She forced her attention back to the interview. Tristan’s eyes were locked on her and she could feel him winding up for a fastball.
“We’ve watched you grow up on our televisions, and now on the big screen. You were our little sister, our daughter, our best friend down the street. We saw you crying when you accepted your Academy Award seven years ago at the young age of sixteen, and soon we’ll be seeing you salsa dancing across the silver screen with who People Magazine named the Sexiest Man Alive, Cray Layton—the man whom all of the magazines say you’ve been dating.” As Tristan spoke, pictures of Reilly at various stages in her career, culminating in one of her and Cray walking hand-in-hand into the Beverly Hills Hotel, flashed up on the screen behind their chairs. “Then we see pictures in the tabloids of you getting cozy with women at dance clubs.” A picture of Reilly and Sylvie dancing extremely close to one another at the club a few nights ago replaced the one of her and Cray, and Reilly held back a smile. “Forgive my directness, but I feel like we know each other well enough for me to ask this: Does it bother you that people wonder about what happens behind your bedroom door, Reilly? Do you see why they’re confused?” asked Tristan.
Reilly was used to the questions. It didn’t mean she liked them, though. A handful of morning interviews didn’t mean she owed Tristan a damn thing.
“It isn’t nice to gossip about people, Tristan,” purred Reilly, smooth as a pro, and hoping that he saw the warning behind her smiling eyes. If he did, he didn’t show it.
“It’s in all the magazines, Reilly,” laughed Tristan. He leaned forward and patted her leg. “Pictures of you with other women. You have to agree. You don’t fit the lesbian description.” He glanced at his wife, who gazed back with a vapid smile. “Tell her, Mel.”
Tristan encouraged his co-host with a grin, looking for agreement. The two of them had been on the air for almost two decades as the most popular morning show hosts in television history. Hosting The Morning Show since the late nineties, America loved them. And Reilly hated them. At least she hated Tristan. She felt sorry for Melinda. She kept her smile pasted to her face as she watched Melinda try to figure out a way to respond.
“Oh, Tristan! Stop already. You’re stereotyping,” laughed Melinda, apparently trying to ease the moment. Reilly was surprised that Melinda had said anything at all.
“If it’s a stereotype, well, you can just call me guilty. You’re too pretty to be gay, I’m just saying,” whined Tristan, ignoring Melinda’s attempt at steering him away from the topic, and facing Reilly with a cheesy white smile. Reilly’s irritation rose to a peak at Tristan’s treatment of his wife, while Reilly could feel all the housewives in America nod their heads at once.
“Considering that you’re my alternative, Tristan,” she said between her teeth, and she stood up, pulled the microphone clip from the front of her shirt. She stepped around the coffee table that stood between her and her hosts, took a surprised Melinda’s hand, and tugged her up from her seat. She then grabbed the sides of Melinda’s face, feeling the thick makeup slide beneath her palms, and kissed her right on the mouth. She lingered there, teasing Melinda’s astonished lips, and pressed her breasts against her for a long, drawn out moment. Melinda’s eyes were like saucers when Reilly backed away. Reilly mouthed the word “sorry” with her back to the cameras, before she turned to Tristan with a shit-eating grin.
“Suck on that, Tris, my man,” she said as she leaned into a smiling double-bird salute directed right at him. “Suck on that!”
Her heart rate, which had shot up during the minutes on stage, started to go down, and the tension in her head eased. The smile on her face as she left the stage was genuine and she felt worlds lighter.
There was going to be some fallout from that little stunt, she knew. Her mother would have a coronary, for sure. At the least, she’d never be invited back to The Morning Show. But it had been so worth it. Who cared if it lost her the Academy Award? She already had one.
And maybe it would shut her mother up for a little while.
Hope Comes in Unlikely Packages
REILLY SCANNED FOR PARKING ON the street in front of her favorite Starbucks in West Hollywood. Her head was pounding and she was desperate for a coffee fix, but the line for the drive-thru was a mile long and she was in a hurry. She had already made a pass through the tiny parking lot behind the café, and there was nothing available, but incredible luck provided her with a car pulling away from the curb right in front of the coffee shop, and she pulled out of the lot and slipped right into the prime spot. She parked her white BMW X6, got out during a break in the heavy Sunset Boulevard lunchtime traffic, and mounted the curb near the front bumper of her car, stepping around a homeless man sleeping between a plastic pamphlet dispenser and a blue mailbox near the edge of the sidewalk. She took two more steps and then stopped. Backtracking to the curb, she took a twenty out of her pocket—the only cash that she had on her—and slipped it into one of the man’s shoes, which were lined up side-by-side next to his head. His face was buried in a military surplus sleeping bag that featured an incongruous dancing Snoopy iron-on, but the tips of his fingers rested on the toes of the shoes. She had no doubt that he’d wake up if someone tried to take the worn-out boots. She wished that she had more on her to give. Not wanting to disturb him, she moved away and crossed the sidewalk in search of caffeine.
The day had opened with a rough start. After three hours of sleep, she had been awakened at the ass-crack of noon by a call from her agent, Trip, who had somehow booked her on Ellen. Someone had cancelled, or Ellen had nixed someone—she couldn’t remember, but a slot had opened up, and they had called wanting her. The hitch was that she had to come down that day. If it had been Leno or Dave, she would have told them to fuck off, but Ellen had always believed in her and had booked her before she was big. Reilly really liked her, so she lurched out of bed, showered, grabbed her stuff, and jumped into her car. She had just enough time to pick up a coffee on the way. She didn’t want to be late, but no one wanted to deal with her when she was un-caffeinated. Besides, she knew that they’d wait for her. She was the reigning golden girl of Hollywood.
She could smell the tantalizing rich smell of coffee beckoning to her before she opened the door. When Reilly entered, the line was almost to the door, though. She almost turned to leave, but a dark-haired woman waiting in line near the counter caught her eye.
Drew.
She could only see her from the back, but the long black hair and height were just as she remembered. The slight lean in her stance was what gave her away.
Reilly joined the line and watched the woman, seven people away, willing her to turn.
Reilly felt the skin of her palms begin to itch. It was a feeling she knew well, though never in this kind of situation. She felt it when standing behind a curtain that was about to rise, it happened at the start of every new project, and she expected it when she performed live before a group of people. She couldn’t help but rub her hands against her thighs, as she stood in the line watching the back of Drew’s head. She never got the itch over a woman—at least that kind of itch, the higher itch that signaled fear, and not the lower itch that signaled prey. Women didn’t make her nervous like that. But Drew did.
Reilly took a step forward as the line shrank. She watched Drew order, mesmerized. Reilly wanted to dash forward and pay for Drew’s order, make her presence known by the gallant gesture. But she was struck motionless, tied in place with unfamiliar ropes of uncertainty. She thought back to the night at the dance club, when she and Sylvie had acted so crass, so entitled, so sure that they could have her. She’d had no problems then. She had put her hand on Drew’s face like she had no boundaries, like she owned the right to touch a stranger without permission. The heat of embarrassment spread across her face. The short talk that they had in the alley should have eased the feeling. Hadn’t Drew accepted her apology?
But then she thought of the kiss. Her shame paled at the sudden body memory of the surge o
f energy that she had felt as their lips had brushed. She remembered smelling cinnamon.
Reilly stepped forward again. Her eyes never left Drew’s back. She’d hoped that Drew would turn to face her once she moved to the counter to await her order, but without so much as a glance Reilly’s way, Drew went over to the nearby newspaper rack to study the headlines. An impatient tap of Drew’s foot made Reilly pause. It was so discordant with the graceful peace that Drew had worn even when faced with the predatory mating dance of two stoned women in a dance club bathroom.
A touch on Reilly’s shoulder surprised her. Reilly turned to face one of the baristas.
“Your order is ready,” said the young woman with a shy smile. Reilly recognized her from her numerous trips to the coffee shop before. She wasn’t surprised that they’d already made her coffee. She always ordered a non-fat vanilla latte. Half of the time, they had the drink already waiting when she got to the register.
“Thanks. I need to order another Venti house blend and a couple of blueberry muffins, too, if that’s okay. Make that one blueberry and one orange-cranberry,” said Reilly, backing toward the counter where the barista had pointed to her latte, already waiting. Steam rose in an inviting, thin stream from the drinking hole in the cap.
“No problem!” replied the cheery barista. Reilly watched her walk back to her post on the other side of the counter, where she poured the additional cup of coffee. She waved away Reilly’s card when Reilly stepped up to the counter and held it out. “This one’s on us, Ms. Ransome.”
“Hey, thanks,” said Reilly. The on-the-house thing wasn’t a first, but she always felt grateful when it happened. She wished she had cash for a tip and made a mental note of the name on the barista’s nametag, intent on doubling the tip the next time she came in.
Reilly took a few more steps toward the pick-up counter and her heartbeat increased when she saw Drew turn toward her at the same time. Before Drew had fully faced her, Reilly turned away and pretended that she hadn’t yet seen her. She leaned over to take the two pastries and the second cup of coffee from the barista, and then turned back with a smile.
Reilly’s heart dropped into her stomach. The woman with Drew’s hair was not Drew at all. The woman wasn’t even a woman, but a tall girl. Reilly couldn’t have been more disappointed.
Deflated, she left the store and wondered what she would have done if it had been Drew. She realized that she had no idea.
She placed the extra coffee and the two muffins next to the man sleeping on the sidewalk and went to her car. A folded slip of paper was tucked into the rubber seal between the door and the driver’s side window. Thinking it was the work of a roaming flyer dropper, she picked it out and got into her car. She had twenty minutes in which to make it over to Ellen’s studio. Hoping for light traffic, she tossed the paper onto the passenger seat and started the car. The light behind her turned red and she merged into traffic. When she reached for the cup of coffee that she’d placed in the beverage holder in the center console, she saw the scrap of paper on the seat beside her. Writing in dark ink peeked from between the folds. Accustomed to random notes from fans, she wondered what it might say this time. Holding it against the steering wheel she read the scratchy words on the torn scrap of paper.
Hope comes in unlikely packages. God bless pretty lady. God Bless.
Reilly wasn’t a believer one way or another, but she appreciated the intention of the note. The coffee and the bit of money she had given were a small price for the gift of hope.
Did We…?
REILLY ROLLED FROM HER STOMACH onto her back and moaned. Her mouth felt and tasted like the wet sludge under a leaking port o’ potty. Something raked across her right eyeball when she tried to open her eyes. She rubbed at it, winced, and then peeled her false eyelash the rest of the way off. The relief was immediate, and she kept from rubbing anymore. She was just coherent enough—and, just recently, experienced enough with rough mornings after—to know that the glitter-infused eye shadow that she had not bothered to take off before going to bed the night before was still in place, and it would feel like sand if she smeared it into her eyes. She peeled the other eyelash off and squinted at the sunlight reflected onto the high bedroom ceiling.
Claustrophobic anxiety rushed into her amid the pillows piled around her head and the bedclothes that wound around her. With a frustrated groan, she kicked at the sheets to get some air. But the more she kicked, the more the sheets tangled around her legs. She reached down to remove them, but the motion inspired a throbbing pulse that shot a spear of fire through her temples and down the back of her neck. Her stomach churned.
“Sylvie. Move over. I can’t get the sheets off,” she whined, falling back into the suffocating mass of pillows, while she pushed against the leaden weight of the body that pressed along her side, trying to find some room. It was a fucking king-sized bed, why did she feel so crowded?
Defeated, she sighed. Something was always in the way. She closed her eyes and rubbed the base of her skull. Shit, her head hurt.
She couldn’t remember much of the Academy dinner party that she and Sylvie had attended the night before. Billed as a party, the event had actually been work for her, and she had self-medicated in order to get through it. As a result, most of the night was a blur to her that faded into a cold unknown blankness.
The press party that had preceded the event was clear in her mind. The studio car had dropped her and Cray off, and later, Sylvie had arrived with Reilly’s best friend and first co-star, Hank in Reilly’s private car. Reilly frowned at the memory of all the glad-handing and promotional activity she and Cray had submitted to, although Cray didn’t seem to mind it at all. Pictures and autographs, smiles and name-dropping, hugs and air-kisses. She had posed for a thousand pictures, with more people than she would ever remember.
Reilly hated that part of her job more than anything else. More than the occasional over-exuberant fan, even more than the loss of anonymity. She hated making small talk and pretending to enjoy meeting and talking to total strangers as if she knew them. Trading inside jokes, enduring droll commentary, watching others pretend to be above what they were all there doing—it created a mass of poisonous resentment in her chest that grew and hardened throughout each event.
When she had first realized the resentment within her, it had been but a faint discomfort after the novelty of stardom had worn off. It had gone away as soon as whatever event she had been at was over. When she had first met Sylvie, it disappeared, and she enjoyed watching Sylvie’s excitement about being a part of it. But in recent months the dark feeling had come back. It ebbed a bit between events, but resurged as soon as she attended another one. She knew that it would eventually consume her if she didn’t learn to accept the parts of fame that flexed her comfort, but in the meantime, it was buried inside where only she knew it pulsed. No one seemed to suspect that it existed under her bright smiles and practiced warm eyes. As much as she hated some of it, work always came first.
When the dinner was over, and she had stayed more than was required to be considered a polite amount of time—after she had kept it to just one too many glasses of champagne—she had signaled to Hank and Sylvie that it was time to leave. Cray had left before Hank and Sylvie had even arrived, having another commitment that evening. Somehow their car was called, and she collapsed into the dark interior onto fine leather seats. Only then had she been able to breathe again. The plastered-on smile cracked away, and the tired muscles in her cheeks and jaw felt the relief of relaxation. She had been so glad to get out of there, just wanting to go home. But she had promised Hank that if he’d agree to be Sylvie’s date, they would go out to a private dance party after the dinner. He hated the events. But he loved the parties. It was the least she could do to repay him for being Sylvie’s beard, so she could be Cray’s. Or was Cray her beard? It didn’t matter. She didn’t care.
She remembered arriving at an unassuming storefront on Wilshire Boulevard. The crowd had receded and the pe
ople stared as they got out of the car. The doorman had come out to meet them and had helped them cut through the waiting nobodies, had ushered them through the velvet rope and escorted them through the unadorned black metal doors that opened to a din of voices, dance music and laughter. As she passed the waiting crowd outside, an unfamiliar feeling of connection hit her. Instead of ignoring them, she smiled at the faces waiting in line, and the ghost of an idea occurred to her that there wasn’t a whole lot of difference between them and her. She didn’t have the time, nor the inclination, to explore that feeling, but as she passed, she took one woman’s hand, helped her under the rope that separated them, and led her in, but she didn’t remember seeing her again after they made it through the immediate press of bodies and into the less crowded roped-off section near the private back bar. She remembered dancing. But then the memory ended. She had no memory of how they had gotten home, let alone climbing into bed.
Head throbbing, she stopped trying to remember, removed the arm that she had draped over her eyes and squinted at the clock next to the bed. Almost noon. Depending on what time they had stumbled in, it meant that she may or may not have had enough sleep. If she had to guess by the lead in her bones, she hadn’t had enough.
She felt worse than shit. She dropped a hand onto the sleeping form next to her.
“What time did we get home last night, Syl? I think we need to ease up on the partying,” she groaned, as she tried to roll over and pull a pillow over her head. But her legs were still trapped and she couldn’t move. Claustrophobia welled up again and she kicked her legs with a convulsive panic.
“I was wondering if you were ever going to get up today,” said Sylvie from the doorway.
Surprised, Reilly peered between two pillows toward Sylvie’s voice and saw her walking into the bedroom from the bathroom. She was in her bathrobe, fresh from the shower, holding a cup of steaming coffee.
Life in High Def Page 3
