Trashed

by Alison Gaylin

  “Did you hear something?” Dylan said.

  “Don’t think so.”

  Noiselessly, they closed the lid of the bin and slipped down, Simone clutching her recorder.

  Hart said, “Do you have any idea how perfect you are? How perfect we are?”

  “But . . . what about Lara? If we’re so damn perfect, why can’t we just tell her and—”

  “You know why.”

  “But what if it comes out anyway? Chris, famous people can’t have secrets.”

  “Yes, they can.”

  “But with the movie, the paparazzi—”

  “Relax, Dylan. Come closer.”

  “But . . .”

  “Closer. Look into my eyes.”

  Dylan said something neither one of them could hear. And then Hart replied, “I want you. More than anyone else.”

  Elliot mouthed: Jesus Christ.

  Hart’s and Dylan’s footsteps moved away from the Dumpster, out of the alley, out of earshot. Just to make sure they were really, truly gone, Elliot pulled himself up and peered over the edge of the Dumpster. He stared out in every direction, then slid back down again.

  Simone rewound the tape a little and hit PLAY.

  “Chris, famous people can’t have secrets.”

  “Yes, they can.”

  She and Elliot said it at the same time: “No, they can’t.”

  “You do the honors,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “Sure.” Elliot grinned. “I think this ought to get you off probation.”

  Simone’s pulse raced as she pulled out her cell phone and tapped in the Asteroid’s number, ready to give Nigel the biggest shock of his whole shock-laden life.

  By the time Simone had spoken to Nigel, washed off the Dumpster stench, and returned to the ballroom, the event was in full swing. She spotted Kathy at her bar, pouring a glass of wine for Nelson Mandela, and sprinted across the room to get to her, practically knocking over Meryl Streep, the head of the African Children’s Relief Fund, and poor Lara Chandler in the process.

  When Simone finally reached the bar, Kathy took one look at her, grinning like a lottery winner, and said, “Did you get laid out there?”

  “Better.” Simone pulled her fellow reporter away from the bar and into the nearest bathroom and, after checking every stall, after making absolutely sure that Neil Walker was not hiding in the recesses of the women’s restroom, she told Kathy everything that had happened in the Dumpster—and then played her the microcassette.

  After she finished, Kathy stared at Simone for several seconds, then threw her arms around her. “I’m so proud of you!”

  “Thanks.”

  “Tell me again what Nigel said.”

  “He said I’m off probation.”

  “For all eternity.”

  “For all eternity, yes.”

  “Man,” said Kathy. “I was all excited to tell you that Blake Moss is actually here. I’m thinking, ‘Where the hell is Simone?’ I’ll tell you where she is! She’s listening to Chris Hart cheating on Lara Chandler!”

  Simone glanced around the room again. “Elliot deserves the credit. If he hadn’t been in the Dumpster . . . oh, my God. Did you see this bracelet he gave me? He found it in Destiny’s trash.”

  A shrill voice said, “I cannot believe this!”

  Simone turned to see Erika James standing in the bathroom doorway, her tiny body vibrating with anger, her eyes aimed like death rays directly at Simone. “You have been gone for more than ten minutes! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  Her voice bounced off the tile walls, echoing for several seconds after the sentence was complete. Simone took a good long look at her. Bring it on, bitch. I’m off probation. Then she cleared her throat, strolled up to Erika James, and used the two inches she had on her to their full advantage. “If you don’t like me talking to Kathy,” Simone said quietly, “I could talk to Chris and Lara instead. I bet they would love to hear about the little deal you made with my real employers. ”

  Erika’s eyes went as wide as poker chips. “You . . . you can’t.”

  “Sure I can.” Simone gave her a bright smile. “Listen: ‘Hi, Chris. Hi, Lara. I’m a tabloid reporter. For just three thousand bucks, Erika let me put on this cute outfit and hang out with you guys!’ ”

  “I’ll tell them you’re lying.”

  “Good point.” Simone paused for a moment, scratched her chin thoughtfully. “Well, if they need proof, I’m sure my real boss would be happy to provide the cashed check.”

  Kathy guffawed. “The kid’s right. He would.”

  For the first time since Simone had met her, Erika was at a loss for words.

  Simone sighed. “Anyway, I’m going to get out there and see if I can meet Dylan Leeds. You got any pot stickers you want me to pass, Erika? I think my itty-bitty brain might be up to it now.”

  Simone made her way through the glittering, perfumed crowd. She kept her eyes peeled for blond hair, for a strapless, gold lamé dress, but people kept wanting hors d’oeuvres, which slowed her down considerably. They expected her to stop, to give them napkins, a somewhat unwieldy procedure.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Simone spotted a swath of gold fabric leaning out from a cluster of the tuxedos and black cocktail dresses. But when she made her way toward it, she bumped full-on into the back of a tall man, spattering soy sauce onto his tux.

  The man spun around, and Simone recognized him as Blake Moss. And as she looked up at that chiseled face, those devilish eyebrows, she recalled a lot more things about him than the wild parties and the raunchy reputation. He had a taste for theatrical S&&M. He owned several ball gags, a cat-o’-nine-tails. He paid hookers extra if they agreed to play dead. Amazing that Simone would know such bizarre, intimate details about someone she’d only seen on movie screens, but she did. Everyone did, thanks to a 1998 tell-all piece in Vanity Fair. Like Dylan Leeds had said, famous people can’t have secrets.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Moss.” She handed him a stack of napkins. “I’ll get some seltzer.”

  His brown eyes glinted in a way that made her want to put on more clothes. “You don’t have to do that.”

  Blake had been talking to a lean bespectacled guy with floppy brown hair. It was Jason Caputo—the physical opposite of his famously bald, rotund father. Simone recognized him from the cover of Entertainment Weekly ’s “Young Guns/Big Shots” issue. “Really,” Simone said to Blake Moss, “it’s no trouble.”

  Caputo looked at her. “Blake likes to be, uh, spilled on, if you know what I’m saying.”

  “Actually, I have no idea what you’re saying.”

  “Cut it out, Jase.” Moss touched a finger to Simone’s earlobe. “Virgin ears.”

  Simone took a breath. “Are you sure you’re okay, Mr. Moss?”

  “Blake,” he said. “After you’ve spilled on me, we should be on a first-name basis.”

  Caputo snickered.

  Simone was about to leave when Moss said to Caputo, “So Holly Kashminian called, demanded I cancel my party.” She froze.

  “What did you say?” Caputo asked.

  “I told her Emerald wouldn’t have wanted me to.”

  Simone heard herself say, “That was your party.”

  He stared at her. “Huh?”

  “Oh . . . I’m sorry. I just . . . Holly Kashminian goes to my gym. She mentioned . . . you were one of Emerald Deegan’s friends.”

  “Poor Emerald,” Caputo said.

  “Yeah, it’s tragic,” said Moss. “But I can’t say I didn’t see that one coming.”

  Simone said, “Holly didn’t see it coming at all.”

  Moss rolled his eyes, nodded. “Emmy was a sad little camper,” he said. “Holly was her number-one fan. Sweet girl. But not what you would call a reliable narrator.” He turned his attention back to Simone. “Anyone ever tell you you’ve got beautiful hands?”

  Caputo said, “Put the waitress down, Blake.”

  “I’d better g
et back to work.” Simone started to turn, but noticed Blake Moss was still watching her, his gaze now fixed on her neck.

  “Nice meeting you both,” she said.

  Caputo nodded. Moss gave Simone a look she recognized from his films—a sneaking half leer of a smile that clung to her skin. “I really like your hands,” he said.

  An unreliable narrator. Simone wasn’t sure how good a judge of people Blake Moss was, but his description of Holly made sense. She was Emerald’s number-one fan. And she was the only one who seemed to think her death wasn’t a suicide. Maybe Emerald was a sad little camper—a self-mutilator who could no longer find relief. . . .

  Stop thinking about Emerald and find Dylan Leeds. Simone veered toward the gold lamé, ignoring the five or six people who asked her for sashimi bites. She couldn’t afford to waste any more time cater-waitering.

  When she finally reached Dylan’s group, Simone hesitated long enough to read the tattoo on the starlet’s shoulder blade—two Japanese letters, the phrase “Living on a Prayer” underneath.

  Bon Jovi?

  Dylan Leeds turned around.

  “Sashimi?” Simone said, but then she got a good look at Dylan’s face, and Dylan gaped at her and said, “Simone Glass?” in that thick California accent, and Simone almost dropped her tray.

  “Julie Curtis,” she said.

  “I can’t believe this!”

  It took a few seconds for Simone to get her jaw unlocked. “Me neither.” Julie Curtis, Simone’s best friend from junior year at Wappingers Falls High, was about to take the C out of Clara.

  “I mean,” Julie said, “I thought you’d be a big-time reporter by now.”

  One of the suits turned around—tall and baby-faced, with thick, sandy hair and kind-looking eyes. “Who is this, Dylan?”

  “Friend of mine from high school,” she said. “Simone, this is Nathaniel—my manager’s assistant.”

  “Hi.”

  “She isn’t always this rude,” Nathaniel said. His voice sounded familiar.

  “Rude?” said Julie.

  “Uh . . . ‘I thought you’d be a big-time reporter by now’? Not what you’d call tactful, sweets.”

  “Shit, I’m sorry,” said Julie. “Seriously, some of my best friends are cater-waiters. You just always seemed so . . . I don’t know. Driven.”

  “I did?”

  “Personally?” said Nathaniel. “I respect cater-waiters a lot more than reporters.”

  Simone said, “Who do you work for, Nathaniel?”

  “Randi DuMonde.”

  And she remembered where she’d heard the voice. She’s . . . no longer with us.

  “Nia Lawson’s manager,” Simone said. “I . . . uh . . . I saw her on TV.”

  “You know, Simone, I’m actually Randi’s associate, not her assistant. I even have my own roster of talent. But Dylan here has a little trouble with us working stiffs.”

  “I can’t believe this,” Julie said. “Seriously, Nathaniel, Simone and I were best friends for like . . .”

  Six months. “I can’t believe it either,” said Simone.

  “I love your haircut, by the way,” Julie said. “Very retro.”

  “Thanks.”

  Julie said, “There are about fifty billion things I want to ask you about.”

  “Me too,” said Simone. “Maybe sixty.” And that’s not even counting Chris Hart.

  Julie laughed, but before she could say any more, Hart was next to her, along with some woman who must have been a publicist, telling her the People writer was here and wanted to “touch base.”

  Hart gave Simone a quick glance. “Hello,” she started to say, but she saw ice in his eyes, and went silent.

  “I’ll call you!” Julie said, as Hart, the woman, Nathaniel, and several other suits whisked her away like a feather-light set piece.

  By the time Simone realized they’d never exchanged numbers, Julie was long gone. I can’t believe she’s having an affair with Chris Hart.

  Simone felt a tap on her shoulder, heard a man’s voice say, “Excuse me, miss.” Oh great. Another hors d’oeuvres hog. But when she turned around, she found herself looking at Keith Furlong.

  He was even taller in person—and somehow, his height felt intrusive, as if he’d grown that big on purpose. Furlong was wearing his version of formal wear—black tux with velvet lapels, silver vest, and in lieu of a bow tie, an ascot with a diamond stickpin. It looked like something a pimp would wear to the Oscars—not to mention his hair, which was stiff enough to draw blood.

  He wore contacts the same green as a Ping-Pong table, but despite that flash of color, the eyes were dead. They reminded Simone of sharks’ eyes—no emotion, just purpose. Not the eyes of a man who had lost his love less than two days ago.

  “Sashimi bite?” said Simone.

  He shook his head. “Where did you get that bracelet?”

  Shit. It’s from Destiny’s trash. “My mom gave it to me,” she said. “College graduation.”

  He stared at her. “Nice mom.”

  She stared back. “You’re Keith Furlong, aren’t you?” He smiled. The eyes perked up a little. “You recognized me.”

  “Yes,” Simone said. “Listen, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  He blinked a few times. “Emerald,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “It is awful. But, you know . . . I truly believe she is in a better place.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” said Simone, “why are you here?”

  “Bedrock. We’re doing the afterparty for the Devil’s Road premiere next Friday.” Furlong caught sight of Blake Moss. “Yo, dawg!” he shouted, and pushed his way to where the movie actor was standing. “Party’s at ten, right?”

  Simone heard Moss say, “Bringing Dessy? I like her.”

  As she moved in the other direction, toward Kathy’s bar station, Simone wondered if any woman, anywhere, could be missed less by her man than Emerald Deegan.

  The mask was feeling too tight. It was always uncomfortable at events like this—promotional parties where he had to shake hands and crack jokes and smile. But at this one, at the Beverlido, it felt tighter than ever. He did not want to be here. He hated this hotel. His mother used to love it. It was soaked in memories.

  He smiled at the group of people he was with, pretended he was listening to what they were saying. But all he could think about was the next one—part three in the Project. He knew where she was now, he knew how to get there, and he knew exactly what he was going to make her do. . . . He’d rehearsed it in his head so many times. Already, he had marked her. But instead he had to be here with these people, the smile mask as tight as a vise. It was not fair.

  A woman approached his group, an actress. He had met her before, but her name eluded him. “You look so handsome,” she said.

  “Right back at you,” he replied. “Of course, you’re always drop-dead beautiful.” The actress grinned while his brain repeated the phrase. Drop dead. It brought Nia Lawson to mind . . . Nia at the very end—Nembutal Nia, head drooping, stinking of vomit, delirious.

  It hadn’t gone the way he’d envisioned it, back in his office, when the Project took shape. He had wanted Nia scared. Shamed. But she wasn’t alert enough for that, so he had to settle. He would never settle again. He hadn’t settled with Emerald—even though Holly Kashminian was making people think he had . . . telling the world it was a paring knife. Really, what kind of shame could come out of a kitchen?

  The third time, though. . . . The way he had it planned. He knew it would be the most perfect of all.

  It made the mask more bearable, rehearsing the third time in his brain. And so he imagined, through countless conversations with business contacts and politicians, with agents and publicists and studio executives, what it would be like to shame number three, to hurt her, to hear her weep and then, to cut her open. He imagined it while talking to pristine-looking actresses, smiling at the idea of them reading his mind.

  But when he saw t
hat waitress, his visions crumbled. The rehearsing stopped. He had never met her before, yet she was wearing it. The bracelet. How? The word swirled in his mind. How? How?

  After he spoke with her, he stared at the waitress from across the room, watched her every move like he would watch a dumb pet, unknowing in its cage. He watched who she smiled at, how she walked, the way her mouth moved when she spoke. He watched her hand, the way the bracelet clung to the thin skin of the wrist. And again he thought, how?

  Until he had an answer, he would keep watching her. And if the answer was a good one, maybe after.

  TWELVE

  Throughout the rest of the party, Keith Furlong watched Simone. She’d be talking to Kathy, serving hors d’oeuvres, reaching into her apron pocket, making sure her microcassette recorder was working, and she would catch him looking at her. They creeped Simone out, those Ping-Pong-table green eyes of his, examining her every move.

  It was because of the bracelet. That much was obvious. Keith knew that bracelet. He may have even bought it for Destiny. And he couldn’t figure out what it was doing on the wrist of some cater-waitress he’d never seen before.

  During the ride back to the office, Kathy talked and talked, while Simone stared at her wrist, at this bracelet that could pay her rent for months. Had Keith really given this rare object to a seventeen-year-old stripper? It didn’t even look like his taste—it was too elegant, too subtle for a man who’d wear a diamond stickpin to a late-afternoon movie party.

  Even more puzzling, Destiny had thrown it away. If Keith had given it to her and she was mad at him, she could have at least tried to sell it on eBay. Yes, Destiny was just a teen, but she was a practical teen—a teen willing to sell details of her sex life for eight thousand dollars. You’d think she’d be willing to sell a ruby bracelet, no matter who gave it to her.

  “Yo!” said Kathy. “Where’d you go?” They were on the 105, a sharp, twisting freeway that cars always took too fast when it wasn’t packed with traffic. The sun had set, and night urged itself against the Audi’s windows, each passing set of headlights holding the threat of a pileup.

  Simone was pretty sure Kathy had been saying something about Chris Hart’s rumored “tantric sexpertise,” but she wasn’t sure enough to fake it. “Sorry,” she said. “I was just thinking.”