Bombshell (Hollywood A-List #1)

by C. D. Reiss

  So. Movie script, folded to the middle. Paula’s voice lifted to the window. It had no inflection or accent whatsoever. She sounded like a machine.

  Brad had his elbows on the table. Even from two stories up I could see his right leg bouncing. His entire body thrust forward in laser-like attention.

  Then he said something. I was too far away to discern his words. Possibly a repetition of what the blonde said, but also completely robotically.

  Not in years of working for producers and actors had I seen this method, and I thought I’d seen everything.

  “Can I tell you a secret?” Nicole said from the bowl. I crouched down in front of her.

  “Yes.”

  She motioned me to come very close, so I leaned forward. She cupped her hands over my ear and whispered.

  “I like my daddy.”

  “Really? Well, that’s good. I like him too.”

  I didn’t mean any more than that, but hearing myself say it in my own ears made me think a little harder about it.

  Did I like him?

  Besides the obvious stuff. The stuff you could see and hear. Did I like him, and did it matter?

  “It’s a secret,” whispered Nicole. “You can’t tell.”

  Who did she worry I’d tell? Brad? Her mother’s ghost?

  “I won’t tell.”

  She put her thumb and pointer at the corner of my mouth and drew it across.

  “Zip it, lock it, put it in your pocket,” she said, locking my mouth and putting the invisible information in an equally invisible breast pocket.

  “Done,” I replied with a nod.

  “I’m ready!” Nicole singsonged with her arms out. I helped her off the bowl.

  We cleaned up, and I held her up so she could wash her hands. We’d need to get a stool for her bathroom. I usually came in after a consultant, or the parents had some experience with children. I’d never been in a house where so many of the little things had been missed.

  “Where do our bones go when we die?” she asked, rolling the soap between her palms.

  Perfectly normal question, but I had to tread lightly. She was asking about her mother.

  “Back into the earth where they make flowers and fruit.”

  “And what happens to our skin?” She put the soap down and rotated her hands under the running water.

  “It goes back into the earth to make trees and grass.”

  “Does it hurt?” She held her dripping hands out.

  “No.” I snapped the pony towel off the rod.

  Nicole rubbed her hands on the towel.

  “Are we lonely in the ground?”

  “We’re not inside our bodies anymore.”

  This was going places I shouldn’t be taking her. Brad had been raised Southern Baptist, so though he and I hadn’t discussed it, that was the theology I was going to spoon-feed Nicole.

  “Where do we go?” The expected question, delivered like a train into the station on time. I crouched to her. She was so beautiful and guileless. She didn’t understand her own pain, what had happened or why. And it wasn’t going to get any clearer when she got older. All she wanted was to know her mother was all right. To make sense of it.

  “She’s in heaven playing with God.”

  “Playing what?”

  “I don’t know.” I smoothed her dress down. “What did she like to play with you?”

  “Ponies. She made them talk.”

  “Then I bet she’s playing that with God right now.”

  It felt like a lie. I didn’t think Brenda Garcia was doing any one thing or another. I had no idea, but I couldn’t tell this little girl that. I cared about her more than I wanted to admit. She was thoughtful, graceful, kindhearted, and methodical in anything she touched. If I could have a little girl of my own, she’d be just like Nicole.

  Stop. That’s enough.

  “There are flowers outside,” Nicole said, rescuing me from my own thoughts.

  “Yep. Want to go look at them?”

  “Yes, please.”

  CHAPTER 11

  BRAD

  “He can tell me what to do,” I said. “He can send me a thousand miles away. He can put as many pounds on my back. Take my land. Take my home. He can break my back . . . hell, he can break every bone in my body. But he can’t tell me where my heart lies, and my love, it lies deep inside you.”

  Paula didn’t move a muscle, but the air played at her hair, teasing out a few strands and waving them. When we’d been in high school she kept it in a ponytail with wispy bangs. After we moved to LA she made it more like Redfield than before. The bangs got thicker and the rest of the hair stayed a noncommittal shoulder length as if her way of being hip was to be so unhip it was cool.

  I tried to gently break up with her before I came to Los Angeles, but let’s just say it didn’t work out that way. She was a very persuasive woman. We came to LA together, but she knew it couldn’t last. Not when the business and all the women in it were ready for me. We broke up cleanly. She dated. I dated. She came back as a friend a year later, when my career became 50 percent acting and 50 percent shit-I-didn’t-want-to-deal-with—her accent and manner were too comforting to resist.

  I needed a personal assistant. It was taking me too long to learn my lines, and she knew enough about me to give me the help I needed. I got the studio to pay her. My first taste of privilege. The rest wouldn’t fall into place for almost a year.

  “Your line,” she said. “Inside you.”

  “That makes no sense,” I objected.

  “I’m sure their million-dollar script doctor would love to hear all your thoughts, honey. But then they’ll change it.”

  “How can he be worried about his own heart if it’s somewhere else? If it’s with her, his life isn’t what he’s talking about.”

  “My mommy is the yellow flowers!”

  Nicole’s voice rose above the birds and breeze for the third time in as many minutes. She and the birds made fusion jazz in the garden. If it got humid enough, I could pretend I was in Arkansas for sweet minutes at a time.

  “You do this every time.” Paula leaned over and put her hand over mine. “You’re so hard on yourself. Just get the lines.”

  “I want a pink one!” Nicole’s voice again. “We can make it live in water for Daddy.”

  Paula took her hand away and leaned back, making that smile that looked like sunshine and waterfalls but actually signified a deep annoyance. “How about we go inside? Maybe if it’s quiet you’ll be able to concentrate.”

  “I don’t have ADD. Concentrating isn’t a problem.”

  I wasn’t being obstructive. I really didn’t mind distractions.

  Paula was usually cool and unflappable, exactly what I needed, but she was acting as though one kid caused world chaos. I’d been raised with kids everywhere, so I knew what chaos looked like and seen adults ignore it.

  She leaned forward, ice blue eyes sharp with intent. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking about you. I worry. You know that.”

  Nicole ran onto the patio with a bunch of flowers that looked like they came from the boxes on the edge of the fire pit. I never gave the flowers a thought. I had people who took care of that sort of thing. But when she came running to me with a fistful of yellow, I was glad I’d hired gardeners.

  “Here!” she cried, pushing them into my chest. “These are Mommy!”

  “You mean from Mommy?”

  “No!” She screwed up her eyebrows and crossed her arms.

  “Just go with it,” Cara said from behind the girl. “I’ll explain later.” With the sun behind her, she was just a silhouette softened with glare. She shifted until my eyes were in the shade and I could see her.

  Paula was constantly between us with her big Arkansas smile and her way of taking care of everything. But even with Paula’s obstruction, I could feel Cara a room away. I’d been fantasizing about her since she leaned over the pool table to miss the four. My fantasies were frustratingly generic. I couldn’t hear he
r voice in my head because I didn’t talk to her enough to recreate it. I had no way of knowing what she’d say or do. Yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  I sniffed the flowers with a big sucking sound.

  “Mommy smells great,” I said. The nanny smiled at me. I got stuck in that smile for a second. It was the first time she’d smiled at me and not in spite of me.

  Nicole climbed into my lap. “What are you doing?”

  “Working,” Paula said, closing her script and smiling. “Cara, honey, be a peach and go swimming or something with Miss Bombshell while Daddy works.”

  “Come on, Nicole.” Cara held her hand out. “Let’s go have a snack. We can put those in water.”

  I tilted the yellow daisy to the side and spoke in a high-pitched voice.

  “Water, please, Nicole, put me in water. I’m so thirsty.”

  “Aw, poor flowermommy.” She stroked the petals. Cara smiled.

  I put my fingers in Nicole’s hair. It was well brushed and smooth. I caught on a knot and gently pulled it apart. I searched for another tangle. Found one.

  “Does she need a haircut?”

  “No!” Nicole exclaimed. “Mommy liked it long.”

  “Well, far be it from me to interrupt family time.” Paula stood up. “I’m going to use the facilities.”

  “Okay, bye, Paula. Drink some water for me,” I made the flower squeak. Nicole loved it, and Cara laughed, hands folded in front of her. Paula disappeared into the house. Cara watched her go, then glanced at me.

  She cast her eyes down when they met mine. It was weirdly demure. Then she tucked her hair behind her ear. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was so sharp and smart, but there was something about that pose, the tilt of her head, looking down at my daughter, fingertip barely touching her hair.

  Nicole addressed the flower. “Mommy, do you think Cara’s pretty?”

  I thought . . . well, no. I didn’t think. I knew. I just couldn’t say. Unless I hid behind the voice of Brenda Garcia, who I’d barely known. I felt entitled to speak my mind in that disguise.

  “Very pretty,” Brenda’s voice said from the flower.

  Cara’s face turned pink. Shit. What was I thinking?

  “Is it okay if she’s my new mommy?”

  “Peanut butter and jelly!” Cara exclaimed before I could answer. “Let’s eat lunch!”

  Thank God, because I almost said yes.

  “Yay!” Nicole shouted.

  Cara didn’t make eye contact with me. She held her hand out and Nicole hopped off my lap. I gave her back the flowers and they trotted away. A second before they turned the corner to the house, Cara looked back at me and smiled as if she forgave me.

  That felt absolutely perfect.

  CHAPTER 12

  CARA

  I’d done a French braid on Nicole for Blueberry’s party, which should have taken three minutes, but she fussed and pulled it out. Brad commented that his daughter’s hair was a mess before I could fix it.

  He was trying. I kept telling myself he was trying.

  In the hours before Blueberry’s party, the Greydons came by Chez Sinclair for a playdate. They brought their six kids, four nannies, and lunch.

  If Brad Sinclair was an A-list actor—and he was—Michael Greydon rose above the alphabet. The A-lister’s A-list. He was such a star he could quit to adopt six children with his wife, a notorious paparazza. I was even a little starstruck, and I was never starstruck. But when he and his wife came for a pre-party iced tea, I noted his low-wattage glow and sane approachability. It was hard not to stare.

  The ride to the party pulled up promptly at two. Kids and nannies herded into a shiny black bus lined with video screens and games. Brad, Michael, and Laine went in a separate car. Apparently, our destination didn’t have a helipad.

  All four Greydon nannies were from West Side, so they were fit and attractive. Pleated khakis and a white polo couldn’t hide a thing, even in my case, with a shirt that was three sizes too big and a bra that was a cup size too small. The pleats in my chinos seemed designed specifically to create dual pouches over the crotch, and the legs were so long I had to cuff them.

  “It’s a thirty-day job,” I said. “Then I’m leaving. So if you hear of anything—”

  “You’re leaving? Why would you leave?” Helen interrupted in French. The children were engrossed in a highly anticipated movie that was still two weeks from release. “There’s no wife to judge you all the time. It’s perfect.”

  Helen had come from France to au pair five years before and stayed for the sun and easy work. She held the Greydons’ six-month-old while the other nannies entertained the children or gossiped.

  “It was always temporary,” I answered in French. “The celebrity lifestyle isn’t for me.”

  She tsked. “All the perks! Nice clothes, tags still on. Food from the best restaurants. All the people you meet. You can live the life without having the life. No?”

  I just shook my head, but I didn’t tell her the other reason I had to run away as if my shoes were on fire.

  I’d had another pool table dream. And another. It was a good thing Paula was my go-between. I was starting to blush whenever I was in the same room with Brad Sinclair and he hadn’t even touched me.

  CHAPTER 13

  BRAD

  Michelle Novatelli held court at Blueberry’s party even though it wasn’t her house.

  “Wait until you get to middle school. You’re going to want to put a bullet in your head.”

  She put her pointer and her tall finger together and mimicked blowing her brains out. She was straight outta Brooklyn. Worked her way up to studio head at Overland and never looked back, unless she was doing her Bensonhurst schtick. Then her accent got thicker than a brick and she talked faster than a jackrabbit fucks.

  “Five schools. Two events each. Application had essays. Dude. Essays. They know who I am. They know what I make, but I couldn’t get in without essays. Don could buy and sell these assholes, but I still had to wear heels to the interview.”

  We were surrounded by money and fame, but Michelle just kept on like a middle-class Italian girl shocked at the private school system. Everyone else was amused by the act, agreeing enough to keep her going, nodding because they’d either gone through it or would soon. I should have nodded too. But I wanted to take her two fingers and blow my own brains out.

  “And then after she asks a twelve-year-old what she wants to do when she graduates college, (eye roll) she asks her . . . the next question . . . is ‘What do you want to be doing in ten years?’ So my daughter says, ‘Isn’t that kind of the same thing?’ So we crossed that one off the list.”

  Laughter.

  My glass was empty.

  Fuck. I wanted to jump off a tall building. I was supposed to care, but I’d already forgotten what school she was talking about.

  I knew these people. I saw them all the time. Ken Braque, my PR guy, was there with his wife. Met her once. Couldn’t dig her name out of my mind. She was five eight with long red hair. Three months pregnant and looked like she’d maybe eaten a big dinner. That was all I knew about her.

  But this was who he was. This was what he did with his beautiful wife and his two kids when I wasn’t around. When he was doing family things. He was talking to Michelle Novatelli about middle schools.

  I felt like an intruder on the most mind-numbing underground culture ever.

  I looked out to the backyard. All the kids were riding ponies and eating sugar. I wanted to ride ponies and eat sugar. Nicole ran across my field of vision, pulling Cara by the hand.

  That smoking body in a white polo and pleated chinos. Want to talk about injustice? It was right there. What was wrong with these people? They hid what they couldn’t handle.

  I was dead. Curling up and dying on the corner of Boredom Blvd. and Tedium St.

  And to think, I was the guy who wouldn’t leave the club with only one girl. It was two, sometimes more, or why bother?

 
“They’re really progressive, and they have a ceramics studio.” I didn’t even know who was talking anymore.

  The kids had the party, and I got to die of boredom, remembering the good old days like an old man. What were their names? The girls? It was something funny. I’d laughed all the way to Mike’s house, because I let them have my fucking pants.

  “No, but they give a ton of financial aid, so you really don’t know who the kids are going to school with.”

  Two hot women came up to the glass doors. Twenties. One had curly hair. One with hair blown straight. One curvier than the other. They sat down in front and lit cigarettes. They couldn’t see inside. Good thing too, because I recognized them. Two years ago, they’d spent a morning fighting over my pants. I’d slipped out and gone to Mike’s place in my underwear. I smiled to myself. That was fun.

  “And there’s a real drug problem. Blow jobs in eighth grade. You gotta be careful.”

  What were their names? I flipped through the files in my head where I kept the clutter I was too busy to think about. The stuff I intentionally forgot so I could function.

  “Unless you like blow jobs,” Ray Heywood said, and everyone laughed.

  Jenn and Jennifer.

  They were right there. Pants girls. I needed to say hello, at least. It was like kismet.

  I tapped the window with a fingernail. Jenn or Jennifer leaned back and focused past the window, full lips opening into an O when she saw me. She grabbed her curly-haired friend’s elbow until she turned around. I waved and jerked my thumb to the side door.

  I put my drink on a coaster and slipped away.

  Ken caught up to me as I walked through the family room.

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “Good, good.”

  Jenn and Jennifer stood on the other side of the door, waiting. I remembered these two. It came back to me and I smiled a little. Yeah. They were fun until the catfight, then they were even more fun.

  “You canceled the Vanity Fair shoot with Nicole?” Ken asked.