Trashed

by Alison Gaylin

  Simone still had an image of them after Spanish class, of Julie pushing Todd up against a bank of lockers, murmuring, “Da me un beso,” again and again. How she’d marveled at the look on Todd’s face—pure ecstasy. To change a guy’s face like that, Simone had thought. And then, again: To be Julie Curtis, just for one day. . . .

  She recalled Julie and Chris, the stern way he’d said, “Now, Dylan,” and how she’d followed him across the room like a puppy, how she’d laughed when he’d laughed, the way she’d smiled at him, so expectant, receiving nothing in return. Yes, in high school Simone had had a crush on Chris Hart. There were a few months there when she’d taped his “Sexiest Man Alive” photo to the inside of her locker.

  But she did not want to be Dylan Leeds. Not even for a day.

  “Simone,” Julie said, “do you ever feel . . . like someone is watching you?”

  She turned around, stared at her. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s probably nothing, but . . . for the past couple of days, when I’ve been asleep, I’ve had to get up, make sure the shades were drawn.”

  “Julie,” said Simone, “you should always have your shades drawn, and your doors locked. You’re famous. In fact, it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to get a bodyguard of your own.”

  “It’s not that,” she said. “It isn’t the fame thing. It’s . . .‘watched’ is the wrong word.” The blue eyes gazed into Simone’s, and she saw something in them that made her turn cold. “I feel . . . hunted,” Julie said.

  Simone stared at her, unable to say a word.

  Then Julie burst out laughing.

  “What . . .”

  “Not bad, huh? I’ve got a horror film audition coming up. Thought I’d practice on you!”

  Simone exhaled hard. “That was really mean!”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “But you’ll forgive me when you see the surprise I have for you!”

  “What?” said Simone.

  Julie pulled her into the living room. “Okay,” she said. “Sit on the couch and close your eyes.” She did, and when Julie told her to open them again, she’d cued up a DVD on her small, flat-screen TV. She hit PLAY.

  “Oh, my God,” said Simone. “It’s Night at the Opera !”

  Julie skipped to the stateroom scene, and together they watched it, laughing until tears ran down their faces. When it was over, Julie gasped, “One more time?”

  “Sure!” said Simone, because she hadn’t laughed that hard in months. Still, an image nagged at her, and it was hard to brush off. It was the look in Julie’s eyes, the depth of the fear when she’d said, I feel hunted. She was a good actress, yes, but not that good.

  TWENTY

  His initial idea had been a trilogy. The Project would consist of three events, because three was the most perfect number. He knew that from movies. You want an image to make an impact, you show it three times. In real life as well, three told you, No coincidence. You’re not imagining things. This is really happening. Three put fear in your heart.

  Three would put fear in her heart.

  So that night two months ago, when he had walked into his home and taken off the mask and felt rage ripping at his skin. The night he decided to do something about it. That night, he had thought: Three.

  Nia Lawson would be one. That was a given. She was, after all, the source of rage, the final straw, the inspiration. Two, Emerald, who was more than deserving. He’d known that for a while. Three, he had thought, would come in time. Months, years from now. It didn’t matter. He would see her, and he would know.

  He hadn’t expected her to come so soon. Destiny was so perfect, so deserving of shame. Perhaps the most perfect of all. In movies, the third appearance of the chosen image should be the strongest, the most memorable.

  And it was.

  The Project was a success. He had shamed Nia, Emerald, and Destiny, as he had been shamed. He had ended them, as he had been ended. Everyone knew it wasn’t a coincidence. And, best of all, he had put fear in her.

  The only problem: He wanted more. He thrived on it now—finding them, marking them, bringing their shame out into the open. He told himself, Wait, be patient. And, as luck would have it, he found two more.

  Probably three, but he needed to research that one.

  It was eleven o’clock on Sunday morning. He was sitting in the front seat of the car he used for the Project. After all these years, the car still smelled like his mother—cigarettes and Shalimar. The smell used to make him gag, but now he liked the symbolism.

  He was still tired and achy from last night at the Beverlido, but he leaned forward in the vinyl seat. He smelled his mother and he watched her house, number one of the second three. Her shadow moved past the window. Before, he had thought Holly Kashminian wasn’t right. After all, the only thing she’d done was lie about the knife. That was nowhere near close to what one, two, or three had done. But now, now . . .

  Holly had been talking. Talking to the police, and more tellingly, to the press. She had called the Times, People, Entertainment Tonight—and those were only the ones he knew about through his contacts. They weren’t listening, of course. They thought she was crazy. Nonetheless, Holly Kashminian was distinguishing herself.

  A messenger van pulled in front of Holly’s house, and the driver hurried up to her door, a manila envelope in his hand. What’s this? He watched the driver ring the bell, wait on the step . . . No answer. Too scared to answer her own door. He smiled. Clearly, his messages had made an impact.

  After a minute or so the driver stepped away from the door, rolled the envelope, and shoved it into the mailbox. Then he got back in his van and drove off.

  Holly’s mailbox was located in front of hedges. It was not visible from her house. Calmly, he got out of his car, walked up to it, removed the envelope and brought it back to his car. The envelope was not taped shut or sealed. Just a twist of the brad and it was open.

  Inside was a large Xeroxed newspaper article folded in half. When he unfolded it, a note fell out, but he didn’t bother picking it up. For now, he needed nothing but to stare at this page—a page from the Asteroid, dated next week. He read each article, growing angrier and angrier until the rage pierced his skin, until it made him quake.

  He looked at the picture of the bracelet. Then he read the small, boxed article and the blood coursed through his veins so hot it stung.

  Holly. Is. Deserving.

  This one would be soon. His rage would not let him wait, not this time. He could not be patient. He would drive home, he would assemble a kit. He would mark her. And then she would be his—the most deserving one yet. Carefully, he folded up the article, placed it back in the envelope. He didn’t return it to the mailbox. It would be part of Holly’s kit.

  The note was still on the floor of his car. He picked it up and read it:Dear Holly,

  Enclosed is an advanced copy of the spread, faxed from New York. I hope you are feeling better about this. I think it turned out very well, and you should be proud. Please call me when you can. I am worried about you.

  Simone

  Simone. As he stared at the name, he started to laugh. How about that, he thought. No more research was needed. He had his three.

  “Holly? It’s Simone. I just wanted to make sure you got the spread. It’ll be out Friday, and I had it messengered this morning. Okay. I guess you’re not picking up your phone. Please call me when you can.”

  Simone hung up. She was calling from the reporters’ room. But while she was supposed to be writing an article about Dylan and Lara’s confrontation at Swifty’s, she kept thinking about her phone conversation with Holly, how strange she had sounded, how cold. What are you insinuating, Simone?

  Then she had hung up on her—hung up on the person, the friend, whom, one night earlier, she had trusted with her deepest-kept secret. And all I did was ask . . .

  “Kathy,” she said, “what can you tell me about Randi DuMonde?”

  Kathy glanced up from the piece she was writing: “L
ynzee de la Presa’s Lesbian Secret!” “Dylan’s manager?”

  Simone nodded.

  “Outside of her being a bitch on wheels? Not a lot. She reps some hot stars, but the only one she deals with around here is Nigel—and that’s just to scream at him.” She looked at Simone. “Why?”

  “I asked Emerald’s assistant if she was ever with Randi, and she got really mad and hung up on me.”

  Kathy stopped typing and looked at Simone. “Honey, you did a fab job on that spread. The bracelet thing was genius,” she said. “But you’ve got to let it go. Leave it to the real newspapers. You’re our Chrylan girl.”

  Simone winced. The real newspapers. She stared back at her screen, the headline shouting at her: DYLAN AND LARA FACE OFF! You are not a reporter. You are an insider. Your job is not to save people. It is to betray them. Simone remembered the previous night, sitting on Julie’s floral-print couch—the couch not of a brazen movie star but of somebody’s kindly old aunt. She remembered laughing with her over the Marx Brothers and seeing how she’d still kept her prom picture and thinking, Deep down, Julie is still my friend.

  Then thinking, Deep down, I am not her friend at all.

  “You’re saving our jobs,” said Kathy. Simone hadn’t said anything, but it wasn’t hard to look at her face and know what was on her mind.

  At least she was trying to do away with the phrase “Dirty Dylan.” In this piece, the one she was writing, Simone hadn’t used it once—nor would she, in any future Chrylan stories. Yes, it was a little like making sure your hostage got three square meals—the least you could do. But it was something. Wasn’t it?

  Simone’s cell phone rang. Julie. Of course it was Julie. She took a breath, got herself together. You’re her friend. Her loyal, cheerful, guilt-free friend. “Hi, Julie.”

  “Everything about you reminds me of you. Except you. How do you account for that?”

  “Huh?”

  “Groucho. Night at the Opera. Remember?”

  “Oh,” said Simone. “Right.”

  “I know. Celeb impersonation is not my strong point.”

  “No, Julie.” Simone read at the words she’d just typed on the screen: “ ‘Lara didn’t back down,’ said an insider. ’She looked Dylan straight in the eye and said . . .’ ” “No, that was good.”

  “Man, somebody is hurtin’ today. Listen, I’ll let you go, but I want you to come to another party with me tonight. ”

  “. . . straight in the eye and said, ‘I feel sorry for you.’ ” “I . . .”

  “I’m taking that as a yes. The limo and I will be at your place at six p.m.,” she said. “And come hungry because there’ll be lots of sushi.”

  “Wait,” said Simone. “Where is the party?”

  “Beverly Hills,” said Julie. “Randi’s house.”

  Simone was outside, clearing her head. She had taken a lot of breaks today, fresh-air breaks in the hot sun and smog— so many that it had caused speculation among her coworkers. Kathy had asked if she’d started smoking. Elliot had said, “You’re talking to yourself, right?” And Matthew, a knowing smile crossing that face, had said, “I can think of many more interesting things to be doing out-of-doors.”

  Lucky Carl, Simone had thought, despite the jumble of questions in her brain. Lucky, lucky, lucky Carl. . . .

  Simone walked down to the corner of Beverly and Wilshire, then she turned around and started back to the office. Shiny cars drove by, motorists gawking at her. Walking in LA, she noticed, always generated this type of response. Oh, my God, do you see that woman? She’s . . . she’s using the sidewalk! She’s outside, in the atmosphere! It had been disconcerting at first, but now she was used to it, and at the moment she couldn’t care less. Let ’em stare. There was too much else on her mind.

  She had called Holly two more times, once on her home phone, once on her cell, and left messages on both. At this point, she didn’t expect a callback. What was it she had done to offend Holly so much? It couldn’t have been mentioning Randi. There was something else going on with Holly. It had been going on ever since she’d asked her to retract the article. Was she scared of something? Or was she just tired, and wanting to be left alone?

  Simone could relate to that. There was a part of her that wished Julie would leave her alone. A part that wished Julie would find a guy who really loved her and blow Simone off, just like in high school. She didn’t want to go to Randi’s party tonight. She didn’t want to spend time with VIPs anymore, and she sure as hell didn’t want any sushi. Mostly, she didn’t want to spy on Julie.

  Simone didn’t want to be here, either, walking in this bright, hurtful sun, every single driver on this needlessly wide street gaping at her as if she were walking a tight-rope, nude and painted blue. Where did she want to be?

  She knew the answer to that one, too, and it made her cringe in protest—all the way from the inside out: She wanted to be in a hotel room on the VIP floor of the Beverlido, having champagne and omelets, watching a little HBO. . . .

  Her cell phone rang. She looked at the caller ID. Unbelievable. “Walker?”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said.

  “You do?”

  “You’re thinking, I wish I knew what that maid said last night. Damn. And you know, you’re right to wish that because she gave me some very interesting information. ”

  “What did she say?”

  “Oh, no. . . . See, I’m just bringing it up for gloating purposes.”

  Simone smiled. She couldn’t help it. “Well,” she said, “I am very glad you called. Because you would not believe what went down in Swifty’s.”

  On the other end of the line, a pause. “Nope,” he said. “Not falling for it. Sorry, sweetheart, I know bluffing when I hear it.”

  “Buy the next Asteroid. We’ll see who’s bluffing.”

  “I never buy that rag.”

  “I thought it was your favorite.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Much as I love listening to your feeble attempts to ride my ass, I actually called you for a reason.”

  Simone said, “I’m listening.”

  “Are you related to Greta Glass?”

  A noise escaped from Simone’s mouth—a strange, sickly hack.

  “I’m taking that as a yes.”

  “No!” Simone said. “Of course I’m not related to her!”

  “Man,” he said. “Switch to decaf.”

  Simone took a breath. “I’m just . . . not much of a fan of hers. Why . . . why do you ask?”

  “She called me.”

  “She did?”

  “Well, her producer did, and I thought, Hey. Greta Glass. Same last name as Simone. Same shape mouth.”

  “Why did Greta . . . Greta Glass’s producer call you?”

  “He said she wants to interview me as an expert about Chrylan. So what is she, first cousin?”

  Simone said, “I have never met her before in my life.”

  “God, you are so untrustworthy. You lie so much, it’s almost a turn-on.”

  “Don’t do the interview.”

  “Under penalty of what? You gonna banish me to Palm Springs again?”

  “Neil. . . . Listen, you and I bust our asses on these stories, and then people like Greta Glass, they sit there in their air-conditioned studios, reading from teleprompters and using all our information. And they get called real journalists and get nominated for awards and—”

  “She’s your sister.”

  Simone took a deep breath. She started to lie again, but thought better of it. What was the point? “You’re the only one who knows.”

  He said nothing, but Simone could hear the grin.

  “Can . . . can you please keep this under your hat? Greta doesn’t even know where I work and—”

  “Let’s see . . . Don’t tell Dylan you work for Nigel. Don’t tell Nigel you’ve been talking to me. Don’t tell anybody you’re Greta Glass’s sister, don’t tell Greta Glass where you work.” He exhaled. “You know what? I’m gonna ne
ed a bigger hat.”

  “I’ll make you a deal.”

  At that, Walker laughed. He laughed for a long time. And when Simone said, “Walker,” and “Come on,” and “I’m serious,” he just kept laughing. He laughed so long that she nearly said, “Forget it” . . . until finally, he stopped. “Okay,” he said. “What’s the deal?”

  It took three of Emerald’s Xanax, two Vicodin, and an Ativan to get Holly to sleep these days. But it worked, and she was glad for that. There wasn’t much else to do in her house, her cage, other than sleep, or lie in bed chasing thoughts away—waiting, hoping for sleep to come. That last message—the picture of Emerald, bleeding, begging Holly to shut up—that had done it. It had shut her up good.

  Mission accomplished. You win.

  But that wouldn’t be enough for him, she knew that. The Asteroid would come out, and he would know she had talked. Or that detective, Ed Sandiford, would question him, tell him the things Holly had said. And his anger would grow. He would find her and he would . . .

  Once, she had seen Keith Furlong take one of those birds of his, those illegal birds that had gotten Emerald in so much trouble. He had been mad for one reason or another, probably a low-money night at his club. He had yelled so loud, called Emerald such despicable names, that Holly couldn’t bear to hear them in her own head, even now. He had called her those names and then he had taken that bird—that pretty, frail bird. He had pulled it from its cage and squeezed the life out of it. He had thrown it at Emerald’s wall and it had slipped, all the way down, leaving a trail of blood.

  She remembered the faint red stain on the white wall and the look on Furlong’s face. She knew how much he enjoyed ruining small things.

  So Holly stayed inside. She locked all five of her high-tech bolts—bolts she’d initially installed to ward off robbers in her rich neighborhood—and she kept the cordless in her hand at all times, 911 predialed so all she had to do was hit TALK.