by Carol Snow
She hopped out of the truck, leaving the keys in the ignition and the door open, the ding-ding-ding just audible over the music. I followed her to the guardrail, hoping to God we wouldn’t be out here long enough for the car battery to run down. In front of us, a dark, brush-covered ravine plunged down to the wide, flat, sparkling valley floor.
“You like country music?” I asked. We hadn’t said much on the drive.
“No.” She slurped some Mountain Dew from her travel cup. “But when I was little, my dad used to take me and my brother camping. We’d pile into his truck and drive out to the middle of nowhere. If it was dark, he’d leave the car running for a little while, with the headlights shining on our campsite and country music blasting on the radio.”
She tilted her face up to the night sky, which wasn’t black so much as murky gray, the stars a pale reflection of the city lights below. “When I come here, I can almost believe I’m back in Montana. I mean, as long as I don’t look down.”
“Aren’t you cold?” I said. Her velour hoodie was no warmer than my jacket.
“I like being cold. I’m from Montana.”
“We should probably be heading back.”
Something rustled in the bushes below us. She peered over the railing. “Do you think it’s a fox?”
“Maybe. Or a rat or a snake.” When she didn’t say anything, I added, “The battery’s going to run down if we’re not careful.”
“It’s fine.”
“I’m going to wait in the truck.”
As I turned to go, she stepped over the guardrail and began scrambling down the ravine.
“What are you doing!”
“It’s too bright up there,” she called. “I want it to feel dark. And woodsy. Where do you think the fox was? I want to find it.”
“It might not be a fox.”
“Maybe I can find a clearing. Maybe we can camp here. Wouldn’t that be fun? To spend the night?”
“It’s not safe,” I said. “And we’re not even supposed to park here after nine o’clock.”
“Do you always do what people tell you to do?” Her voice was getting fainter.
Now I was angry. I climbed back into the truck and shut off the radio, plunging us into a silence that made the night seem even more ominous. Stupid Haley. She didn’t even care if we ran down the battery.
I grabbed the door handle, prepared to shut myself in until Haley came to her senses, only to realize that such a thing might never happen. My mother instincts kicked in. I couldn’t just leave her out there.
Back outside, I slammed the door shut and went back to the railing. My gut clenched when I didn’t see her. Finally I made out her dark shape, lying in a clearing.
I thought she was asleep until she raised her arms over her head and stretched like a cat. She pulled herself up in one smooth motion, climbed back up the hill, and stepped over the guardrail. She paused to brush leaves and grass off of her cloud-patterned pajama pants.
At the truck door, she turned around, “You coming?”
Chapter Eighteen
Saturday morning, I was exhausted, still drained from an evening spent trying to keep Haley from going over the edge, both literally and figuratively. I was deciding whether to go back to sleep or get out of bed when someone knocked on the guest room door.
I pushed myself up against the pillows. “Yeah?”
Jay poked his head through the door. “Coffee?”
“Oh! Hi.” I tried to smooth down my masses of hair.
He had two paper cups. “Simone’s going to be here at eleven-thirty, and she usually sets up her racks in this room.”
I rubbed my eyes. “What time is it?”
There were no clocks in the guest room, just a queen-sized log bed, a bent willow Adirondack chair, and a bunch of wildlife photographs (two bears, an eagle, and a fish).
“Almost eleven.”
“Wow. Really? I never sleep this late.”
I adjusted the covers around my lap. My night clothes were nothing exciting: a pale blue T-shirt and drawstring pants. Suddenly, I wished I were wearing a strappy nightgown or maybe some silk pajamas. Some Hollywood vanity must have rubbed off on me.
It had yet to rub off on Jay. Today he wore faded black jeans, black high-top sneakers, and what looked suspiciously like a white undershirt.
He said, “Simone will have one of her assistants with her, but she’s already signed a nondisclosure agreement, so it’s okay if she sees you.” He held out the cups. “Skinny latte or plain black coffee?”
“Which do you want?” I asked.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“You must have a preference.”
“Either’s fine.”
I raised one eyebrow.
He grinned. “I told you to stop doing that.” He looked younger than usual today—something about the way his hair was falling in his face. Plus, he’d shaved. If I didn’t know him, I would have pegged him at about twenty-three.
“I’ll have the latte,” I said. “But only if you really don’t care.”
“Of course I care. I’d rather have the plain coffee.”
Since there was no night table, Jay handed me the cup. It was extremely warm, even through the corrugated cardboard cuff. When I pulled off the plastic top, steam rushed up to kiss my face.
I blew gently, and the froth trembled. “No supersized caramel macho whatever?”
“It’s already been delivered and ignored.”
Haley got her coffee first. Of course she did.
He snorted. “Though what she really needs is a Bloody Mary.” He sipped his coffee. “Ow, this is hot.”
I stared at him. “What do you mean—a Bloody Mary?”
He sighed. “Haley got smashed last night. And now she’s hungover. Which is really bad timing since Simone is only available till one, which means that Haley has got to get her ass out of bed.”
I shook my head. “That’s not possible. I was with her all night.”
“And how did she seem to you?”
“Kind of . . . bipolar. Normal one minute and then just totally insane. I thought it was because of her medications or even that it was just her personality. I didn’t think there was any booze allowed in the house. I didn’t smell anything.”
“Vodka,” he said.
The big bottle of Gatorade. The Mountain Dew in the travel cup. Of course.
“I’m sorry.”
He sighed. “It happens. Unfortunately, it happens a lot. There wasn’t much you could have done, even if you’d known.”
“But where did she get it?”
“Rodrigo, Esperanza—who knows? She could be getting it from the pool boy or the gardener. Pretty much anyone.”
I thought back to when I was her age and well-acquainted with every bar in Fullerton. “She is over twenty-one,” I said. “As long as she’s not driving . . .” I remembered our ride into the hills and shuddered.
“Haley can’t drink,” he said flatly.
“Because she can’t control it?”
“Because another Kitty movie is set to begin filming in June. But the insurance company has made it perfectly clear: unless Haley stays sober, they’re pulling out. With no insurance, there’s no movie, and no TV show, either. Which means there’s no CD, there’s no T-shirts and lunch boxes and dolls. There’s no money.”
That seemed pretty extreme. “Just because of that thing that happened in Starbucks? And the, um, incident with the Escape?”
He pulled the top off his coffee and blew. He checked my face. “Kitty and the Katz stopped shooting two months early because of Haley’s behavior. It was . . . erratic. To say the least. It wasn’t just because of the alcohol, but that certainly didn’t help. Some days she’d be so hungover that she couldn’t remember her lines. Other times, she’d get in her yellow truck and disappear for two, three days at a time. The first time it happened—” He stopped.
“What?”
“I thought something had happened to her. An accident
or—something.”
“Did you file a missing persons report?”
He shook his head. “The press would have had a field day. Her career would be over.”
“But what if something had actually happened? What if she was hurt?”
“We all looked for her—Rodrigo, her agent, her publicist, me. Finally, she drove home, took a shower, and slept for three days. We told the producers she had the flu. They were not pleased.”
As if to close the conversation, he took a big gulp of his coffee. “Ow!” He touched his mouth.
“Careful,” I said. “You wouldn’t want to get burned.”
At least I wouldn’t have to face Simone looking like a slob. Deborah wanted everyone to dress up for her Pampered Chef thing (“attire: dressy,” the invitation had read), so after a quick shower I slipped on the outfit I usually wore to weddings: a periwinkle blue linen sheath, white jacket, and white sandals. It was simple, classic, pretty. What could Simone possibly say?
This: “Holy fucking shit.”
She was in the guest room, sorting through a rack of glittery gowns.
Standing in the guest bathroom doorway, I tried not to flinch. “I’m not trying to look like Haley. I have a party.”
Simone’s assistant, an emaciated girl in skin-tight jeans and spike-heel boots, stopped lining up shoes to examine me. After looking me up and down and up again, she wrinkled her nose ever-so-slightly and went back to the shoes.
“What kind of party?” Simone demanded in her trademark monotone.
“A garden party.” Well, it was going to be outside, anyway. Deborah knew I couldn’t afford to buy any kitchenware, but she needed a minimum number of guests to get her free gifts.
“You cannot wear that,” Simone said simply.
I forced myself to stand up straight. Minutes ago, I had felt pretty. Simone had ruined everything.
“What, exactly, is wrong with my outfit?”
“One.” Her index finger had an enormous amber ring on it. “The dress is polyester.”
“It looks like linen,” I said.
“It looks like polyester that’s meant to look like linen but doesn’t. Two.” Her middle finger held a stack of thin gold wires.
“The jacket is too casual for that dress, the cut is too boxy for your body type, and it hits you at the widest part of your hips.”
“And it’s not lined,” the emaciated assistant added, glancing up from her shoes.
“Three.” There was a gem of indeterminate origin on Simone’s ring finger. “We’re in March, not July.”
“It’s Southern California.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
I swallowed hard. What was I supposed to wear? My black sundress that I used as a bathing suit cover-up? My brown turtleneck dress that everyone had seen me in a million times before?
“Thank you for your opinion,” I said primly, fighting back tears. Maybe if I left soon, I could stop off at Ross or T.J. Maxx.
Simone snapped her fingers. “Get the Princess Grace.”
The assistant scurried out of the room.
Shocked, I stared at Simone. She looked at the ceiling. “Don’t get excited. It’s not a real Princess Grace,” she droned. “It’s a vintage reproduction of a dress Princess Grace wore on her honeymoon. If it were real, I couldn’t possibly let you wear it. And, of course, it wouldn’t fit you. Grace was tiny. We haven’t taken it in for Haley yet, so it might work.”
She went back to poking through the dresses. I stalked across the room, my white sandals digging into my feet, and stuffed my pajamas into the duffle bag.
The assistant, who had trouble walking in spike heels, tottered back in with a dress encased in plastic. When she hung the dress at the end of the wheeled rack, Simone plucked at the plastic with her talonlike nails until she revealed the treasure underneath.
The dress was a shimmery silk, champagne with just the slightest hint of pink. The neck fell in graceful folds; otherwise, the line was simple and fitted. It looked like it would end just above my knee.
“It’s gorgeous,” I murmured.
“Try it on.”
I checked her face to make sure she meant it.
In the guest bathroom, I couldn’t get out of my boxy unlined jacket or my fake-linen sheath fast enough. I left them folded on the counter and stepped into the Princess Grace(ish) dress, the silk caressing my bare legs. Once I’d managed the slightly sticky side zipper, I took a deep breath and looked in the full-length mirror. The dress fit perfectly, accentuating my narrow waist while falling gently over my hips and ending just above the knees. I didn’t look like myself or like Haley. I looked like someone better, richer, more elegant.
Shoulders back, chin held high, I strode into the guest room.
Simone gestured at my sandals. “Those shoes are disgusting.” She made a lousy fairy godmother.
“They’re all I have. And Haley’s won’t fit.”
She snapped her fingers at the assistant. “Accessories trunk.” She peered at my feet. “Size eight shoes.”
I looked at my feet. “They used to be a seven and a half, but they got bigger when I was pregnant and never went back.”
Simone rifled through the dresses on the rack and ignored me.
In the end, Simone paired the dress with silver pumps, a pearl choker, a purple rhinestone cocktail ring and dangly pearl-and-rhinestone earrings. She pulled and yanked at my real and borrowed hair, and then she twisted and pinned it into a retro-glamour hairdo.
“Thanks,” I said—the word woefully inadequate.
She kind of shrugged with her eyebrows. “I had nothing better to do. Just make sure you give everything back to Jay when you’re done. And tell him to get the dress dry-cleaned.”
Jay poked his head in the room. “Haley will be down in three, five—maybe ten minutes.”
Simone pursed her mouth. “I’m leaving at one whether she’s here or not.”
Jay tried to smile. “Maybe you could just leave the clothes and she could look through them at her leisure—you know, see what she likes best, and then tomorrow or maybe Monday you could—”
“No.”
“Right.” Jay’s eyes flicked over to me and widened. “Wow.”
I blushed. “It’s a fake Grace Kelly.”
“Vintage reproduction,” Simone clarified before making an odd guttural sound.
“You look nice,” he said in what I hoped was a major understatement.
“Just like Grace Kelly, right?” I joked.
He considered. “Maybe Grace Kelly with freckles.”
Simone snapped her fingers at the assistant. “Do her makeup. Heavy on the foundation.”
“I like the freckles,” Jay said, crossing his arms and leaning against the door. He was pretty cute, I had to admit (especially when he was saying nice things about me).
Simone looked at the ceiling and made her guttural sound again. “You are unqualified to have any opinion about beauty or style,” she told Jay.
Jay went back upstairs to check on Haley, and I sat on the edge of the bed while the assistant brushed and patted and drew on my face.
“What are these dresses for, anyway?” I asked. “Does Haley have an awards show or a premiere or something?”
“Private party,” the assistant said.
My eyes popped open. Haley would actually brave a party? I just managed to avoid being blinded by an eye pencil. “Sorry,” the assistant murmured.
At that, the Golden Girl herself stumbled into the room. She looked like hell: dirty hair, pimples, under-eye circles. She was still wearing her jammie pants and the I ONLY LOOK INNOCENT T-shirt, which now had a fruit-punch-red stain on the front. I vaguely remembered her spilling some Gatorade (and vodka, I now realized), the night before.
Simone didn’t comment on her appearance, remarking instead, “Haley, love, I’m sorry to drag you out of bed like this. I’ve got a rather difficult client scheduled at one-thirty, and I wanted to make sure we had something here
that would work for you.”
Haley rubbed her face with her hand. “Whatever.”
Simone pulled a midnight blue minidress off the rack. It had long sleeves with round cutouts on the shoulders and back. “This is from Stella’s latest collection. It’s hard to see in this light, but this dress has dark blue metallic threads throughout. It would really pop under the lights.”
“ ’Kay.” Haley turned as if to go back to bed. Jay put his hand on her shoulder and guided her back into the room.
“Here’s another one.” Simone presented a strapless silver dress. “Simple but hot. We could add some wow with dramatic accessories.”
“Whatever. Just pick one.”
“Now, love.” Simone tried to catch her eye, but Haley wasn’t playing. “These pieces aren’t loaners. Before you make an investment, you need to make sure you’ve made the right choice.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” The money talk caught Jay’s attention. “This is a two-hour gig. Can’t she just borrow something like all the other times?”
Simone gathered her words. “You’ve got to remember that a private party doesn’t have the same kind of exposure as, say, the Grammys.” There was an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Simone added, “Or even some of the lesser award shows or a Hollywood premiere. It’s not very likely we’ll see a good shot of Haley in this dress in print anywhere, which means the designers don’t get their free publicity.”
“But she’s gotten loaners for private parties before,” Jay said.
“Yes, but the last one . . . actually, the last two . . .” Simone nibbled on her pointy nail. She started again. “When designers lend pieces out, they assume that the clothing will be returned in the same condition.”
In other words: you can’t get Gatorade stains out of silk.
“Oh,” Jay said.
“Right,” Simone responded.
The assistant said, “Close your eyes,” after which she did something really unpleasant to my eyelids.
Fifteen minutes later, I was in the tan-and-brown kitchen with Rodrigo. We sat at the island and downed bottled water. The soda had mysteriously disappeared from Haley’s pantry, along with all of the junk food.
