“Actually, would you mind going to the pumpkin patch to get a few miniatures for the table?”
“Sure.” I figured, anything to avoid the pink elephant in the room that represents my life and where it’s going. Luckily, that conversation had yet to surface.
I drove my parents’ minivan to the pumpkin patch about ten minutes away. The muddy sky was getting darker, almost guaranteeing a storm. Stepping into the chilly air, I wrapped my arms around myself to keep warm. The patch was dotted with plump orange pumpkins and stacks of hay. A large tin shed stood between the parking lot and a growing area as big as a football field. A cashier attended to several customers. As I strolled the dirt, a thunderous pounding sounded from above and the drizzle became a downpour. I took my time selecting an assortment of pumpkins and other squash, thinking they’d make a great centerpiece.
“Lucy?”
“Katelin? Wow, it’s been forever!” Katelin Day and I had been neighbors since elementary school. I noted that she was wearing our high school track team sweatshirt and the snap-away Adidas pants everyone was obsessed with back then. Nice outfit, I sarcastically told myself. Followed by a remorseful, ugh I’m such a jerk! We gave each other a hug.
“Let me take that from you,” said Katelin, removing the basket of squash from my arm.
“You work here?” I asked, trying to sound impressed.
“Just helping out during the high season, not year round or anything.”
I nodded my head approvingly, thinking to myself how working there must really suck.
Katelin asked, “Are you ready to check out?”
“I am. Thanks!”
“A lot of people from our class are meeting for drinks tonight. You should come! I could pick you up!”
“Oh, yeah? When? It would be really cool to see everyone.”
“Earl’s Pub at eight.”
“Eight? Why so early?” I snorted. “Everyone still goes to Earl’s Pub every week?”
“Is that early?” Katelin wondered aloud.
“Oh, I guess it isn’t really. I’d love to go!”
“Sweet. Okay, Miss Butler, that will be eleven dollars.” I handed over my debit card.
“Sorry. We only take cash.” I felt like an idiot. Of course they only take cash! Their register is a shoebox, for crying out loud! “Don’t worry about it! Pay me back tonight!”
“Really? Thank you so much, Katelin. I’m glad we ran into each other! See you later!” Taking the bag from my old friend and running in the rain back to my parents’ van, I looked down at my muddied suede boots. “Fuuuuuuck!” I screamed, then took my head out of my ass long enough to realize I had offended the family piling into the minivan parked next to me. “Sorry, I’m so sorry.” Turning the heat on full blast, I steered out of the pebbled lot.
Later that evening, Katelin and I pulled up to the pub. I am not even going to try to put up a front. I wanted to impress them all. I, Lucy Butler, had changed big time, and for the better, in my opinion. I was no longer a wallflower in LA and I wouldn’t be back at home, either. Katelin had confirmed earlier that several of the populars would be there and I wanted them to know and see for themselves that I was way cooler than they had ever dreamed of being themselves. I wore an olive cashmere sweater paired with sleek black leggings and Dior ankle boots adorned with chains and studs. As Hollywood standards go, my outfit was casual. But as far as this town’s standards, well, let’s just say I knew there wouldn’t be a “who wore it best” competition at the end of the night.
“Lucy Butler! Get your butt over here!” I skipped over to a crowded area, feeling back at home in my old stomping ground. Most people were casually dressed in hooded sweatshirts or plain thermal tops and jeans. Several others wore skirt suits or blazers, presumably because they were coming straight from work. I shouted to the bartender, “Hey, Trevor! Can I get a round of tequila shots for everyone?” Putting my bank card down, I sat on a stool with my back to the bar.
“How is Hollywood? We’ve heard tons of rumors!” beamed Erin.
“Yeah! Do you really live with Isabella Blackstone?” shouted Tiffany.
“Are you friends with Presley Dalton and Sasha Hart?” Erin inquired.
A bill for thirty-six dollars was delivered to me. I was amazed at how inexpensive the drinks were. “I don’t think this is right. For twelve shots?”
“Yup. That’s right, thirty-six dollars,” Trevor confirmed.
“In LA, this would be at least a hundred dollars! Awesome!” I signed the tab, calling out, “Can you keep my tab open and get us another round?”
Three girls in smart suits and sexy heels entered the bar. This time, I called out to them. “Natalia . . . Jenny . . . and Katie?”
“Lucy! Hi!” They welcomed me with hugs.
“Hey, Miss Hollywood! What a surprise! Oh my God—you have to tell us everything!” Natalia said, jumping up and down. “Julie only skimmed the surface!”
“Julie? Is she coming tonight?” I hadn’t even considered the possibility! But why wouldn’t she come? She had always been the queen bee of the cool girls.
“No, I wish! She said that she had other plans. So . . . spill your beans! What is Isabella Blackstone like?” The girls directed their undivided attention to me for the first time . . . ever!
“Let’s see . . . what juicy bits can I tell you? Bella Blackstone is a total blast! And Presley Dalton too. They’re pretty much my best friends.” The girls nodded in fascination. “Sasha Hart and Marisa Daniels, total cokeheads.” The girls stood awestruck and listened in fascination. I knew that I was gossiping and talking absolute nonsense, but it felt so good to be the cool girl that had everyone’s attention. I continued with the bullshit. “Oh, and I’m sort of dating Jax Phoenix, but . . . that’s a whole other story.” A collective gasp came from not only the trio that I was speaking to, but several others behind me. I was on top of the world! Or . . . on top of Redmond, Washington, rather. “But enough about me! You are all so dressed up! Where are you coming from?”
Natalia removed a silk scarf from her neck and tied it to her Chanel bag. “Jennifer and I are working at Microsoft! Pretty par for the course around here, right? But we love it! Our boss is the absolute best and the company treats us like a big family, so it’s been great!”
Katie hopped up on the bar stool next to me. “I’m still in med school but had an interview today for the surgical residency program, so I’m crossing my fingers! Trevor, I definitely need my usual tonight!”
I was genuinely impressed and, even more so, intimidated. They were exactly who my parents had wished I would become. “Wow—congratulations, that is great . . .”
“Please, all congrats go to our future lawyer over here!” Katie reached over me and pinched Katelin’s arm. Katelin smiled coyly and thanked Katie.
“Lawyer? What were you doing at the patch earlier?” I was so confused.
“My brother bought the farm last year, and with the baby and everything, they needed some extra hands over the holiday . . .”
“Your brother had a baby?” How did I not know any of this was going on back home?
Natalia nearly choked up her martini. “You’ll never believe with who!”
“Who?!”
“Abby Coleman!”
“No! Freaking! Way!” So apparently, the only girl geekier than I was in high school married the hottest jock turned pro-baseball player for the Seattle Mariners. The girls that I was hoping to impress were doing seriously well for themselves. I can’t believe I thought that I’d outshine them by gossiping about who I was hanging out with. What if I had stayed in Seattle and went to a regular college and got a regular job? Would I be happier? Would I have remained a wallflower? I did the right thing, following my dreams—right? But those dreams turned out to be a nightmare, so . . . what was I going to do now? I didn’t expect to be the one asking these questions this weekend. I was overwhelming myself. What was a girl to do?
Drink. A lot.
Three
shots and three vodka tonics later, my mind and body succumbed to the effects of the liquor. I craved a line of blow. It was all I could think about but I didn’t dare mention it to this crowd.
“So, what’s the best part about living the dream out there?” Natalia asked. I swung my fancy boots up on an empty stool across from me. As a result of the alcohol consumption, the part of my brain that filtered what I thought and kept it from spewing out of my mouth failed me miserably.
“It’s not boring . . . or raining . . . and it’s never the same shit, different day . . . not a mundane day-to-day sort of life.” The girls gave each other side eyes.
“I’m not bored,” quipped Tiffany.
“Please! Nothing ever changes! Look . . .” I pointed to the ample bouncer at the front door. “Same guy since high school.”
“That’s my cousin,” Erin pointed out.
“Of course he is! Fuck, don’t you guys ever wonder what else is out there? I mean, really . . .” Swinging my legs down, I stood up, bumping into an innocent bystander. His pitcher of Bud Light splashed side to side, dousing my sweater, running down my leg and into my boot.
“Damn it! What the hell!” I wrung out my sweater, grunting in frustration.
“Lucy, relax. It was an accident,” he said.
“Do I know you?” I said, without as much as glancing up.
“We were lab partners for two years, bitch.”
“This is a Lucien sweater! It was, like, two thousand dollars! And it was a gift. Wait, did he just call me a bitch?” I looked up at the girls, unaware that I was causing a scene. “I mean, I would relax if I was wearing fucking . . . Crocs. I could hose them off in the toilet or something.” I was too far gone to see that nobody else was talking, yet I kept rambling. My head spun uncontrollably. About to lose my balance, I started to fall but caught myself in time. As I rested my arms on the seat of a bar stool, I looked down at the floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I confirmed that Erin was wearing . . . bright . . . pink . . . Crocs. “Oh shit,” I said out loud.
Katelin stepped forward and discreetly told me, “I think I should take you home.”
“That would be nice. Too bad it’s like a thirty-hour drive.”
chapter twenty-six
Thanks for Giving. Now Leave.
I hid under the covers of my parents’ guest room bed. I was mortified at the way I had behaved the night before. What had gotten into me? When did I become such a . . . bitch? Seeing what my life could have been sent me into a tailspin. There was a knock at my door. “Hey, Lucy . . . It’s Katelin. Your mom let me up. Can I come in?”
“Sure!” I sat up. Katelin entered the room holding my Dior boots. ”You left these in my car. I wasn’t sure when you were leaving . . . so . . .” She put the boots down on the floor and solemnly started out the bedroom door.
“Katelin, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. It’s so cliché to blame everything on the alcohol but . . . I was really drunk.”
“It’s okay. I would imagine living your lifestyle would change anyone.”
“No, I haven’t changed. I’m still the same person. I’m just . . . different, I guess.”
“Different—changed—same thing. Don’t worry about it. Everyone will get over it.”
“But I won’t. I really messed up.”
Katelin forced a grin. “I have to help my mom with Thanksgiving stuff. It was good seeing you. Best of luck, Lucy.”
“Bye, Katelin.”
I pulled the covers back over my head and cried. The way that she said “best of luck” cemented the fact that she hoped to never see me again. Who could blame her? Even I couldn’t understand why I acted the way I did. I didn’t feel above anyone, but I did feel different. Major damage had been done and there was little I could do about it.
“Luce!” my mother shrieked from downstairs. “Come here, quick!” I made my way downstairs. My hangover headache flared. The house smelled like a delicious roasting turkey. My father was mashing potatoes as my mother watched Access Hollywood in the connected den.
“What is it?” I asked, sitting down next to my mom.
“Isabella . . . Something about her newest love interest or something . . .”
“No, Bella isn’t dating anyone. It’s a false report.” I had just gotten up when my mother pointed at the television. Pictures of Bella and Mot Callahan flashed across the screen. Photos showed them frolicking in the ocean and kissing. The reporter narrated the montage. “Hurricanes Isabella Blackstone and Mot Callahan of Phoenix Rising hit the Caribbean Islands this weekend. The two lovebirds were seen out at all hours, taking ocean dips as late—or as early—as 4:00 a.m.” I was mortified that my mother was watching this.
The report ended with a photo of the two getting hot and heavy in an outdoor bar, Mot’s hand grabbing Bella’s breast. The reporter concluded, “Well, it might not be a typical Thanksgiving, but it looks like Mot Callahan has a lot to be thankful for.”
“That is so tacky. Bill, don’t you think that’s so tacky?” my mother shrieked.
“It really is. That woman has problems,” my dad agreed.
I got up and poured myself a cup of coffee. Why did they have to see that? Mom followed me into the kitchen. “Doesn’t she have kids? Where are they?”
“I don’t know, probably with their father. I’m not sure.”
“She isn’t a teenager. The way she runs around with those loser guys is just . . . sad.”
“Mom, I don’t want to talk about Bella.” Actually, I wanted to talk to Bella.
My dad kept pressing. “What exactly are you doing for her anyway?”
Just to get them off my back, I exaggerated. “We have a few photo projects coming up when I get back.”
My father continued, “We just wish you would have stuck it out with Stefano. That made much more sense.”
“Good sense that we paid for,” my mother added. I ignored my mother’s comment in regard to my degree, which was now worthless in their eyes.
“Dad, I can’t begin to explain how horrible that job was. It would really upset you both to know even half of it.”
My mother kept on. “Your entire life, you are going to work with people you don’t like. You need to learn how to take the good with the bad.” There they went again. I wished I had the guts to tell my parents that “taking the bad” meant being verbally and physically abused, never having time to eat or sleep, and above all doing heaps of drugs twenty-four/seven.
“Well, that was then and this is now. Bella is really invested in helping me get started as a photographer. She’s my best friend out there and has my best interests at heart.”
“I thought Julie was your best friend,” my mom said.
“That, I definitely don’t want to talk about.” I knew that was coming.
“Why would a thirty-eight-year-old woman want to be best friends with a twenty-three-year-old girl?”
“Mom, just . . . lay off me, okay? I don’t expect you to understand what I’ve been going through. I can’t make any smart decisions with you nitpicking at me all the time. It’s like I can’t even breathe!”
“We are just concerned about your future!”
“Well, so am I! Imagine what it’s like to be me!” I stormed up the stairs. The whole scene reminded me of the conflicts I had had with my parents when I was an adolescent.
“Thanks for offering to help, Lucy! Don’t worry . . . we’ve got it all under control!” Mom yelled after me. I slammed the bedroom door and flung myself down on the bed. I heard my father ask, “Why is she so angry?”
I tried Bella’s phone several times. There was no answer. I just wanted to go home. But where was that, really?
chapter twenty-seven
Not All It’s Cracked Up to Be
As far as reconnecting with friends and family was concerned, Thanksgiving had been anything but successful. My parents and I set our different opinions aside, putting on a happy front for their guests. All through dinner, they bra
gged about their daughter’s fabulous position as a personal photographer for the unbelievable Isabella Blackstone. My mother even showed several guests tabloid pictures of us together. I smiled, playing along, exuding a “life is peachy” image for the sake of my parents’ reputation. After Thanksgiving, I was excited to return to LA so I could really roll up my sleeves on this photography business and show them all.
The first time I saw Bella was when we attended the Kick It charity event in Beverly Hills. I waited patiently at the end of the red carpet while she spoke to the media, posing for the cameras as giant spotlights swayed in the sky.
“Isabella! Isabella!” the media shouted for her attention. A few photographers, attempting to get Bella’s reaction on camera, made pointed comments about her recent rendezvous with Mot. Bella expertly ignored them as she slowly made her way down the red carpet. Then I heard them screaming “Denise, Denise!” as Denise Richards followed in Bella’s footsteps. The same ruthless media taunted Denise with insensitive questions regarding her ex-husband’s recent antics. She smiled through it like a pro. Bella and I walked onto the swank rooftop of the SLS Hotel, which had been decorated to look like a dance club circa 1980. Cocktail waitresses and busboys were outfitted to look like vintage renditions of Cyndi Lauper and Corey Feldman. The music of Duran Duran was blasting from speakers that had been fashioned to look like giant boom boxes. A look-alike Breakfast Club member presented a tray of colorful cocktails. He asked, “Martini, ladies?”
“Sure!” we replied.
We took our drinks for a walk along an impressive wall of avant-garde-style photographs of shoes. One looked like a mountain range in the Mohave desert but in fact it was a macro shot of the bottom of a pair of dirty sneakers. Another, an image of crystal-encrusted Louboutins hanging across a telephone wire in the ghetto.
A plump woman with a jet black bob and leather pants cut us off as we moved from one framed photo to the next and offered a hand to Bella. “Hi! Thank you so much for coming! I’m Zee Zee Black. I own the Black Horn Gallery where all of these amazing photographs come from!”
The Liar, The Bitch and the Wardrobe Page 21
