has a Fat Ass” tape—turned up on an online muck-raking site on Tuesday.

At least they got Brady’s last name wrong. Maybe that would save him from some Google searches. Really, it wasn’t so bad for him: his face was so shadowed, he was hardly even recognizable. And anyway, you couldn’t really see much of him beyond his side and arms.

That’s because I was blocking him. There I was, white ass bumping up against the dashboard as I climbed into position. I looked hideous: pale (I was way overdue for another spray tan), ungainly (there really hadn’t been much room to maneuver), and, well, fat. In addition to what one commenter called my “bread-dough butt,” the video offered glimpses of my post-childbirth tummy and my “gravity’s winning” thighs. More than one person suggested that I—that is, Haley—had made a visit to the donut shop before tearing off my clothes.

The video was only a few minutes long, and it wasn’t great quality, but it was clearer than I would have guessed, considering that I hadn’t heard anyone drive up. The peeping Tom must have followed us from the club, parked on the street and crept around the cars. He even got a couple of shots of my face. My expression was . . . unfortunate.

By Wednesday, the trashier entertainment programs—which I was able to watch thanks to the miracle of the Internet—had it covered.

There was my facial expression again, along with a couple of black rectangles superimposed over my naughty bits.

By Thursday, it was everywhere.

Jay didn’t call me. Neither did Brady. When I saw Ken from a distance at school, I hurried the other way.

To add to the fun, Ben went into full mope mode.

“I’m sorry about Friday night.”

“Are you ever going to forgive me?”

“I love you.”

When I dropped him off at his classroom Wednesday morning, I tried to kiss him, but he wouldn’t let me.

“Dad’ll pick you up after school today,” I told him. “I’ll see you after dinner Sunday.” When I’d been subbing, the off weekends weren’t so bad because I’d see Ben at school on Thursdays and Fridays. However, I’d turned down so many assignments that the school had stopped calling me.

I ran a hand over his blond hair, which was a bit too long and therefore less spiky than usual. “I could come to school for lunch tomorrow. Or Friday. Or both?”

He shook his head.

“I could bring Jack in the Box.” There was no way he could resist that.

But he did.

“Okay, then.” I swallowed hard. “Have fun.”

 

 

The Ben-less days that followed went something like this: Sleep late. Drink too much coffee. Eat cookies. Lie in bed and stare at ceiling. Check Internet. Mourn the injustices of the world. Shower until the water runs cold. Pinch naked flab and resolve to monitor food intake. Check dark roots in the mirror and wonder how the extensions would react to Clairol. Imagine a future with Brady. Worry about his reaction to Ben. Eat chips dipped in artificial cheese. Look at Ben’s baby pictures. Cry.

Sunday night, I was on time to pick Ben up from Hank and Darcy’s house. In fact, the whole next week, I was on time for everything. When Shaun and Shavonne dawdled over their Fruity Pebbles Monday morning, I announced that my van would pull out of the driveway at eight-twenty, with or without them. They made it into the car that day and Tuesday, too, but Wednesday morning I left them in the dust. Well, okay: in the bathroom. So what if Deborah kicked us out? That might be just the push I needed to get on with my life—whatever that life might be.

If only Brady would call—or even text. I could ask him more about the celebrity doubles agencies. I could get his e-mail address. Just because we couldn’t talk didn’t mean we couldn’t write.

Was he watching our videos from Australia? It was amazing how much the press reports had focused on Haley and what this meant for her future and how little trouble they’d given Brady: just the double standard, I guessed.

 

 

Saturday morning, I made Ben’s favorite pancakes (banana blueberry) and tried to engage him in conversation.

My cell phone rang: Jay. Why was he calling? What could he possibly say, other than,
In case I wasn’t clear the last time we spoke, you’re a tramp and an idiot and you’ve ruined Haley’s career.

Instead, he said, “Haley’s missing.”

Of course she was. This time, however, no one could blame her.

“What did Rodrigo say?” I asked.

“I fired Rodrigo on Monday. Turns out he hadn’t worked at least half the hours that he said he did.”

“Oh. Yeah. Haley told me about that.”

“You
knew
? And you didn’t say anything?”

When I didn’t respond, he said, “She has a party tonight. She can’t miss it.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to go.”

“I don’t give a shit what she wants. She isn’t a guest—she’s a performer. For Phil Leventhal, the COO of Mercer Media. Mercer Media owns a controlling interest in Bright Broadcasting, which controls the Betwixt Channel. Phil’s paying Haley a quarter million dollars to sing ten songs at his daughter’s twelfth birthday party.”

When I’d absorbed that information and could adequately speak, I said, “You’d think he’d get a discounted rate.”

“That is the discounted rate. At least Phil thinks it is.”

“And he still wants her to perform? After, you know . . .”

“
Kitty
is Betwixt’s only hit show. Without Haley, there’s no
Kitty
, and without
Kitty
, there may as well be no Betwixt. All of the guests—most of whom are industry people—know that Haley’s supposed to perform. If Phil cancels, he’s signaling a loss of faith in her.”

I swallowed hard. “I’ll call Ken.”

“Who’s Ken?”

“Haley’s, um, friend. From Fullerton. They had plans this weekend.”

“Haley is ditching Phil Leventhal’s party to go out with a guy in Fullerton? Fuck!”

I tried to keep my voice steady. “You should be happy for her. Ken’s a nice guy. I actually think he’ll be good for her. And besides, you should be glad that she’s finally getting over Brady.”

“There was never anything going on between Haley and Brady.”

“What?”

“They were photographed together a couple of times after Brady joined the show, and rumors started. So the producers said, let’s go with it. They’d already tried making it look like there was something going on between Haley and Jason Price, but he’s kind of skeeve, and she wasn’t comfortable with it. So they sent Haley and Brady for some dinners and on a trip to Hawaii. The producers wanted to keep it going, but Haley refused.”

“They didn’t go out at all?” I clarified.

“No. And it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that she get her ass back here. Now.”

 

 

Ken didn’t answer his cell phone or his home phone. Hoping he and Haley were ignoring the rings, I dragged poor Ben out of the house. “We’re going to go see Brice and Arches and—what’s their brother’s name?”

“Powell.”

“Him, too.”

“I haven’t finished my pancakes.”

“You can eat them in the car. Out of your hand.”

He was okay with that. I did my very best to ignore the syrup dripping down his arm.

Brady and Haley were never really a couple. I was still trying to decide how I felt about that. I was hurt that he had lied to me, of course—but he had probably signed some kind of confidentiality agreement. Besides, if Brady didn’t even like Haley, that meant that he liked me for myself.

Haley’s big yellow truck was parked in Ken’s driveway.

I let Ben push the doorbell. No one came. I knocked: still no answer. Juniper bushes ran along the front of the house. I crept through them and peeked through a living room window.

“Mommy, I don’t think you’re supposed to be doing that.”

“It’s fine, honey. The Druckers are our friends.”

The living room was empty.

“Looking for Mr. Drucker?”

At the sound of the man’s voice, I wheeled around to see a slightly stooped, gray-haired man in khaki shorts and a red crewneck sweater. He had a chocolate Lab on a leash.

“Oh!” he said when he saw my face. “I thought you’d gone with him.”

“No, um . . .” I wiggled around the bushes. “No. I didn’t.” I wiped some bush sprigs from my jeans, thinking, as I always did, that juniper smells just like cat piss. “So, he’s left, then?”

“Yup.” He shook the leash. The dog sat down, awaiting his next commandment. “Asked me to walk Tahoe here. I was just about to take him around to the backyard.”

He pointed at a cream-colored ranch house. “I live next door.”

“Oh. That’s nice. Did Ken have anyone with him?”

“I thought you . . .” Anxiety strained his face. That’s all I needed to add to my list of sins: making an old man believe he was losing his mind.

“Ken has a woman friend who looks something like me. A lot like me.”

“Okay! Now I get it.” His face softened with relief. “She was with him. They left this morning, right after Ken took the boys to his ex-wife’s. He said they were staying with Pamela this weekend.” He rolled his eyes: not a Pamela fan.

“Do you know where they were going?”

“They had camping gear. I think he said something about Mount Whitney.”

 

 

Mount Whitney is 225 miles from Fullerton. According to Mapquest (which always underestimates how long it takes to cross the Los Angeles basin), it would take approximately four hours to drive there. Even if I left a message for Haley at all of the Whitney base camps (assuming such a thing was possible, which it probably wasn’t) and even if she agreed to come home (which she probably wouldn’t) there was no way she could make it back in time for tonight’s performance.

I considered just telling Jay that I had been unable to track her down, but my conscience got the better of me. The situation was at least partly my fault. Without me, Haley would never have met Ken. And without me, Haley wouldn’t have been attacked for the sex tape. In my defense, Haley was an irresponsible nut job before I got involved, and if she hadn’t taken off with Ken, she might have taken off alone or with someone else, or she might have stayed in her velour sweats and locked herself in her room.

“Jay? I’ve tracked down Haley.” I was in the bedroom. Ben was in the main room watching yet another DVD.

“Oh, thank God,” Jay said. “Where is she?”

“On her way to Mount Whitney.”

Outside my window, Shaun Mott was shooting Nerf arrows across the pool. Oops—one went in the water.

“Where?” Jay asked.

“Mount Whitney. It’s a mountain.”

“Yes, thank you. I got that. The
Mount
tipped me off.”

“It’s the highest mountain in the continental United States,” I said, as if describing a really cool field trip. “She went with my friend . . . her friend . . . Ken. He’s an experienced climber. So, she’ll be completely safe—you don’t have to worry. But there’s no way she’s going to make it back by tonight.”

“She has to! Where is this mountain? How far away is it?”

“It’s like five hours from L.A. There’s just no way . . .”

The line was so quiet that I thought he’d hung up. No such luck.

“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Reflexively, I looked at the closed door, afraid that Ben could somehow hear the distant profanities.