Life in High Def

by Kimberly Cooper Griffin

Reilly was beyond pissed by Sylvie’s casual disregard of the frightening events that had shaken her so badly. Reilly knew that Sylvie wasn’t completely to blame, but she wanted her to at least acknowledge some part in it.

  “I woke up on a bench. Outside. At the beach!” screamed Reilly, hearing her voice growing shriller but unable to control it. “The fucking, goddamned beach, Syl! Anything could have happened to me out there! I count on you to make sure that I don’t do stupid shit like that. I count on you to protect me from fans, from the press, hell, even from myself!”

  Sylvie stared at Reilly with a strange blank expression that Reilly couldn’t decipher.

  “How is that my job?”

  Reilly gaped at Sylvie. She would have understood if Sylvie’s response had been angry or defensive. But the apathy was a surprise.

  “It’s how it’s always been with us. You can’t go changing the rules without telling me!”

  Reilly heard the out-of-control tone to her voice and knew the words coming out of her mouth were juvenile, but she wasn’t about to back down.

  Sylvie crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Oh, I see. So I’m the bad guy? Next thing you’ll be saying is that I ruined Valentine’s Day.”

  “Valentine’s Day? What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

  “It was yesterday.”

  Reilly was confused. “We’ve never celebrated it before.”

  “Exactly my point. We never talked about not celebrating Valentine’s Day. We simply never have. We never talked about your expectation that I watch out for you, either. But I always have. Maybe I’m tired of unexpressed expectations.”

  What the hell was Sylvie getting at? Reilly felt like she was being mind-fucked by a prosecuting attorney in a high-profile court setting. In a way, she was. She hated it when Sylvie acted like a lawyer with her during arguments. Reilly wanted to kick her.

  “Whatever. You let me take off when I was in no shape to be left alone.”

  “I didn’t want to leave you, but you refused to stay with us. I did the only thing I could. I left you with a valet. He was supposed to put you in a cab. Maybe I should have insisted you go with us. Or maybe I should have stayed with you, but I was over arguing about it.”

  Sylvie sounded tired.

  Reilly was tired, too. And the yelling match wasn’t getting anywhere, so she offered a branch. She sighed and ran her hands through her hair. “I guess we both fucked up, then.”

  “Yeah. I guess so,” said Sylvie. The fire left her eyes. She sat down on the edge of the bed. Reilly figured that they’d made some headway, since she no longer wanted to kick her.

  “So…”

  “I’ll have that valet fired for letting you drive away.”

  Sylvie’s declaration made her feel better, but she didn’t want anyone else to suffer the fallout of her issues.

  “I guess it’s not his job to babysit fucked up actresses.”

  Sylvie rested her hand on Reilly’s comforter-covered leg. The heat of her hand helped Reilly let go of more of her anger.

  “You still feel like shit?”

  Reilly remembered the headache that she couldn’t shake, and it started to pound in her skull with a vengeance. She rubbed her temples.

  “I do. I was camped by the toilet for most of yesterday.”

  “Want me to call Hank?”

  “He already brought me some of his magical miso.”

  “Well, I’m here now. Let me take care of you,” said Sylvie, unwinding her scarf and kicking off her shoes.

  “Thanks, Syl. Sorry I’m such a bitch.”

  “It comes with the territory, love.”

  Business Brunch 2

  IT WAS UNCHARACTERISTIC AND UNINTENTIONAL of Reilly to be early, but she was—thanks to the unusually light late morning traffic in North Hollywood. Ignoring the valet, Reilly parked her car and waited across the street from the Ova Café on Santa Monica Boulevard. Although the restaurant catered to celebrities, she was reluctant to arrive before the person she was meeting because it would be more difficult to ignore fans who might approach her while she was waiting. She had a reputation for being very gracious with her fans, but it always took a large amount of energy. So she waited in her car and watched the front entrance.

  She didn’t have to wait long before she saw her mother enter the sleek building. Unlike her, her mother was always early, a habit that Reilly assumed was acquired just so her mother would have one more thing to complain about when Reilly showed up later than her. She should have gone to meet her mother, but she sat and watched her disappear into the restaurant and emerge a moment later on the patio following a host.

  From her car, Reilly observed her mother’s social façade with an unexpected resentment. Taller than Reilly and confident, she strode among the outdoor tables, chin up, shoulders back. She nodded and smiled at one table but didn’t stop. Even if the people seated at the tables she passed through didn’t recognize her, her mother definitely put off an impression that she was someone. Reilly watched as heads moved together and eyes followed, while her mother pretended not to notice. It was a performance, but it was subtle. A soft smile. A tilt of the chin. A shake of the head. A scan of the area to see if anyone else of importance was already there. Reilly hated the feeling that welled up in her as she watched her mother. She didn’t want to feel this way. She wanted to let it go. But she couldn’t.

  Her mother followed the host across the café’s sunlit patio. She fluffed her coifed hair and ran her manicured hands down the front of her tailored blouse as she waited for the host to pull out a chair at the table. The owner of the Ova Café kept staff out in front to deter autograph seekers, but anyone with a decent camera phone could take a picture of the people who sat at that table. It was expected. It was where celebrities went to be seen without being approached. The food was good, but it felt like work to dine there. And it was.

  Reilly hated the meetings, but today she dreaded the topic that was certain to be at the top of her mother’s agenda: the incident at the pier. So she sat in her car and put off going in. Although they’d discussed some of it after her mother had called her screaming the day the photo had come out, Reilly hadn’t told her mother the whole story. How terrified she’d been when she woke up on the bench, still half-drunk and with no memory of anything that had happened the night before. Even after Sylvie had tried to bump her memory, she remembered nothing after the first line of coke and the first shots of tequila. Instead, she had told her mother that she had gone to the pier to sit on the bench to think and had just fallen asleep. Her mother, of all people, should have understood that.

  The Santa Monica Pier had always been the one place in Reilly’s life where she felt safe and whole. When she had been a little girl, it was where her parents had gone to celebrate life’s little moments, so it was the setting of many of Reilly’s favorite memories. The pier had started its long run as “their place” when her father had proposed to her mother there. The photo that her parents took that day still hung in the family room, and in it, they were young and blissful, the rides at the end of the pier filling the background with a testament to their joy and happiness as they smiled into one another’s eyes. Right next to that photo on the wall was a picture of them in the same spot, this time with Reilly, who was then four years old. Her mother and father looked like they still loved each other, and Reilly remembered how happy and secure she had felt standing between her parents on that sunny day.

  Since then, the pier had become the destination for all celebrations, small and large. Reilly remembered how they had gone there after her first day in kindergarten, and the day that she had lost her first tooth. They had visited it every time friends or relatives had come to town. And the last time they had gone to the pier as a family was the day that she found that she had won the role of Dusty in the television show that had made her star rise like a firework.

  After the television series, though, they couldn’t go there without being mobb
ed. The show had been an instant hit, and so had Reilly. Now, Reilly was confined to sneaking down to the pier at night, when people were less likely to recognize her.

  The days since, of spinning the pier incident into a photo taken out of context, had taken more emotional energy than she had to spare, and she was tired. Reilly pulled off her glasses and threw them onto the seat next to her. She shut her eyes, blew out a breath, and steeled herself for the meeting. Her fingers clutched and unclutched the steering wheel in front of her as she tried to imagine floating in the warm water at St. Bart’s. She conjured the gentle rhythm of the undulating water buoying her prone body, the sun’s heat prickling her skin. Minutes passed. The meditation helped. Peace hadn’t suddenly descended upon her, but she did feel calmer. She opened her eyes and took a few deep breaths. She pulled a tube of mascara out of the Hermès bag on the seat next to her and applied some to her already thick lashes. Then she applied a light coat of lipstick and ran her hands through her hair before she put her sunglasses back on and opened the car door. She’d get through this meeting.

  Moments later, Reilly followed the host to the table where her mother sat scanning the menu.

  “I thought you might have beat me here today. Isn’t that your car across the street?” Her mother lowered the menu and tilted her head toward the street. No complaints for keeping her waiting. No accusing stare. A first.

  “Phone call,” lied Reilly, grateful for the dark tinted windows on her car. She felt eyes from the other diners on her. If her mother confronted her, they’d be seen by anyone who was watching. “I was hoping to sit inside today. I’d rather eat where it’s quieter.”

  “Nonsense. Did you see that Anne Hathaway is here?” Reilly had seen Anne in the restaurant. They’d exchanged smiles and waves. Reilly nodded and her mother continued. “I’m glad she isn’t in the running this year.”

  Reilly was relieved not to be going against Anne, too. Despite knowing otherwise, Reilly wondered if she’d only won the first Academy Award just because the competition had been weak that year.

  “It’s so nice outside. Besides, you need a little normal publicity after that vagrancy thing earlier this week,” whispered Melissa. The sunlight was bright on the patio, and she cast a glance at Reilly while lowering the sunglasses that she had earlier pushed to the top of her head. Some of the calm that Reilly had pulled together fled.

  “Vagrancy?” asked Reilly, trying to keep her expression mild, while yanking her own chair out with a little more aggression than she had intended. “Seriously, mom? If you can’t even back me up, who can I rely on? You know that photo was taken out of context, just like everything else said about me in the media. You know I go there to think.”

  “I know that, honey,” said Melissa, using an endearment that Reilly hadn’t heard in a very long time. Her mother reached across the small table to pat her arm, making Reilly feel guilty for not telling her the truth. “That’s just what the papers called it. I won’t say it again. Now stop frowning before the lines become permanent.”

  The shred of warmth that had started to grow in Reilly at the endearment evaporated.

  “I feel like a Bloody Mary, how about you, darling?” asked her mother, setting aside the leather-bound menus. Here, too, they knew the bill of fare by heart.

  “I think I’ll stick with water today,” said Reilly without picking up her own menu. She didn’t feel like a drink. She would have the Southwestern omelet, just like she always did.

  “Oh, come on, darling. I don’t get out as much as you do. Have a drink with me.”

  “I just don’t feel like it,” said Reilly. She wished that she could talk to her mother about the blackouts and how scared she was that her life was spiraling out of control. But they didn’t have that kind of relationship. That knowledge, though always there, darkened her mood even more. Surprised, Reilly felt angry tears rise within her. She stared at the drink menu willing the tears to go away. The anger she could handle.

  “Someone call the press, my daughter is passing up a drink!” laughed Melissa. Reilly rolled her eyes at the joke that wasn’t really a joke. “Next thing, you’ll be telling me that you aren’t a lesbian anymore.”

  Reilly knew the last comment was more hope than humor, a topic of contention between them older than any other argument. It stoked her anger and she was able to stuff down the tears. She was back to familiar territory that she could navigate with ease.

  “Nope. Still a homo, Mom,” said Reilly. Her mother’s comment pissed her off more than usual, but she refused to be baited. Melissa had gotten pregnant with Reilly at the height of her own sitcom stardom and had somehow linked the risk that she perceived from Reilly’s lesbianism with her own thwarted acting career. Reilly would forever be making up for it. Her current stardom and being on the brink of a second Academy Award didn’t seem to earn her any slack. And being aware of it didn’t make her resentment go away, either. Reilly had too much going on to deal with any of that so she let it drop.

  “So, what are your plans for the weekend?” Melissa asked with practiced innocence. Reilly wanted to scream. Her mother knew full well that the upcoming weekend was the Academy Awards. Melissa herself had planned out Reilly’s every waking minute between now and the night of the show, down to wardrobe changes and bathroom breaks.

  “Cofton Hughes gave Sylvie and me his house up in Big Bear this weekend. I thought that Sylvie and I could do some snowboarding to take the edge off before the ceremony. We’ll be back in time for the show, though,” said Reilly with a straight face. She thanked the waiter and accepted the Bloody Mary that her mother had ordered for her, despite her opposition, and took a sip. She watched her mother’s face over the rim of her glass. The reaction was immediate, and Reilly got a sick satisfaction from her mother’s anger.

  “You most certainly will not go snowboarding this weekend,” demanded Melissa. She put down her drink and stabbed at the table with her manicured finger. “I’ve gone to too much trouble assuring that you were invited to all of the important events. Did you get the list I emailed to you? I filtered through at least a hundred pre-parties and cut it down to a dozen, the first of which are tonight. Then there are three events after the show, where it is critical that you appear. Mitzi has your dresses ready, except for the diamond inlaid Gino Tivati that you’ll wear for your acceptance speech at the actual show. And Liz and Doltz are on for makeup and hair—“

  Reilly couldn’t hold her laughter any longer. Her mother sat back and glanced around them. People at nearby tables turned their heads back to their meals. Melissa dropped her hands into her lap, leaned forward again, and lowered her voice to a harsh whisper.

  “That was not funny, Reilly Tatum Ransome!”

  “It was so easy, though,” Reilly laughed. Tears formed in her eyes. She was on the edge of a manic laughing fit but most of the anxiety that had burned in the center of her back for most of the morning started to fade. “You should have seen your face!”

  “You’re terrible!” said her mother. Reilly gasped for breath and willed the muscles in her face to resume their normal expression as she watched her mother’s eyes roam the area, noting who might be watching. The display didn’t irritate her like it had earlier.

  She sat up and cleared her throat, trying not to laugh. Back to business.

  “I have the lists, and the tailored outfits came two days ago, along with the jewelry. Everything fits and Liz and I have settled on the hairstyle. We’ll be hitting up the parties you lined up for me starting tonight. But don’t talk like that. Like I’ve already won. That’s bad luck. Besides, it would be greedy of me to win again. Someone else should get a chance,” said Reilly through a smile, finally subduing the laughter. As tired as she already was from the excessive running around that she had been doing, the anticipation over the weekend’s events, let alone the ceremony itself, had butterflies battering the lining of her stomach. And despite her words, Reilly wanted to win.

  “You’ll be the end of me, Reil
ly!” her mother said, with an arched brow and a half-smile as she lifted her Bloody Mary. “You are going to win. Just tell me that you won’t be taking that Sylvie with you to any of the major events.”

  Reilly’s laughter died immediately.

  The Academy’s Next Best Actress

  “CHRIST! I CAN’T DO ANOTHER line tonight, Sylvie.” Reilly shook her head back and handed Sylvie the glass tube that she had just used to bump her high.

  Reilly’s sinuses burned and she sniffed, hoping that the tickle she felt deep inside didn’t mean that she was going to get a nosebleed. It had only happened to her once before, and it was after she had overdone it—much like she was on her way to doing that night. In a brief moment of clarity, she wondered why she did it at all. It didn’t give her the same, sensual buzz that it had in the beginning, when she’d do a line and want to fuck all night long. Now, snorting coke was more like a super shot of caffeine that made her horny. She decided in that moment that she would cut down. She was serious this time. Really.

  “More for me, then,” said Sylvie, leaning over the dresser where the lines were laid out.

  Though they could hear the party going on on the other side of the door, Reilly and Sylvie were alone in a guest bedroom at Cray’s Mulholland Drive house. Getting ready to rejoin the party, Reilly performed a quick check in the enormous gilt mirror above the mahogany dresser, the sprawling canopied four-poster bed behind her reflected in the background. She couldn’t do anything about the glittery, glassy eyes that stared back at her, but she wiped away a thin line of powder rimming one of her nostrils. Always hyper-vigilant of appearances, she vowed not to be the next starlet featured in the pubs under a headline that read “Rehab!” The bench incident had been bad enough, but she had explained that one away. The stories of overwork and exhaustion had worked like a charm.

  Sylvie inhaled the last line and then moved behind Reilly to press up against her. She ran one of her hands along Reilly’s ass, and slid the other through the slit opening of Reilly’s dress that ended high on Reilly’s thigh. Sylvie’s fingers skimmed the edge of her thong, causing a pulse to ripple through Reilly’s center.