Total Trainwreck

by Evie Claire

  This morning should be spent relaxing, leisurely getting ready for my big night. Instead, I’m memorizing an acceptance speech that sounds appropriately shocked and humbled. I’m also perfecting two looks. The first, a Sally Field you-like-me-you-really-like-me look of bewilderment, love and total astonishment to have won. The second, a classy as hell Meryl Streep you-deserve-it-so-much-more-than-me air kiss with lots of waves. That last one tastes like sucking dog shit through a straw.

  “Ouch!” I howl, and try not to kick Dr. Giles, podiatrist to the stars.

  “Sorry!” he says, pulling my foot back to his knee. “I promise you will thank me tomorrow when you can still walk.” The good doctor is working his magic on my feet. He’s popped every joint I possess from my knees down and is now taping my second and third toes together. “This is the only way you can navigate stilettos all night.” He grabs one of my five-inch Louboutins and slides it onto my foot, checking to be sure his professional wrap job isn’t visible through the peep-toe. “Perfect!” he exclaims, and releases my foot. “Good luck tonight.” He pats my calf good-naturedly.

  “Thanks, Doc,” I say with a forced smile, too distracted by my current fabulousness to bother with the small gestures of civility.

  “Do I have time for a smoke?” I ask Jane when he leaves. She nods her approval. I walk gingerly to the balcony of the Beverly Wilshire penthouse. It’s the same room where Julia Roberts was a pretty woman. I lean over the balcony, drinking in the sun, and fire up a smoke. Until I spy someone on the street looking right at me. Too risky. I slink into the shadows against a gray stone wall.

  The past months have flown by. I’ve thrown myself into work and rebuilding my career so ferociously I’ve been too busy to breathe. My schedule is a never-ending parade of press junkets, interviews, red carpets and premieres. It was numbly satisfying until I got the news. Now every waking moment of my life is Inception-level surreal.

  I’m a nominee. Not just any nominee. A Best Actress nominee. That in and of itself should be enough to make the most ardent atheists in the world believe in miracles. Me. The same Carly Klein everyone hated two years ago is now a media darling. This month I graced the cover of Vogue, Time and the Hollywood Reporter. That shit doesn’t happen. I don’t care who you are.

  The doorbell chimes softly throughout the suite. Me-time is over. I toss my cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and hobble back inside. I’m expecting hair and makeup. Instead, it’s a gigantic bouquet of flowers so large it completely hides the delivery man.

  “Put them over here,” Jane directs, leading him by his elbow so he doesn’t break anything. She takes the card and hands it to me. Up until yesterday, getting flowers was a big deal. Today the suite swims in them. They’re starting to stink. Jane hands me the card.

  Break a leg, Babygirl.

  I smile. Good ole Spence. I tuck the card into its envelope and set it on the table. After giving up on Maria, Spence started dating the entire Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. That put any press-pool-fabricated rumors about us to bed pretty quickly. I’m hotter than usual these days, but come on. Nobody can compete with a gaggle of leggy gazelles who take their clothes off for a living.

  “Can we donate the rest of these?” I look around the room. Every surface overflows with arrangements from strangers wanting to suck up to a nominee. “I certainly don’t need them and I don’t even know who half of these people are. Only keep the one from Spence.”

  Jane nods and turns to call the front desk. I sigh longingly at a gold-foil-wrapped box of Godiva chocolates. Who in their right mind sends a nominee a box of fucking chocolate the day of the awards show? I sip up my fifth glass of cayenne-lemon water and grab a handful of cucumber slices and blueberries. “Save these though.” I point to the box, dreaming of all the ways I will rip into them tonight. Chocolate and pizza. Again Jane nods like an obedient genie.

  Hair and makeup roll through the door with one of the massive wheelie trunks you see backstage at rock shows. The flower guy holds the door for them.

  “Carly, you look gorgeous!”

  “Look at that glow!”

  “You don’t even need us!” Their voices mingle together, gushing like high schoolers at prom. What a bunch of liars.

  “Oh, stop it.” I wave their compliments away and smile sweetly, knowing they know I know they’re lying. But it’s what passes for sincerity in this town. I’ve learned to play the game. They busy themselves setting up.

  My gorgeously glowing ass wears nothing but wet hair, sleep-deprived under-eye bags and a monogrammed, cashmere bathrobe. A gift from the hotel. The Beverly Wilshire knows I don’t have time for regular clothes today. It’s luxuriously fabulous. And a brilliant gift. Their subtle logo will be in any “behind the scenes” photos India Blume deems worthy of leaking. I do feel sexy in it. And thin. Thin is a good thing, because the face that appears in the doorway next slides an ice cube down my spine. Fuck. The moment of truth has arrived.

  Dior’s head seamstress arrives on the high heels of hair and makeup. I’ve been praying to the Hollywood gods that my dress looks Paris Fashion Week runway ready tonight. Hell, who am I kidding? It has to look way better than that.

  “Carly!” The spectacularly coifed Parisian woman breezes through the door. Her sewing kit rolling behind her. No machines for Dior. Everything is by hand. Two air kisses later, she whisks me into the sitting room where my gowns stand at attention on custom dress forms dappled in radiant sunlight. It steals my breath every time I peek in here.

  My red-carpet gown is a soft, barely there gray on India’s insistence. Winners don’t wear stark white. It’s too harsh under the stage lights. India says the almost white dress will subconsciously make fans think of me as pure—blushing-bride pure. She’s a first-class bitch, but a smart one.

  It’s off the shoulder with the most amazing Swarovski crystal—dotted overlay. A full high-low skirt of silk organza stands away from my body, showcasing my amazingly tanned and toned legs above a pair of Christian Louboutins that won’t release until next season. Amazing as all that sounds, it’s the skirt’s underside that makes the boldest statement.

  Banksy, an internationally renowned graffiti artist whose masterpieces sell for millions, hand painted the crisp white silk underneath with a mixture of florals, hearts and vines. It’s elegantly edgy. The exact image my full-frontal rebranding campaign is going for. Tomorrow the dress flies to Christie’s Auction House in New York where it will sell to the highest bidder. Proceeds go to pediatric cancer research. The story of my brilliant philanthropic idea has been covered by every news outlet. Again, India’s evil genius idea.

  “I’m so nervous!” I half squeal, giving Sabine a nervous look.

  “Darling, you’ll look marvelous,” she insists, pulling on a pair of white cotton gloves before gingerly taking the dress from the form. She spreads the skirt layers and creates a hole for me to step into.

  With zero hesitation, I drop my robe to the sunlit hardwood floor and dive into the pool of white meringue, my bare skin popping goose bumps. Sabine pulls it up over my nakedness. Jane holds it in place. I hold my breath.

  The moment of truth.

  The zipper slides up my back, pulling luscious fabric together. Nothing can prepare a girl for the feeling of a million-dollar dress melting over her body like warm wax. It’s damn near sexual. I release my breath and grin like an idiot at Jane. It fits! I spin to the mirrors. My jaw hits the floor. Dior is a fucking genius. And a miracle worker for making an hourglass out of a size zero. I have curves. Awesome Sofia Vergara—type curves.

  “Oui! Oui! La perfection!” Sabine enthuses over air kisses like a proud mother.

  Hair and makeup erupt in applause from the doorway, marveling at the dress the same way I did when I first saw it. Jane gives me a small smile and one of her squinty-eyed nods that tells me all I really need to know. I’m gonna b
urn this red carpet to the motherfucking ground.

  “I will nip in here, and here,” Sabine says, pinching the fabric under my boobs to more prominently display the girls. Fine by me. God gave women tits for a reason, right? “Out! Out! I need to work!” Sabine unzips the gown and shoos us out the door.

  Trying on the dress has suddenly made this day really real. All morning long, I’ve been able to psych myself out and make believe this isn’t such a big deal. Putting the gown on brings it all home. This is my make or break night. The night America will fall in love with me or forget me. “I need my Xanax,” I say breathlessly. Jane looks at her watch doing some kind of math in her head.

  “You can have half a Valium now. You only get one Xanax. Save it for the show.” Damn addiction specialists and their stingy drug policies. When Dr. Goldberg agreed to prescribe something for tonight, I begged for more. My pleas fell on deaf ears. Jane produces a bottle from her bag and pops the top, sliding a cut pill onto my palm. I take it with a shaking hand and swallow it down with spit.

  “Let’s do your mask.” Ellie, my makeup artist, knows enough to know I need distracting. I nod and sit down in the director’s chair she’s set up before her rolling makeup station. I fidget while she paints on some goo that seals any visible pores. The Valium kicks in and my fidgeting slows.

  “Can I get her in rollers right quick?” Angela, my hair guru, asks. Ellie steps aside with a nod and a yawn, turning to her phone for entertainment.

  “Oh my gosh, I totally forgot about these!” Ellie exclaims, looking at her phone.

  “What?” Angela asks over the roller pins stuck in her mouth.

  “I was in the Hamptons for a wedding last weekend. You will never believe who was bellied up to the bar beside me.” She scrolls through her phone’s photos and hands it to Angela. “There’s more to the right.”

  Angela scrolls. The more she sees the bigger her eyes grow. “No way that’s Heather Troy. What happened to her? She looks like shit!” Angela scrolls back and forth, unable to believe her eyes.

  The instant I hear that bitch’s name my head snaps and my stomach sours. Heather’s name hasn’t been uttered in this town in months. She’s become a pariah. So unwelcome even her personal shopper at Neiman’s refuses to serve her. I act as disinterested as I can with Valium on board.

  “Oh, yeah.” Ellie brushes her bangs off her forehead like she’s an authority. “The affair was just the tip of that iceberg. Devon banished her from L.A. My boyfriend’s brother’s best friend used to know their dry cleaner, and he said Devon has some major dirt on Heather. That’s the only reason she left.”

  “What kind of dirt?” Angela leans in and whispers.

  “Apparently the sex tape we saw is tame. Girl’s a F-R-E-A-K from what I hear.” Ellie raises her eyebrows and lets her dimmer-witted companion draw her own conclusions. Wrong, I think, and roll my eyes. That’s not why she left.

  “No way!” she finally shrieks. “You know her, don’t you?” Angela hands me the phone.

  “Unfortunately.” I fake gag for effect and take it, hoping it looks as though I’m not dying to see Heather Troy looking like shit. Which I totally am, but can’t risk being too obvious. My jaw falls open seconds before my eyes bug out in shock. Following Devon’s advice, I no longer frequent my gossip rags. I’ve yet to see the end result of our Moretti meeting. Holy shit! I enlarge one particularly damning photo to take a closer look. “You took these last weekend?” I ask Ellie. She nods and goes back to preparing her makeup palettes. No way can I wipe the smile off my face. Hell, I’ll be smiling about this all the way down the red carpet.

  Heather Troy is fat as fuck. What’s even better? She looks like she could be a patient on Botched. Her face is lopsided. A droopy eye and a limp mouth spill over her left cheek partially covered by a heavy bang—that’s failing to cover it. It looks like either A) she’s forgotten Botox and booze don’t mix or B) her plastic surgeon owed Moretti a favor. I’m betting on B.

  I sit back, clamping a hand over my mouth. My stomach somersaults. This is totally Moretti’s work. This is the price she paid for her sins. That doesn’t sit too easily with me, regardless of how much she deserved it.

  Once Moretti walked off the boat, Heather disappeared. We never heard from her again except through her attorney to finalize the division of their assets. He said it would look like an accident. This just looks sad. I wanted her to disappear, whatever the cost. Moretti was right. Her vain ass would rather die than be seen like this.

  I have about a nanosecond of remorse flash through me. Until I remember that crazed bitch coming after me—in my own home—and waking up to learn what she’d done, what she’d stolen from us.

  Some women would leave it be, but after everything Heather took from me, I don’t see what’s so wrong with giving her the spotlight she used to make such sweet love to.

  “Have you sold these yet?” I eagerly ask.

  “No, I wasn’t going to.” Ellie blows it off like she’d rather be a cool kid than make a gazillion dollars. Puh-lease.

  “I know someone who’ll make the deal and keep your name out of it. Nobody’s seen Heather in months. You would make some serious cash off these.”

  “Really?” Her entire attitude perks up and I don’t know if it’s because of the money or if my encouragement is somehow giving her permission to fuck over Hollywood’s most vilified fallen woman.

  “You’d be an idiot not to. What’s she going to do to you anyway? Devon Hayes held all the power in that relationship and she sure as hell doesn’t have him anymore.” I smile and nod, handing her phone back along with a napkin bearing Maxwell Sweet’s name. “This guy will take care of everything.”

  “Yeah, I’ll think about it.” Ellie casually tucks the napkin in her jeans like she isn’t dying to find out what her images are worth. Whatever.

  “I would’ve felt sorry for her if she weren’t such a dumb-ass. What woman in her right mind cheats on the Sexiest Man Alive?” Angela removes a roller clip from her mouth and waves it in the air to emphasize her point. “I heard she’s dead broke.”

  I shrug, because what can I say? The public still doesn’t know about us. It’s only a rumor whispered in the executive suites, private parties and the VIP tables of Hollywood’s ruling class. We’ve tested the waters—dinner out a handful of times in the company of actors and crew from Mighty. The tabloids didn’t freak out when we were spotted sitting beside each other, so the next time we met for a drink before the others showed. Still nothing more than a work-related relationship has made the headlines. India insists that’s a good thing.

  “I heard he’s dating Pippa Middleton.” Ellie elbows me like she knows these things. It’s enough to jerk me out of my own thoughts. I have to catch the incredulous look of suffering her idiocy before it breaks all over my face. “He’s seen in Heathrow all the time.”

  “We’re filming in London,” I say like she should know this. Once the first Mighty film grossed over one hundred million, Devon convinced Iliad to upgrade our filming location. Less travel, better talent, and swankier accommodations. I’ve had a room booked at the Savoy for the past three months. Devon’s got the adjoining suite, which makes late-night bed-hopping much easier.

  “Seriously? Then they’re totally fucking. Did you hear Lady Gaga proposed marriage on stage at Madison Square Garden last week?”

  “Yeah, I did.” Again I roll my eyes. Devon’s single status has every woman in L.A. in a tizzy. It made me nervous at first. But he wouldn’t go to the lengths he has to be with me if he had any interest in anyone else. Still, it’s the most unnerving feeling in the world to know how many sluts want to bang your man. Because that’s what it’s about. They don’t want him, not really. They just want the ego boost of knowing he’d want them. Good thing Devon’s not a dumb-ass.

  “Jane, can you get me some hot lemon water?
My throat feels dry.” I have to change the subject. Anything but talking about who my undercover lover is or is not banging.

  The doorbell chimes again. Jane opens the door. Maria tumbles in, arms laden with designer swag bags.

  “And the Best Actress Award goes to...Carly Klein!” She gives a rousing round of applause and cheers, smiling as broadly as she can. I pick up the first thing I find, which happens to be a hot curler, and hurl it at her.

  “Shut your evil mouth! You know that’s bad luck!” I hiss and huff and can’t believe how insensitive she’s being. Is she high or something?

  She swats at the roller zooming by her head and gives me a bigger smile. “No, it’s bad luck for you to say it. I can say whatever the fug I want.”

  “You’re certainly in a good mood.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be? My sister from another mister is about to rule Hollywood. Betches better recognize!”

  “You’ve been hanging out with Ryan way too long.” I’ve given up on the whole Maria-Ryan thing. I assumed it was nothing serious. Turns out she’s fallen for him. He, in turn, is helplessly wrapped around her finger, and comes running like a well-trained pup whenever she crooks it. He’s beyond infatuated. In the tradition of corn-fed white boy wannabe rap stars to come before him, he tattooed her face over his entire back. Seriously. I can’t make this shit up.

  “I’ve been hanging out with someone else, too.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. She leans over and drops a small purple bag in my lap.

  “What’s this?”

  “Open it,” she says, helping herself to a tall glass of champagne. That’s the most unfair part of today. I can’t even have a glass of celebration bubbly.