He also thought about how to ratchet up the tension between her and Carmen. Considering Carmen’s privileged, happy family and Madison’s poor, crazy one, they seemed like natural antagonists. So it was surprising that Madison hadn’t gone for Carmen’s throat by now.
But then again, he reflected, there did appear to be some friction between Carmen and Kate. They’d seemed like buddies for weeks, but something was going on with them at the premiere, and his instincts told him it would be a story worth sharing. Kate, especially, was congenitally nice; why would she be angry at Carmen? He’d have to dig deeper on this one. That was one of Trevor’s greatest strengths: He found a button, and then he pushed it. Hard, if he needed to. He located a psychological wound, and then he stuck a knife in it.
But wasn’t it all ultimately in service of his girls? (And ratings, his reputation, and his year-end bonus, etc.?) When he won, they did, too. Ratings for him meant attention for them, and that’s what they were after, wasn’t it? In the end everyone benefited in their own way.
He fished a pickled lime out of his Bloody Mary and placed it on the table. Yes, he’d have to give more thought to Kate Hayes, too. Funny how she hadn’t mentioned her pathological stage fright when she was auditioning. It had certainly been a surprise when she flubbed her song so badly at first, in front of all those people. He’d thought he might have to race up on stage and whisk her away to the bar—then, after three or four tequila shots, he’d send her up again. But she’d recovered her courage, and she’d ended up playing very well. And in a way, he thought, her mistake had made the crowd like her more; their applause had been wild. Yes, he could definitely make her stage fright work for the show. Maybe she could see a vocal coach. Or a hypnotherapist? He made a note in his BlackBerry to have Laurel investigate the possibilities. Hiring Laurel had definitely been a smart move. The girls liked her a lot more than they liked Dana. Laurel was like a peer, which meant they no doubt trusted her more. It was Laurel who’d helped get Kate’s song to work for the show, directing Trevor to one of Kate’s outtakes for better lyrics. It was even Laurel’s suggestion to change the title from “Lovestruck” to “Starstruck.”
He turned his thoughts toward Gaby next, who had been her usual ditzy self last night at the premiere, leaning on the arm of some Venice Beach caveman. She was on thin ice at Buzz! News, he’d been told; apparently she showed up late for work and then spent most of her time hanging around the green room, looking for celebrities. Judging from her on-camera interviews with Lacey Hopkins and Carmen Curtis, Gaby didn’t have much of a future in celebrity journalism.
When Buzz! News fired her, which they inevitably would (and which would be a good scene to film, of course), Trevor would have to find her another gig. A friend of a friend was looking for a cohost for a late-night nightlife guide show—someone who could go to clubs and restaurants and ask a few questions of the owners. Surely Gaby could handle that, right? The stakes were lower than they were for Buzz! News.
He was musing on this when he heard the volume of voices around him rise. Without looking up, he knew: His girls were entering, and not without being noticed.
“That’s that singer from The Fame Game,” Trevor heard the starlet tell her boyfriend. “I loved her song. Lovestruck, starstruck, ready for the game,” she sang. “It’s so damn catchy.”
Trevor smiled to himself. He considered ordering another Bloody Mary—a little extra celebration. He was imagining the bigger office he’d be getting any day now. And maybe another car. A Maserati this time, perhaps?
When he finally looked up, he saw Kate, Gaby, and Carmen coming toward him, smiling as the others on the patio whispered and pointed.
Yes, Trevor thought, The Fame Game had begun. And he already felt like he was winning it.
Chapter 35
Nobody Loses
Madison and Sophie drove to Mack’s Auto Body Shop, where Charlie worked in the afternoons; to the gym Madison had bought him a membership to; to the Denny’s on Wilshire where he liked to eat breakfast; and even to the disgusting Downtown L.A. motel he’d lived in before the bungalow. But Charlie Wardell was nowhere to be found.
Now Madison sat in the driver’s seat of her Lexus, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. Sophie was silent beside her, clutching the crystal that hung from her neck. In the parking lot of the E-Z Inn, a guy wearing a Whitesnake shirt and a trucker’s cap was leering at them, obviously unfamiliar with such clean, fresh-faced girls. He finished the cigarette he was smoking and then started walking toward Madison’s car.
“Um, I think we should get out of here,” Sophie said, watching the man out of the corner of her eye. “I’m not really in the mood to make a new friend.”
Madison slammed the car into reverse, but she kept her foot on the brake. “What about your ‘we are all God’s people’ crap?” she demanded. “Doesn’t the divine in you salute the divine in him?”
“Um . . .”
The man got closer and instead of driving away, Madison rolled down her window. “Have you seen Charlie Wardell? The guy who was living in that room right over there?” she asked, pointing.
He stopped and scratched thoughtfully at his stomach. “Nope,” he said after a time. “Not for a while now.”
“Thanks,” said Madison, and rolled up her window again, but not before she heard him ask her if she wanted to go to lunch. “They got two-dollar tacos just up the block,” he called.
She pulled out of the parking lot, tires screeching, and made her way to the freeway. She was having trouble breathing, and her heart felt like it might explode.
“Where are you going?” Sophie asked, her brows furrowed. “Shouldn’t we, like, retrace your steps? Maybe you lost it at the Hammer Museum and some waiter—”
Madison lifted a hand to silence her. “I did not lose it,” she said fiercely. “Charlie stole it.”
“You can’t be sure of that,” Sophie said. “Don’t say such awful things about Daddy.”
“Don’t you ever call him Daddy again,” Madison hissed. “That bastard stole my necklace. And he gave me stolen property as a gift. And he probably took Gaby’s earrings, too. And now he’s gone. He’s split town. He didn’t even write a note to say good-bye. Which is exactly like the last time he left us, Soph, but you were too young to remember.”
“Really, Mad, you could be totally wrong. I’m sure you just put it—”
“Shut up,” Madison said between clenched teeth.
Sophie stopped talking. Her hands twisted in her lap. “It’s my fault,” she eventually whispered. “I brought him to you.”
Madison would have loved to blame her sister, she really would have. Sophie had been nothing but trouble since she showed up in L.A. But Madison knew now that Charlie would have found her himself. Sophie was simply the one he got to first. “It isn’t your fault,” she said. She banged her hand on the steering wheel and cursed. “I trusted him, too.”
But even now, there was a tiny part of her that still believed in him. He wasn’t gone forever; he’d just tried to take the necklace back to Luxe Paris for her, and he’d gotten lost along the way. . . . After all, he’d made her coffee. What criminal pauses in his escape to make his daughter a pot of coffee?
She drove them back to the bungalow, with its blossom-draped trellis and its green, well-tended yard. The sight of it made her heart beat even faster and more painfully. She’d found this place for him and then moved into it because she wanted to be a family. And she’d believed that he wanted that, too.
Her hope and her stupidity were almost too much for her to stand. What had she been thinking? She felt like screaming.
But she didn’t. She just got out of the car and walked up the sidewalk. Her legs felt like they were made of stone. Sophie staggered after her, her Birkenstocks slapping against the concrete.
At the front porch, Madison turned around. “I would have given him anything,” she cried. “But instead he had to take it and run away.”
“Oh, Mad,”
Sophie said, holding out her arms.
Madison brushed them away. “Really—thanks for your help and all. But you should go.”
Sophie gazed at her with wide blue eyes. “But I don’t have a car,” she said.
“I’ll call you a cab,” Madison said. “I just need to be alone.”
Sophie nodded, and then went to wait on the bench near the front gate. Madison turned and went into the house. It was cool and dim inside, and she stood in the middle of the living room and felt the tears begin to run down her cheeks. She clenched and unclenched her fists. This couldn’t be happening—and yet it was.
She sank down onto the couch, and that’s when she saw the note. It sat on the end table, scribbled on the back of a Denny’s receipt.
Sweetpea—I’m in trouble, but I didn’t want to ask you for money. This is the best way. Just tell them you lost the necklace. They’re insured. Nobody loses. I love you always.
—Charlie
She buried her face in her hands. The tiny part of her that wanted to believe he was innocent curled up and died.
What in the world was she supposed to do now?
She sat on the couch, unmoving, for an hour. She thought about taking Charlie to Luxe Paris, and how happy he had seemed to see her success. She thought about the day they went suit shopping, and she’d asked him to be her date for the premiere. She remembered the day they went to the Santa Monica Pier and he’d missed every shot with the air rifle. She thought about the unicorn he’d won for her when she was little, which was still sitting in the drawer back at her apartment. She thought about the earrings he stole for her. He wasn’t innocent, and, Madison realized, he wasn’t very smart. I’m in trouble, his note said. All the while, the tears streamed down her face. She loved him and she hated him, and she couldn’t decide which feeling was stronger.
After another few minutes, she picked up the phone. She knew what she had to do.
“Hello, this is Madison Parker,” she said, sniffling.
“Yes,” said the cold voice of Adele Pinchot.
Madison steeled herself for what she had to say. “I have the earrings, and I’ll return them to you today. But the necklace? I don’t have it.”
“What do you mean?”
She took a deep breath. “I don’t have it because I had my father sell it for me. I’ve gotten into debt, and I just—”
“I’m having trouble understanding this,” said Adele.
Madison squeezed her eyes shut tight. “It’s all my fault. Everything was my idea. I’m responsible. You have to leave my father out of it.” She was gripping the phone so hard that her fingers were going numb. She was doing possibly the stupidest thing she had ever done. She was terrified.
“We have your father on tape—”
“But I know that you haven’t called the police yet, because you called me. And I’m telling you that everything was my idea. Do you hear me? Everything was my idea. So if you press charges, they’re going to have to be against me.” She wiped her cheeks; the tears had stopped.
“Ms. Parker, this is highly unorthodox.”
You’re telling me, she thought. She was in the middle of doing the dumbest thing of her life, for an even dumber reason: to protect her father, who, if he got caught, would surely get sent back to prison for a long time, and any chance she had at having a father would be over.
Madison nodded, as if Adele Pinchot could see her. “I know. But you’ve got to think like a Hollywood player. Look,” she said, her voice sounding so much more certain than she felt. “You tell everyone that Madison Parker loved your jewelry so much she tried to steal it. You get a ton of free publicity. Luxe Paris, brand-new to L.A. and already making headlines! It’ll be worth more than the cost of that necklace. I know the markup on jewelry—it’s one hundred percent at least. You just leave my father out of it and I’ll take the fall. And you’ll come out looking like a million bucks.” And me? thought Madison. My career is over. Nobody loses? That’s what you think, Charlie.
Adele Pinchot cleared her throat. “Ms. Parker, I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes,” Madison urged. She stood and walked into her bedroom, where the earrings were twinkling against the white satin of their box. She touched them lightly with a fingertip. “If you don’t say yes, then I will tell anyone who listens that you gave me the necklace and then tried to take it back. I’ll sue you for breach of contract.”
“Pardonnez-moi?” gasped Adele, slipping into her native French.
Madison barreled on. “It’s been done before, you know. Harry Winston—your competition as jeweler to the stars—got sued for that very thing. And they had to pay a very large settlement to a certain Hollywood actress. Plus legal fees, which, as I’m sure you know, can really start to add up.”
Adele was silent, and Madison knew she was thinking it over. Just like she knew that Luxe Paris would eventually agree to her terms.
And she, Madison Parker, would be accused of theft. The tabloids would have a field day, and Trevor would fire her (or worse, film her in an orange jumpsuit), and she would be kicked out of her apartment, and her friends—the few she had—would turn their backs on her.
And she’d be back where she started. With nothing.
She stared out the window, through the pink bougainvillea that framed the view, and saw that Sophie was still on the bench outside. She must have sent her cab away. The sunlight was shining on her hair, and it looked like spun gold.
Madison shook her head in disbelief. She could walk outside right now and she wouldn’t be alone. She wouldn’t have nothing after all. She’d have a sister.
While Adele was still thinking things over on the other end of the line, Madison headed out into the sunshine. She lifted her hand to wave to Sophie, and her sister turned and sadly smiled.
Madison returned the smile. She was screwed. Royally, profoundly screwed. But she’d crawled up from the gutter once before. She was pretty sure she could do it again.
Acknowledgments
A special thanks to the amazing people who made this book possible . . . (And because I’ve thanked them so many times now, here are some things I haven’t thanked them for yet.)
To FARRIN JACOBS for sacrificing her time, health, personal life, and sanity in order to complete this book with me. And for wearing a party hat all day when I had to work on my birthday and for eating cake for all three meals.
To MAX STUBBLEFIELD for ending my Christmas card each year with “next year is going to be our year.” Feel like “our year” was like two years ago, but you know . . . Merry Christmas anyway.
To NICOLE PEREZ-KRUGER for always being there with sound advice . . . Like “if you are going to take scandalous photos of yourself just be sure to crop your face out . . . or that you look really hot.”
To KRISTIN PUTTKAMER for being the best auntie Kristin that my puppy, Chloe, could ask for. And for the million and one other things you do for me.
To PJ SHAPIRO for handling my most crucial legal matters . . . Like sending an aggressively worded letter to my crazy neighbor who keeps sneaking into my yard.
To DAVE DEL SESTO for hiding my money from me so I don’t spend it all on shoes.
To EMILY CHENOWETH whose contribution to this novel was invaluable. I couldn’t have done it without you.
To MATTHEW ELBLONK who I’d really like to thank, but I haven’t slept for two weeks trying to make this deadline and you are the one who got me into this deal. I’ll send you a nice thank-you card after it’s been published.
A special thanks to MAGGIE MARR, SASHA ILLINGWORTH, and HOWARD HUANG as well as the team at HarperCollins: MELINDA WEIGEL, CATHERINE WALLACE, CHRISTINA COLANGELO, SANDEE ROSTON, GWEN MORTON, JOSH WEISS, TOM FORGET, SARAH NICHOLE KAUFMAN, LAUREN FLOWER, and MEGAN SUGRUE.
And, as always, a big thank-you to my friends and family. Your support (and frankly the fact that you put up with me) means so much to me, and I don’t know where I would be without you.
About the Author
LAUREN CONRAD is best known for starring in the MTV hit series The Hills. She is the author of several New York Times bestsellers, including the L.A. Candy series and LAUREN CONRAD STYLE, a fashion and beauty guide. She began her fashion career in spring 2008 with the debut of the Lauren Conrad Collection. In 2009 she launched LC Lauren Conrad, exclusively for Kohl’s, and the line has since expanded to shoes, accessories, and sunglasses. Her newest clothing line is Paper Crown. She has been featured on the covers of Elle, Glamour, Teen Vogue, Cosmopolitan, Rolling Stone, Seventeen, Shape, and Entertainment Weekly, among others. She lives in Los Angeles. You can visit her online at www.laurenconrad.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
Books by Lauren Conrad
L.A. Candy
Sweet Little Lies
AN L.A. CANDY NOVEL
Sugar and Spice
AN L.A. CANDY NOVEL
Lauren Conrad Style
Back Ads
Credits
Jacket photo © 2012 by Howard Huang
Jacket design by Sasha Illingworth
Copyright
References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters and all incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as “real.”
The Fame Game
Copyright © 2012 by Lauren Conrad
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
The Fame Game Page 23
