Playing at Love

by Ophelia London

  “Move your bloomin’ arse!” She called this out, probably while stopped at a red light on Hollywood Boulevard, reminding me of Eliza Doolittle’s similar outburst.

  The urge to crack up tickled my throat. I stifled it, stood on my toes, and reached for a biography about Janis Joplin on a top shelf. Sure, Molly could be abrasive, but I happened to find it hilarious. She knew her colorful Cockney swearing was known to make me laugh at highly inappropriate moments. She claimed that part of her job as my “personal assistant/best mate” was to treat me to ten belly laughs in each twenty-four-hour period, even on a day like today, when we were on two different sides of the country.

  But that was “before.” These days, it took a lot to get me to laugh.

  My life had changed since the shooting. It’d been a year, and there I was, chopped into bits, organized and separated like items on the dinner plate of a finicky eater. Nothing touching, no overlapping. Compartmentalized survival mode at its most dysfunctional. Dr. Robert would’ve been so proud…

  “Anyhoo,” Molly finally said to me. “Where was I?”

  “We hadn’t gotten past hello.” I replaced the Joplin book and grabbed one about Julie Andrews. Snow-capped mountains were on the cover. I liked that.

  “Hello, Abby, darling.” Molly chimed, bright and sparkly, exactly the way I’d needed her the past five years. “Where are you now? Still at your sister’s place, yeah?”

  “No. Pensacola. At a bookstore.” Hearing whispers on the other side of the bookshelf, I quickly moved to the end of the biography aisle, getting that hot-and-prickly feeling up the back of my neck. I couldn’t see anyone, but I knew I was being watched. I guess my cover was blown.

  There was a beat, then Molly asked, “You’re out in public? And are you out-out,” she continued, using our code language, “or just out?”

  “Just out,” I reported, adjusting the dark aviator sunglasses that covered practically half of my face. My long hair was pulled back, too, tucked inside a baseball cap. I tried, but I’d never been very creative at the whole “disguise” thing.

  “You’re out in public,” Molly repeated. “On your own?”

  “Doctor’s orders,” I singsonged. “He said if I took this trip to Florida alone, that I couldn’t just hide in Lindsey’s house all summer. He made me promise to get out among the people.”

  “He’s a quack,” Molly muttered.

  I nodded in private concurrence then dropped the Julie Andrews book in my shopping bag.

  “It was the right decision, though, to stay away from LA,” I conceded aloud, knowing that Molly’s protective/venomous dislike of Dr. Robert was for my benefit.

  “It was impulsive,” Molly admitted slowly. “Less than a week ago, you were onstage in Paris.”

  “True.” I lowered my voice. “But for the past year, you know how everyone’s been saying I need support—the familial, unconditional kind.” I paused to roll my eyes, wondering if Molly would disagree with this diagnosis, as well. When she didn’t, I jumped back in. “I suppose they’re right. Or maybe I got tired of arguing. I don’t want to even think about…it…anyway.” I paused again, stuffing down the sick feeling that came every time I thought about Christian.

  “I’ve only been here one day,” I continued, after quickly crossing from behind one bookshelf to another, “but Lindsey kept watching me with those big eyes, so I called her a bad word, grabbed her car keys, and started driving.”

  “What word?” Molly asked, a wicked smile in her voice.

  “You don’t want to know. But let’s just say I won’t be given any sister-of-the-year awards.”

  When I heard another sound behind me, I glanced over my shoulder. But again, no one was there—only whispers from around the corner. I heard my name more than once.

  I sighed.

  “What’s wrong?” Molly asked.

  “Cockroaches,” I answered. “The lights came on and everyone scattered.” Of course I should’ve been happy about it—that no one was pawing at me for a change. But for some reason, knowing that I was being watched was worse than being approached. Since my public meltdown on the street two days ago, I guess people were afraid to venture near.

  “Start flapping your arms around, then,” Molly suggested. “And scream like a banshee. See what happens.”

  “Nothing will happen. They’ll be too stunned to speak, or they’ll say, ‘Isn’t that her?

  Didn’t she used to be that famous singer? Such a shame.’” I paused, staring blankly at the shelf in front of me, listening to the sounds of the bookstore: shoppers, clerks, background music. “An hour ago, the place was pretty much empty. Now it’s packed. I’m afraid to come out of the fortress of books I constructed in the back corner.”

  “That bloody stinks, babe,” Molly said sympathetically. I smiled, but it hurt my face. Frowning felt more natural. Evidently my mood-altering happy pills weren’t doing their intended job. “But how clever of you. A whole book fortress? Aww, and the tabloids claim you’re a one-trick pony. Ha! One trick, indeed,” she muttered. “You should give an impromptu concert, right now, in the middle of the store. Rock their socks off.”

  “Now there’s a thought,” I joked, positioning myself in front of a row of thick books with glossy black covers.

  “Seriously, though,” Molly said after a moment, “do you want me to have Max send in some musclemen to pull you out of there? He has connections everywhere. Like the mob.”

  “No!” I exclaimed, then dropped my voice. “You promised I would be manager-free this summer.” I slid the Hot-Vampire-Meets-Socially-Awkward-Teenager book back into its place on the shelf, then glanced down the aisle. “And it’s not like I’m being assaulted by psychos jumping out of corners, so why cause a scene?”

  “I’m your biggest fan, Abigail Kelly,” Molly quoted in her best Kathy Bates stalker voice.

  “I’ll leave soon,” I promised, mostly to myself. “I’m just not ready to go back to Lindsey’s yet. She’ll have questions that I don’t want to answer.”

  There was a silent beat before Molly exhaled a noncommittal: “Yeah.”

  I immediately felt the vibe of our conversation darken. I bit my lip, hating how disconnected and gray my life had become lately.

  “So, Abby?” Molly said after another stretch of silence. “I called you for a reason this time, actually…b-because…” After some uncharacteristic stammering, her thoughts changed directions. “Well, anyway.” She exhaled. “I have to ask; you still taking your meds?”

  My stomach dropped. I knew she was just doing her job, but I hated being treated like a mental patient.

  “Yes, Molly,” I reported, busying myself with the growing stack of books in my bag. “Every morning,” I practically cheered. “Every morning for three hundred and sixty-three days—” The last word caught in my throat.

  I had no idea why I tried to make a joke out of it. Reciting the exact number of days since Christian died was not totally hilarious. And suddenly, I couldn’t breathe—that year-old noose, that long, slippery snake was slithering up my throat, coiling around my insides, choking me until I couldn’t—

  “Well!” Molly cut in brightly. “You’ll be happy to hear that the stalkerazzi are still round your house here. And you haven’t even been up in Malibu for, like, what? A year?” She scoffed. “So completely stupid.” I caught my breath, listening to her complain unintelligibly for a while, her slurry Eliza Doolittle lost on me again. Since Molly and I were practically joined at the hip, the paparazzi pissed her off as much as me.

  “Any guys around?” she asked, veering us toward a more pleasant distraction subject. “Describe them, please. It’s high time you get a little action.”

  I shook my head but played along. “There’s a tall gangster wannabe behind the computer games.” I reported this in a low voice, while leaning against the end of the bookshelf. “He’s holding his hand over half his face trying to make it look like he’s not totally ogling.” I whipped off my sunglasses
and made a point of holding direct eye contact with the guy. His face went beet red before he backed up and disappeared.

  “How ugly is he?” This was Molly’s first question about anybody. My reply to her was always the same.

  “Butt,” I answered. “Gold chains, wife beater, fedora. He looks like two-thousand-three’s Justin Timberlake puked on him.”

  “Hot.”

  When I moved my phone to the other ear and turned around, I noticed him, standing alone, right across the aisle at the end of Sports & Outdoors. I did a double take, which didn’t happen very often, because, except for the ones with wicked-tall blue hair or an exceptionally nice posterior, I hardly noticed the existence of guys anymore. Occupational hazard of living in LA where everyone was perfect, plastic, and beautiful.

  But I did notice this guy. He was laughing out loud at whatever he was reading.

  That’s what hooked my attention, the laugh. I wished it were contagious. Before I fully realized that we were staring at each other and that maybe I should’ve, I don’t know…smiled or something similarly human, he tucked the book into the crook of his arm and walked away.

  “Listen.” Molly broke into my thoughts. “I’ll pay ya ten bucks to walk over and kiss him. Right now. Chop-chop.”

  “What?” I gasped, feeling a little fluttery. “No way, Molly.” As I said this, I couldn’t help standing on my tiptoes to see where Laughing Guy had gone.

  “Go on, then,” Molly continued. “March up, tear off his stupid fedora and gold chains, close your eyes, and think of England.”

  That’s when I realized who she was talking about. “Oh. Har-har. Here I go. Alert the media.” It was a joke, but even back in the day when I was milking my celebrity for all it was worth, I would’ve never sauntered up to a stranger and attacked. After another quick glance around, I realized Laughing Guy had left my section of the store. I sighed, a bit disappointed.

  “You’ve been out of the VIP scene for too long,” Molly said.

  “He’s gone, anyway. So much for all men fainting into a heap at my feet.”

  When I heard Molly’s chuckles turn to snorts, I started laughing, too. I absolutely adored her—she was as close to me as my sister, Lindsey. While running my fingers along the skinny spines of Dr. Seuss, I calculated how long it had been since Molly and I hit those VIP clubs on our rare nights off.

  Not long enough.

  “The very idea of the club scene is exhausting, it’n it?” Molly said, continuing my thought. I answered this with one confirming chuckle. “At twenty-four,” she went on, “your partying days are over.”

  I chuckled again, only bleaker. Another confirmation.

  “So, what books have you collected so far?” she asked, probably realizing that my thoughts had strayed toward the dark again.

  “Well…” I sat down on the long bench in front of the magazines, pulling from the tote bag my potential purchases one at a time. “A coffee table book about Maui,” I reported.

  “For Hal?” Molly exhaled one humorless laugh. “At least it will give him something to read besides Rolling Stone or…Lead Guitarists’ Worst Hair Weekly.” I could almost hear the roll of her eyes. Then she beeped her horn at something—probably a mother pushing a baby in a stroller. “He’s been tweeting every few minutes,” she continued. “The boy needs a hobby. It doesn’t sound like the band is up to anything useful this summer.”

  With one finger, I traced the line of breaking waves on the cover of the Maui book. “The guys are never productive when I’m not around,” I mumbled. Then I bit my lip, considering something else. “Molly.” I looked up. “What if fans lose interest because we’re taking the summer off? What if we never sell another record again? That kind of thing’s happened before. I’ve seen those shows on VH1.” I clutched my phone, allowing myself two seconds to imagine the consequences. Then I sprang to my feet. “I need to come home. Today. Right now. Can you get me on the next flight?”

  “Abby? Abby!”

  In a panic, I swung to grab my purse, nearly knocking over my shopping bag of books.

  “Abby? Listen to me. Abby—stop!”

  Molly’s voice had that stern tone she saved for emergencies. Hearing it grounded me in place and I didn’t dare move.

  “You deserve this vacation, okay?” she said, speaking much calmer. “We all do.” I exhaled, but my heart was still pounding in my chest. “And don’t worry about the lads; it’s not your fault they bought that gigantic mansion up in the hills. Your fans aren’t going anywhere, either. They can’t wait to buy the next record, okay?” I nodded, blinking back sudden tears. “Are you all right, then?” she asked. “Abby?”

  “Can’t you hear me nodding?”

  Molly laughed approvingly. I wouldn’t have survived this without her. She held me together, above and beyond her job description.

  “Dr. Robert said this summer needs to be about me,” I said in a small voice. “Like a test to see how I survive without a crew of people telling me what to do and where to go and what to wear.” When I took in a deep inhale, my lungs shook. “So far…I’m failing.”

  “Give it time, sweetie,” Molly soothed. “Collect your things, yeah? It’s time to leave the store.” I nodded once more then obeyed her gentle command. “Leave the magazine area. Do that straightaway, okay?”

  “Why?” I asked, knowing that Molly was excellent at steering me from tab rags with bad press or pictures that made me look fat. “Is there something new?”

  “No,” she said immediately. “Well, yes and no. It’s not new, per se.” I was already on my feet in front of the rack, scanning the covers for what she was warning me about.

  Then I saw it.

  It wasn’t my face on the cover that time, but it might as well have been.

  “Are you talking about Recognise?” I tore the magazine from its stack, then stared at the picture on the cover. “Huh. I haven’t seen his face in almost a year.”

  Molly huffed. “Your ex is a moron,” she uttered flatly. “Why is it the more symmetrical the face and perfect the abs, the more idiotic the personality? Look at the title of the cover story.”

  I read it aloud: “‘Miles Carlisle’s Tortured Heart.’” Now this was a laugh. “Still tortured after almost a year? Maybe he needs to write a song about cheating on his girlfriend then swear it isn’t autobiographical. That used to make him happy.”

  “He needs to be castrated,” Molly stated. “Don’t call him.”

  “Like I would.” I sat down, crossed my legs, and opened the magazine. “I’m on dating ice, anyway. Until I find a combination of Clark Kent and a young Paul McCartney, I’m out of the game.”

  “You’ll be single for a while, chica.”

  I chuckled my agreement, mindlessly flipping through the magazine. That’s when I noticed something else: The large, ice-blue eyes of the girl on page five stared back as though I was gazing into a mirror. I remembered this photo shoot. It was five years ago, right at the beginning of my new life. Against my better judgment, I flipped to the center.

  There she was again.

  I leaned forward. “I’m in it, too.”

  “I know,” Molly said. “The article is total crap, though. Taking that idiot Miles’s side. Horrid cow of a writer.”

  I rubbed a fist into my forehead, massaging away a new headache. “Ya know, a year ago, Christian would have bought up every copy in the store and hid them in the trunk of his car.”

  “I know.” I heard a sad smile in Molly’s voice. I was smiling, too. “I never knew what he did with all those,” she said. “But I’m sure he recycled.”

  I started to laugh but choked instead, as reality resurfaced: Christian isn’t here now. He’ll never be here again. I felt the magazine shaking between my trembling hands.

  “Grab the stack,” Molly ordered, almost as if she’d heard my thoughts. “Grab them, Abby.” I walked toward the magazine rack, quickly looked around me (no one was close by, of course), and snagged the few mags that were l
eft. “Drop them on the floor.” I did this next. “Now kick the lot of them under the rack.” I paused for a moment, then obeyed.

  As I stepped back, I wiped my hands on my jeans as if I’d just been touching something dirty.

  About the Author

  Ophelia London was born and raised among the redwood trees in beautiful Northern California. Once she was fully educated, she decided to settle in Florida, but her car broke down in Texas and she’s lived in Dallas ever since. A cupcake and treadmill aficionado (obviously those things are connected), she spends her time watching art-house movies and impossibly trashy TV, while living vicariously through the characters in the books she writes. Don’t call when The Vampire Diaries is on. Ophelia is also the author of Abby Road, her first full-length novel. Visit her at http://ophelia-london.blogspot.com.

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