Bella removed her hands, straightened up and smoothed out her dress as if she were about to walk a red carpet, unaware that she appeared as if she had just walked through the Red Sea. “Okay. If that is how you feel, then do what you need to do. Let’s get together this week for dinner or drinks or something,” she said as she turned her back, but not before I saw a single tear fall down her cheek. With one strappy heel on her right foot, she hobbled out of the living room and up the stairs.
Once again, I collected my belongings and showed myself out. At the base of the driveway, I put my Jeep in neutral. I rested my chin over the steering wheel and took a long look at the gargantuan estate. I knew that this would likely be the last time that I ever saw the house, and possibly Bella as well.
I sped down the Pacific Coast Highway, letting the salty air tear through my Jeep. The farther away I drove, the more liberated I felt. Feeling dramatic, I wiggled my wrists free of the bracelets that as of late felt more like handcuffs, flinging them up toward the hilled side of the highway. This “stuff” didn’t mean anything to me anymore! While maintaining a speed of sixty and with one hand on the wheel, the other untied the Hermès silk scarf free from my hair as I raised it toward the open roof and released it too. The rearview mirror reflected the once-coveted item as it fluttered like a butterfly into obscurity. The release of each material item pushed me a little closer to feeling myself again. I ejected a Phoenix Rising CD from the stereo and Frisbee-tossed it toward the beach. I took in a deep breath of ocean air and loudly exhaled.
I headed straight to my first apartment. It had been so long. I could only pray my friends would have me back. Showing up and begging was my only hope. I stood before the front door in plain denim shorts and a label-less white T-shirt—looking and feeling like myself again. I began knocking frantically until Julie opened the door. Sebastian stared from behind her. They looked at me standing there, my eyes still red and swollen.
“I’m sorry . . . please . . . I’m so sorry,” I pleaded as I collapsed into tears. They took turns looking at each other with uncertainty. “There is no excuse for my behavior but I can promise you that I will never let you down like that ever again. I promise. Please forgive me?” Just as I was about to give up hope and turn around, my friends reached out and took me back. I sobbed in relief as I clung to their arms.
chapter thirty-one
One Year Later
“What did I tell you? This crowd would come to the opening of an envelope,” Zee Zee Black chortled over my shoulder while expertly adjusting the position of an easel.
The Black Horn Gallery was the talk of the town. Multiple klieg lights swiveled outside, their come-hither movements attracting throngs of people. Presley Dalton and a sculptured male model made their way down the crimson carpet as the media went wild. Limo after limo pulled up to the entrance as one glam gam after another exited a car and strutted to the entrance.
Outside, an entertainment reporter interviewed Sasha Hart about her latest drug scandal. Sasha unconvincingly defended herself—“ . . . I mean, I’ve never even seen a drug in my whole life, except of course in movies and stuff. I have faith that whoever hid a video camera in my dressing room and tried to set me up and blackmail me will be found and brought to justice.”
Jax Phoenix hurried down the press path without stopping while flashing a peace sign. Behind him trailed Mot Callahan and Paul Pardee. The press only called for Jax. Mot flicked his cigarette to the side, nudging his bandmate. They gave each other a here we go again look and headed to the entrance.
“Like moths to a flame!” Julie giggled as I hiked up the roped-off curved stairs to meet her on the off-limits second floor. “Lucy, are you seeing this right now?” I joined Julie and Sebastian on the balcony overlooking the interior of the gallery. To say that my stomach was upside down would be the understatement of the century.
On the main floor, two fashionable women cocked their heads while standing in front of a five-foot-wide silver print. “Is that . . . Brooke Sands?” one woman asked the other. An enlarged cover of Dazzle, covered in a dozen lines of powdery substance and a rolled one-hundred dollar bill, was largely displayed before them. The face of the starlet was barely legible. Sasha Hart, recognizing the origins of the photo, let out a gasp, causing the women to avert their attention to her. Sasha took a swift step backward and, with a nervous laugh, disappeared into the crowd.
The posh groups meandered their way through the rooms, beginning to make sense of the exhibit entitled “Over-Exposed.” The collection showcased my behind-the-scenes photo essays in which none of the images revealed the faces or named who was who. That was left to the imagination of the viewer. It was a difficult decision to make, whether or not to use the images to launch my career. But as long as it remained that nobody would know the true identity of the people in the pictures, no harm would be done. As Bella would say, if you’re going to step on people to reach the top, you might as well wear stilettos. And the ones I wore that night were gorgeous—I got them on sale.
One of the critics’ favorites was a photo snapped over the shoulder of an anonymous celeb (cough, Presley) when I had turned the cameras on the paparazzi. The crowds of men and women were crushing in all around us, several elbowing others in the face and violently—desperately—fighting for the best shot. It was disgusting and scary. And it sold for close to five figures!
Another shot garnering attention was an image of a hotel penthouse, post party. Everyone had heard rumored hotel-trashing stories, but until now they could only imagine what that entailed. The empty Fantasy Suite and its usually impeccable gold and white interior was barely recognizable. “How do you break a chair . . . in half?” one magazine editor asked. “Is that a chandelier . . . in the sink?” said another astounded viewer. My heart broke every time I looked at that photo. I remember signing for breakfast that morning, thinking that life couldn’t get any better. Then the rug got pulled out from under me and I thought in the same minute that life couldn’t get any worse. I hoped to never have sixty seconds like that ever again in this lifetime.
“Julie, I couldn’t have done it without you,” I whispered to my friend.
“Are you kidding?” Julie whispered back. “All that I did was carry some stuff and—”
“No—all of it. The past year, the past decade, really. No matter what mess I made, you remained my friend, and I don’t know how I will ever begin to thank you enough for putting up with all”—I waved my free hand around the gallery—“this.”
Julie stopped my hand and held it in hers. “Lucy! That’s what friends are for. And when I become a hard-partying movie star who sleeps her way through Tinseltown, I shall expect the same . . . Deal?”
We shook hands. “Deal.”
“Oh! Lucy! Oh my God! He came!!” she shrieked.
“Who? What?” I matched her excitement.
Sebastian quickly clapped a hand over each of our mouths before dragging us all down to the floor. I blew the scarf tied around his wrist out of my mouth. We slowly rose back up, first only exposing our eyes—carefully assuring that nobody had spotted us. Still quieted by Sebastian’s hand, Julie pointed and moved her finger along the halls of the gallery. We followed her finger until we saw him.
Stefano flew from one side of the gallery to another and back again like a pinball, the latest assistant frantically trailing him along the way, trying not to be snapped by his boss’s cape every time he shifted direction. “How much is this? I want to buy it off the wall right fucking now! Off the wall! Now! And the two in the back as well!” he exploded at a caterer passing out charcuteries. The young man shrugged and briefly explained that he didn’t work for the gallery before glancing up at the print in question. The photo was of an enraged man in motion, blurred beyond recognition, kicking a tripod and sending a camera into flight toward a set of models who were fleeing the set, horrified for their lives. The caterer looked at Stefano, then back at the image, back at Stefano—clearly recognizing that he was the m
an in the photo. Each time the boy averted his eyes back to Stefano, Lepres’ face got redder and his fists got tighter. The caterer’s shoulders were shaking in laughter as he walked away. I had to admit, that felt really good! It was my way of holding a big fat honest mirror in front of Stefano. It was also my way of metaphorically high-fiving his face.
After another celebratory toast with Sebastian and Julie, I slowly walked along the balcony alone, looking down at the scene below. I could hardly believe what I had managed to accomplish and everything I had been through. I checked on my parents, who were sipping cocktails in a corner and whispering. I knew that my mom was giving my dad a list of who’s-who, and I knew that she was enjoying every minute of it. I smiled to myself, knowing that I had finally done them proud. Jax paused at the door and, as if by instinct, he looked up and our eyes met. He gave me a nod and a flirtatious wink before turning around and continuing his exit.
Two arms wrapped around me from behind. I turned and kissed James on the lips. Yes, that’s right, James Braves was my boyfriend.
“Okay, Miss Butler . . . Now that you are a photography superstar, what will be your next move?” he pressed.
“Oh, so now you’re back to being my guidance counselor? I like how that works,” I teased, kissing him again. Julie popped open another champagne bottle as Sebastian shot off a mini confetti cannon, sending a glittery explosion of sparkles over our heads. I gave Sebastian a pointed stare. I didn’t want to make a mess at my first showing. “Confetti? Really?”
“We’re celebrating,” he playfully whined.
“Someone major is making their way in,” James alerted. A lightning storm of flashes was followed by shouting as a small mob made its way inside.
After a grand entrance, Bella breezed in and headed straight to a wall just below us where an enormous screen print of a paycheck was displayed. She had written it to me in the early days. Our names had been blacked out but in the notes section, it clearly read: Friendship. She stood in front of the enlarged check, her eyes widening in surprise. A trio of onlookers commented on the desperation represented in the image. At the time I assumed it had been written as a joke. Now I knew there had been some truth behind it. I was never supposed to be Bella’s personal photographer protégé. I was her paid friend.
“Excuse me, Miss Blackstone. My name is Cristof Phillipe, of American Photo, and I am wondering if I can quote you for an article that we are doing on the exhibit?” A smart-looking man with a tape recorder eagerly hoped for a positive response.
“Sure,” Bella obliged. I took a dry gulp.
He readily stepped in front of her and pressed record. “A majority of the focus here is the darker side of Hollywood—images suggesting the existence of a whole subculture much seedier than that which is documented constantly in the tabloids . . . Would you agree?”
Bella put on her brightest demeanor. “I myself am just shocked, of course. I have never really known any of this to exist in the business. You hear stories, but to see it firsthand . . .” Her eyes drifted to the familiar Dazzle magazine cover. She maintained her act.
He continued, “How long have you been a fan of Lucy Butler’s work?”
Bella briefly glanced up at the check. She released a small but sincere smile and responded, “This is my first time seeing Lucy Butler’s work but I have always suspected that she was a talented artist.” It was the most honest thing that I’d ever heard her say. Sounds cheesy, but I was actually proud of her.
“So you’d heard about her work previously?”
Her slight smile grew. “She’s a friend.”
Presley Dalton, Sasha Hart and a cluster of other young darlings caught Bella’s eye as they whirred past her to make their exit. Bella excused herself from the reporter and quickly trailed the girls. The double doors closed after the girls left and swung back open for Bella, unleashing an electrifying sea of flashbulbs and commotion. As she paused in the doorway to deliver an expert pose, she pushed her left shoulder forward and flicked off a tiny piece of glitter.
acknowledgments
This book was a true labor of love. It would not exist if it weren’t for my incredible, unwavering friends who supported me not only mentally and spiritually, but lent me their computers when mine broke down, printed my edits at their jobs—forever anonymous!—opened the door to their guest rooms when I needed a reprieve and encouraged me to keep going for it when it seemed like things were never going to happen. I am forever grateful to you. A special word to Adam, Amalia, Ashley, Debbie, Deena, Julie, Lindsey, Rebecca, Samantha and Valerie: This book is dedicated to all of you.
To my parents, Robert and Susan; my sister, Jennifer; as well as my entire extended family: Thank you for giving me a life so good that it didn’t inspire my first book to be in the self-help section. Second, maybe. I’d be lost without you and I love you very much.
My literary agent, Kirsten Neuhaus is more than just that. She not only believed in me from the start, but she held my hand through the entire process. Kirsten was unbelievably patient with me, the greenest of all writers—as she had to explain all-things-author, starting with how to track changes (not kidding). I thank my lucky stars every day that I met you. On the same note, I couldn’t have asked for a more marvelous editor than Denise Silvestro. Kirsten and I were hoping to find someone witty and fun who “got it”—and then you came along and made us do a happy dance. Many thanks to Lauren Driver who generously guided me to become a better writer and Meredith Giordan, who was so dependable and much appreciated. I am eternally thankful for such a wonderful team.
Robert Verdi, you made my vision come to life and dove into this project headfirst with good energy and heart. Julie Katzenberg, you are the glue that kept it all together and I salute you. I loved working with you both! Thank you for taking a chance with me!
And last but not least, the only real bitch in my life—Bella, my loving little lap dog.
about the stylist
Robert Verdi is one of the most highly recognizable faces in the world of fashion today. Verdi is the go-to style guru for A-listers like Eva Longoria, Bethenny Frankel, Kathy Griffin, Hugh Jackman, Terrence Howard, and Kristen Wiig. Famous for his wit and wisdom, Verdi is a beloved style expert on screen and in the media on shows such as She’s Got the Look, Surprise by Design, Full Frontal Fashion, Fashion Police and E! Entertainment News Red Carpet. Known for his trademark look of wearing sunglasses on the top of his head, Verdi recently launched his own collection of sunglasses on HSN.
The Liar, The Bitch and the Wardrobe Page 24
