Being Hartley

by Rushby, Allison

  "Mom was saying something about a new boyfriend…?"

  Allie frowns. "Yeah, I heard a bit about that, too. But I don't know what they're talking about. She hasn't dated anyone since that sitcom guy, and they barely went on…what? Five dates, maybe?"

  "So why all the talk?"

  "Beats me. I think it might be coming from the show—sniffing around to see if that's what her problem is? Everyone's starting to be a bit more guarded now that other opportunities are starting to pop up—the fact that Rory's contract is ending within the year and she's not happy will already be on a lot of people's radars."

  I nod slowly. This makes sense. I quiz Allie for a while longer, but she genuinely doesn't have anything else to tell me. I finally let the topic go, and she heads for the bathroom, probably sick of my grilling her.

  Just as the food's being wheeled into the room, Rory arrives. "Hi!" she calls out from the open door. "Hope you ordered for me!"

  "We did!" I tell her as she enters the living area, and I sign for the room service. "Thanks." I tip the room service guy, and he leaves. "How was the walk-through?" I ask Rory, who comes over to inspect the trays that have been laid on the dining room table.

  "Okay. Ugh, I'm so jealous. I wish I could have a burger and fries."

  "You can. Later. But we got you some fries for now as well." I wait for her reaction.

  "Oh, I won't eat any of those," she says, reaching out and taking one and popping it in her mouth.

  "Really?" I grin, watching her. "Not even one?" But as she polishes it off, my grin fades fast. "Rory…" My mouth drops open. Of course I noticed she had a scarf tied around her head when she walked in, but I thought it was to keep her hair up, after the walk-through. I figured she was sweaty or something. Now I see that she's not sweaty at all and that the scarf is for something else entirely. I step forward, twist her around with both my hands and unknot it now, pulling it off. "Rory! Your hair!"

  Her hair—it's gone. Really gone. Gone as in short. Not as short as my mom's cap of curls, but kind of cropped off—choppy and a bit ragged.

  "Oh, yeah, like it?" Rory faces me now. "I did it myself."

  "You did it yourself?" I guess this explains the ragged look. "Why…what…?" I can't get the words out. "What did they say at the walk-through?"

  Rory pops another fry in her mouth and takes her time eating it. "Nothing," she finally answers. "Because I hadn't done it yet. I did it just now."

  I contemplate her as she happily throws back fry after fry. "You did it just now? Um, where?"

  "In my bathroom. There were some nail scissors there, and I thought, I don't know…let's see what it looks like short."

  "Right. Because that's what people do when they're in the bathroom and there happens to be a pair of nail scissors lying about!"

  She shrugs. "I needed a change."

  I frown, not really understanding what all this is about. "Won't you get in trouble?"

  "It's my hair."

  "Is it?" I seriously doubt anything on Rory's body right now is hers to do with as she pleases, considering the amount of money SMD pays her—especially her Hartley hair.

  "I kept it. For charity. I figured someone could sell it or something. Anyway, where's Allie?" Rory asks me, as if hacking off her famous locks is suddenly the most boring thing in the world we could talk about.

  "Um…" I say, still in shock.

  "Here," Allie says, exiting the bathroom. "Just making myself even more beautiful. Oh, great. Food! I'm starving. Let's eat!" She only pauses for a second. "Hey, what have you done to your hair? Ugh, it's disgusting."

  "I cut it," Rory says. "Myself."

  I wait for Allie's reaction. But when it comes, it's not what I expect.

  "How cute are you, going off the rails?" Allie waltzes over to the phone, picks it up and dials one number. "Is that the concierge? Great. This is Allie Hartley from 4019. We need a hairdresser for Rory Hartley in Cassie Hartley's suite, stat. There's been a home hair homicide incident. Can you get one up here within half an hour? Great. Thanks." She places the phone back down. "Done. Now stop being such an attention seeker and eat your fries, you psycho."

  Oddly enough, that's what we do. For the next hour or so, we hang out. We drink soda. We eat (surprise, surprise, Rory eats every one of those fries). We channel surf, bickering over the remote. And Rory gets a quick hair tidy up, care of one of the hotel's hairdressers, in one of the bathrooms. When she comes out, my jaw drops again.

  "Rory, that looks hot." I take in her hair. The hairdresser has fixed up the choppiness, taken a bit more off, and she's now sporting a kind of halo of blond curls. "Wow, great job!" I say to the hairdresser, getting up and walking over closer to the bedroom where Rory's standing, so I can survey it properly.

  "Smokin’, sis!" Allie comes over as well, to inspect the hairdresser's handiwork. "It's really cool. Even if it does look a bit like Mara's hair."

  Rory's face contorts with this. "Uh oh. It does a bit, doesn't it?"

  "At least hers is black," Allie tells her. "You've got one point of difference."

  Rory wrinkles her nose. "Yeah, somehow I don't think she'll see it like that."

  "Oh, forget about Mara. Who cares about her? Not me, that's for sure. All you need now is some larger earrings for a bit of bling, and you'll look amazing," Allie tells her. "They're going to go crazy for you at the show."

  The hairdresser leaves soon after this, and Rory takes a quick shower to get rid of all the loose bits of hair. I wait for her while Allie goes back to their suite to take some medication and I make a couple of calls—one to my mom, and after that, to one of the stores downstairs.

  When Rory reappears, I take in her hairstyle again, impressed. I go over, and as I hold her at arm's length, circling her, I seriously consider hacking away at mine at some point in time. But then I come to my senses—knowing my luck, the end result wouldn't be anything like this. It'd probably look more like…well, like I'd hacked away at my hair in my own bathroom with a pair of nail scissors. "It really is a great cut," I tell her, stopping in front of her.

  "Thanks."

  "But you're scaring me."

  Rory looks shamefaced when I say this, and after a moment or two, I grab one of her hands and lead her over to sit in one of the oversized armchairs. I go and take a seat on the couch and eyeball her. "What's with all the acting out?"

  Rory pauses then shrugs. "I don't know. I'm bored. I'm over it."

  So it is like Allie had told me. I watch Rory now, wishing she'd try and find a way to explain it. Then again, maybe she can't. Maybe this is how things really are for her—just scraping through day to day? Right now, Rory doesn't seem too worried about performing tonight, or edgy, like she was this morning. It could even be minute to minute rather than day to day.

  "The show's at five thirty, right?" I bring up my legs onto the couch, crossing them, keeping one ear out for the doorbell and the package I'm expecting.

  "Yep." Rory sticks her own be-socked feet up on the coffee table. "Which means I've got to go soon. I'm due downstairs at four thirty."

  "And you're okay with that?" I ask her, studying her face closely for a reaction.

  She thinks for a second before responding. "I am, actually. This is the part I like best—interacting with the audience. Seeing everyone have a good time—little kids, teenagers, parents, grandparents. It's what the show's about and…" Her face clouds, and she stops.

  "What's the matter?" I sit up a bit, eager to hear anything she has to say.

  Rory stares at the coffee table. "Oh, I don't know. I can't really say…"

  "Come on, Rory, who am I going to tell?" I don't know anybody to tell, and even if I did, she knows I'm trustworthy.

  She keeps staring at a spot on the table for a while before she speaks again. "Hey, it's not like I care anymore anyway. And you deserve some answers…" she says, looking up at me now. "It's the show. It's changing. I can't really say too much about it at this point, but next season? It's going
to be different. Very different."

  "Really?"

  Rory stands up decisively. I'm not sure if she doesn't want to talk about it anymore, or can't because of the "hush hush" stuff. "So, I'll see you downstairs?" she says, not quite meeting my eye. "You've got your passes and everything? Both you and Cass?"

  I stand up as well. "Yes, we're fine. We'll be there. Of course, we'll be there."

  The doorbell rings, interrupting us. "Oh, wait," I say to Rory. "I know who it is. Sit down. Just for a minute."

  I run over to the door and open it up. "Great, thanks!" I say, signing for the parcel my mom has okayed. "And thanks for bringing it up so fast."

  "Our pleasure, Ms. Hartley," the woman says, and I open my mouth to correct her, but then I close it again as she retreats.

  "It's not Allie?" Rory says after I close the door and am coming back down the hallway, swinging the bag happily around one finger. I pause in the dining room, take the small box out of the bag, and run the rest of the way over to Rory.

  "What's this?" Rory looks confused as I present her with the package, complete with its distinctive robin's egg blue wrapping.

  "It's from me and Mom. Think of it as an early birthday present."

  Rory laughs, "My birthday isn't until next month!"

  "Then think of it as a ‘just because’ present."

  Rory's eyes move up to mine. "A ‘just because’ present. From Tiffany’s. Engagements, yes, weddings, yes. But do they even do ‘just because’ presents?"

  "I'm sure they'd agree that they do ‘just because’ presents every day. Now, quit arguing and open it!" I'm practically jumping up and down now with excitement.

  Rory laughs again and tears the wrapping off the small box before slowly opening the lid. "Oh," she says, as I run behind her chair so we can both stare at the small, sparkling, platinum and diamond star-shaped studs resting snugly in their box. "Oh, they're beautiful, Thea." Her eyes seek out mine.

  "Allie said you needed some bling to go with your new haircut, and I remembered seeing these at an airport last week. Stars for a star. Whatever you end up doing, you're always a star to me and Mom. And Dad too, of course."

  Rory gets up now and comes around the back of the chair to give me a hug. "Thea, they're too much." She hugs me tight for some time before pulling back, and I see that her eyes are watery. "And they're gorgeous, but you know something…?"

  "What?" I ask her, pulling back slightly so I can see her face.

  She smiles, blinking back her tears. "You're my bling. Thanks so much for coming. Thanks for being here and attempting to keep me borderline sane."

  -

  14 -

  My mom returns to the suite not long after Rory leaves, and I fill her in on the sudden change of hairstyle.

  "Let me get this straight." She leans against the countertop in the kitchen in her sweaty gym clothes. "She lopped it all off. Herself." She makes a chopping motion with one hand.

  "In the bathroom," I add. "Because she saw some nail scissors."

  My mom sighs a long sigh. "Oh, boy," she says. "That is not a good sign."

  "It isn't? Why? I mean, I know it's a bit out there, but the hairdresser fixed it up…"

  "The thing is," my mom takes a swig of water from the bottle in her hand, "cutting off your hair is a symbolic act. Doubly so when you have hair like ours. Cutting off your hair usually means something's happened. Or about to happen. Something big. Cutting off your hair is about change. Wait till I tell your father about this…"

  I know what she's talking about. Dad's the kind of screenwriter who gets called in a lot at the last minute to fix screenplays. And he gets paid a whole lot of money to do it. He knows pretty much everything there is to know about people and why they do things. Actually, it can get kind of weird at times. He'll tell you why you're doing something even when you don't know why you're doing it, and later on (usually after you've completely messed up), you'll realize he was right. Or he'll know things are going to happen before they do. Stuff like that. And it's not like he's psychic or anything like that. He just knows people inside and out.

  "Plus," Mom adds, "I don't think any of the production team was after a new-look Rory right now. Oh dear, and Eric is going to have a fit." Her eyes widen. "You know, the first thing I did when I left Hollywood at seventeen was cut my hair off. Even shorter than you're saying Rory has. It was a total pixie cut."

  Uh oh. "Well, even Uncle Erik will have to admit she looks amazing. Wait till you see her. Oh, and thanks for okaying the earrings. She really loved them."

  "My pleasure," my mom says slowly, her head tilted ever so slightly to one side. As she inspects me, I get the same feeling as I had earlier today, when I invited her back to keep viewing the fountain—the feeling that things are changing between us, though I can't tell why.

  "Anyway." She moves all of a sudden, polishing off her water. "I'd best have a quick shower. We don't want to be late for Rory's first show. You ready to go?"

  The truth is, I've been ready for the past half hour and have already applied a final bit of lip gloss nervously about five thousand times since then. I've never seen a real, live, SMD show before and am desperately trying not to give away how super-overexcited I am. Before she'd left, Rory told me she arranged for me to have a spot up front, right near the stage, but when I found out Allie was going to be watching from backstage, I said I'd watch this show with her, especially as Mom was going to be there. She'd hardly want a spot up front, near the stage—she'd be mobbed.

  I'm about to answer when there's a knock on the door.

  Mom and I look at each other. "Expecting someone?" she asks me, and I shake my head. Mom frowns. "Me either. Hang on."

  She goes over to the door, and I take a few steps to the right so I can check out who it is. She looks through the peephole, and when she sees who it is, her whole demeanor changes. She turns around to me. "Stay right there." Then she cracks open the door and lowers her voice, saying a thing or two to whoever's outside. As hard as I try, I can't hear what she's saying, or see who it is.

  After less than a minute, she slams the door and stomps back down the hallway and goes straight to the phone, where she rifles through some cards, selects one, and then seems to dial a specific extension. "Robyn," she says, when someone picks up, and I remember Robyn is the guest services coordinator who met us when we arrived—the one Mom laid down the law to.

  "It's Cassie Hartley here, and I am not happy. I am not happy at all. I have just had a…" her eyes flick to me, "man at my door. An actor. An actor who was only released from rehab last week, if I remember correctly. I distinctly remember saying I did not want anyone at my door, and I especially do not want derelict drug-using actors at my door while my daughter is inside. Do I make myself clear?"

  There's a long silence while Robyn obviously tries to smooth things over. And she must be pretty good at her job, because the next time my mom speaks, she's managed to calm down a little. "Yes, he might have learned of my whereabouts because he's staying on the same floor, and yes, he might feel like he knows me because I've worked with him, albeit reluctantly, before, but that doesn't mean I want to have anything to do with him. And I especially do not want him to have anything to do with my daughter or my nieces. I don't think that's an unreasonable request."

  A few more words from Robyn, and Mom's done. "Yes, thank you, Robyn. Everything else has been just lovely. I've been very impressed. Goodbye." She replaces the handset, then pauses with her back to me for a moment and straightens her shoulders before she turns around again with a grim smile. "Right, so we were talking about getting ready."

  Is she insane? Am I really supposed to pretend that didn't happen? "Um, Mom? Who was that at the door?"

  She takes a deep breath. "It doesn't matter. Somebody I'd rather not have anything to do with."

  I frown at her. "Maybe he just wanted to say hello? I mean, you just said you worked with him before and…"

  In front of me, I watch my mom's face hard
en all over. "Yes, I did. And he was late to set. Every. Single. Day. He didn't shower, he didn't shave. He didn't learn his lines. And if the rehab stint is anything to go by, I'm sure I can guess what he was so busy with that didn't have anything to do with work."

  "You mean drugs," I say. "I do know they exist."

  Mom looks at me for a moment or two, her breath quickening. "Do you? Do you really, Thea? Because I do. I grew up with a mother who couldn't go anywhere without an extra suitcase full of painkillers and an understanding doctor on call 24/7, which is why I don't want them around me anymore, and especially not around my family, and never, ever around my own daughter." Her voice rises with each word. "So you might know they exist, but that's all I want you to know. And I'll do anything—anything—to stop you from being introduced any further than that."

  What? Wow. Mom never talks about her mother. Never.

  "Mom…" I take a step forward, shocked at how much a guy simply knocking on our door has shaken her.

  She makes a cutting motion with one shaky hand. "See? This is what happens when I get off-track. We shouldn't be here. You shouldn't be here. And now I have drug-taking losers turning up on my doorstep."

  "Mom!" I take another step. "It's okay. I'm fine. You're fine. He's gone."

  She glances over at the door, unconvinced.

  "Really."

  When she turns back to me once more, she looks kind of deflated. "It's just very…important to me. I won't have that for you. Not for my daughter."

  In the silence that follows, I watch her carefully, my eyes welling up, suddenly understanding a whole lot more about my mom. Why doesn't she tell me this stuff about her? About her family? Everything makes so much more sense when she does.

  "Okay," I say, going over and giving her a hug. "It's okay."

  She hugs me tight in return and plants a kiss on top of my head.

  * * *

  Melinda, the producer's assistant, sends someone up to our suite, and Mom and I are given backstage passes to hang around our necks. We're guided downstairs, then backstage when we get to the Grand Ballroom. "You should get a great view from here." The guy nods at us.