by Carol Snow
“Dinner?” She gave Brady a hungry-wolf grin.
Brady took my hand. “Just drinks. Can we get a couch?”
She studied a chart—not an easy task in the dim light—and shook her head. “But if you hang out by the bar, you might be able to get a table.”
“You’ve gotta have at least one couch left,” Brady said, flashing a smile.
“They’re all reserved. For dinner. Really sorry.”
Brady dropped my hand and took a couple of steps toward the girl. At first, I thought he was taking her hand—I’m all in favor of getting a good table, but that was pushing it—but then I realized that he was slipping her some money. I heard him say, “Haley Rush.” The next thing you knew, before I even had a chance to feel miffed at being passed off as Haley, we were past the velvet curtain.
It was like entering a different world—or, at least a different time, one of old Hollywood glamour and Art Deco sophistication. The walls were velvet, the ceiling mahogany, the couches geometric. Flames flickered inside an elaborately carved wooden fireplace. Overhead, crystal chandeliers shaped like wedding cakes cast a yellow glow. Behind the mahogany bar, a lit wall of green stained glass showed a scene from long ago: a time of blimps and Model Ts and quiet, paparazzi-free streets.
Holding hands, we followed the hostess through the small space, weaving between heavily made-up girls in stilettos and pampered guys in jeans and sport coats. At last, we reached our couch.
“It’s like the Emerald City,” I said, looking toward the bar. And it was, too—assuming the Emerald City was dimly lit and had a DJ playing techno pop.
Brady put his arm around me. I looked at his perfect face and thought: Is this really happening?
“You’re not in Kansas, anymore, Dorothy.” He touched his forehead to mine.
“I’m okay with that,” I answered. Right now, Fullerton seemed as far away as Kansas.
He kissed me softly on the mouth. I didn’t worry about guerilla photographers: it was too dark to get much of a shot.
We pulled apart just as a waitress appeared: yet another pretty young woman with hair too dark and eyebrows unconvincingly heavy.
Brady ordered a drink made with Scotch and jalapeños. Around the room, martini glasses glowed with gumdrop colors. The waitress suggested I try something called a Basil Berry. I agreed, not caring what I drank, just wanting to be alone with Brady.
“Do you come here much?” I asked.
“Not really. Couple times a month, maybe. We try to rotate.”
“We?”
He smiled. “Me and my friends. You’re not jealous, are you?”
“No! I—sorry. I just . . . never mind.”
“I’ve never been here with Haley, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“That wasn’t what I meant. Though I guess I was curious.”
“We didn’t go to bars much,” he said. “She really couldn’t handle them. She’d get drunk and then someone would try to take her picture, and then she’d freak out.” He stopped. “Why are we talking about Haley?”
“What do you want to talk about?” I asked, mesmerized by his eyes.
“You.”
“I’m not very interesting,” I said.
“You are to me. Tell me about yourself. I want to know everything.”
“I, um . . . grew up in northern California. Came down here to go to college. I went to Cal State Fullerton and never left. When I’m not working for Jay, I’m a substitute teacher. Elementary school. I’m hoping to get something permanent. At least I was until . . .”
“What?”
“The Haley gig has been nice. The money, I mean. Plus, the side benefits . . .” I stroked his thigh as the words I’m stroking Brady Ellis’s thigh shot through my brain.
“No reason you have to give that up,” he said.
“I’m getting the feeling from Jay . . . I don’t think it’s going to last much longer.”
“Jay’s an asshole. You can’t depend on him. Fact is, you still look like Haley. An entertainment company would hire you to be a double. You know, not to fool people into actually thinking you are her, but to be the entertainment at birthday parties, corporate events, trade shows, that sort of thing. There’s a ton of Chers and Bette Midlers out there, but you’d have the Haley business pretty much to yourself.”
The Basil Berry turned out to be vodka mixed with strawberries and basil. I think there was some balsamic vinegar in there, too. At first it was weird in a good way. A few sips in, it was just weird.
“How’s your drink?” Brady asked. I leaned closer to hear him over the noise.
“Delicious,” I lied. “Yours?”
“Hot.” He licked his lips. “It’s got jalapeños.”
“Wow.”
“Seriously.”
He held my gaze for an instant and leaned in for yet another kiss. My lips burned and tingled—from passion or capsaicin, I wasn’t sure.
When he pulled back, I said, “Wow” again, which he answered with another, “Seriously.” We smiled in tandem. We drank in tandem. Basil and strawberry remained an unnatural combination, but I didn’t care.
“I could kiss you all night,” he said.
“What’s stopping you?”
He kissed me lightly (and too briefly for my taste) before leaning back and surveying the room. “I saw Lindsay here once.”
“Lindsay?” Was she someone from his show?
“And Paris, too. But she was on her way out.”
Oh—that Lindsay. That Paris.
When he saw my expression, he laughed. “I love that you’re so un-Hollywood. That you’re not always looking over my shoulder to see if there’s someone better to talk to.”
“I already know there’s no one better.”
“That’s sweet of you,” he said. “You’re a really sweet girl.” He looked around the room, and his arm grew stiff. “Shit.”
“What?”
He faced me, his tone urgent. “Just look at me, pretend we’re deep in conversation, and maybe he won’t come over.”
“Who?”
It was too late.
“Yo, Brady, what the fuck’s up, man? Didn’t know you guys were back together.” He made air quotes with his fingers.
I forced a smile, not expecting to recognize the face, startled when I saw the tight sandy curls, squinty eyes, too-big chin. It was Jason somebody-or-other, the guy who played Jason Katz. He wore a tight, white waffle-weave shirt—it looked like long underwear—with black jeans. Pressed against him, a tiny Asian girl with short, streaked hair sucked on a yellow martini.
He said, “Haley, you’re looking like one sexy bitch, but you know that, don’t you?” His face froze in mid-leer. “I thought you were . . . You look a lot like . . .”
“Jason, this is Veronica,” Brady said. “Veronica, Jason.”
I tried again to smile, but my face wouldn’t cooperate.
“Shit,” Jason said. He laughed: a dirty sound.
I’d passed for Haley in broad daylight, but that was when I wore a hat and sunglasses. Anyone who knew Haley wouldn’t be fooled. In a way that made me glad: tonight it really was me and not Haley who was at Bar DeLux with Brady.
Jason put his arm around the Asian girl and propelled her toward the far end of the couch. “We were just looking for a place to crash, so if you don’t mind—”
“We mind,” Brady said, his tone cold.
Jason stopped. Something I couldn’t read passed over his features. “Later, then.”
He looked at me in a way that made me shudder, and then he and the girl left.
“Is he always that creepy?” I asked.
“Such an asshole,” Brady said, his face hard.
“Do he and Haley get along?”
“God, no. She hates him. He came after her. You know—hit on her. When the show started. And even after she and I were . . . together . . . he didn’t let up. It’s like he thinks he has some right to her, just because he was there first.”
<
br /> “What do you mean—they did go out?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I mean, he was on the show first.” That didn’t make sense. And why did every conversation always return to Haley, anyway?
When the waitress reappeared to ask us if we wanted another round, I said yes without thinking. What time was it, anyway? I reached into my purse to check my cell phone. It wasn’t there: I must have left it charging in my car. Oh, crap! I’d told Deborah that I’d have it with me at all times. But, did it really matter? What if she called me? I was an hour away. Besides, Deborah dumped her horrible kids on me all the time. She and Shavonne could deal with sweet Ben for one evening.
Our geometric couch felt like an oasis in the middle of the club. The air buzzed with music and chatter. The scent of expensive cologne mingled with the aroma of Scotch and beer.
The waitress brought our drinks. The Basil Berry tasted better this time around. Brady switched to Red Bull and vodka. “I don’t want to fall asleep on you.” Of course, the idea of falling asleep with Brady was as appealing as it was unrealistic.
“You want to dance?” he asked me when our drinks were almost gone. A small group of people, women mostly, were swaying and stepping to the music in a clump by the fireplace.
“Sure.” I would have preferred a slower song, but I welcomed any excuse to hold on to Brady.
It didn’t matter that the song was fast. He pulled me to him, pressed his length against me. If not for the alcohol, I would have been nervous and self-conscious. Instead, I gave in to the moment, to the warmth and the emotion.
“I really like you,” he whispered in my ear.
“I really like you, too.”
Before I knew it, we were kissing, right there in front of everybody. Finally, he pulled away. “Let’s get out of here.”
We wove our way through the bodies back to the couch. We sat for a minute, shamelessly making out like a couple of high school kids. Finally, Brady threw a bunch of bills on the table and slid off the couch, leading me out of the bar by my hand.
I’d forgotten about the paparazzi. Their flashes started going off the moment we stepped outside.
“Haley, Haley, Haley!”
“Haley, Brady—over here!”
A valet drove up in Brady’s Jeep, and a large black man with a soothing voice and wearing a pinstriped suit and fedora, guided us through the throngs and helped me inside. Even after the security guard had gently closed my door, they continued to swarm like mosquitoes. Brady couldn’t pull away without hitting them, so the security guard cleared a path and waved him through.
“Is it always like this?” My hands were shaking.
“Pretty much.” Streetlights lit his perfect face, like something out of a dream. He put his hand on my leg. “You okay?”
“Sure. Of course. It’s just . . . I kind of understand why Haley crashed her car.”
“Haley crashed her car because she mixed alcohol with about three prescription medications. She’s lucky she didn’t die.”
We drove in silence toward the Sunset Strip, and then he turned into a parking lot. There was a donut shop (open) and a dry cleaner (closed). He pulled into a dark corner, next to an empty pickup truck, and turned off the car.
“We keep talking about Haley. It’s hard not to. But I need you to know something. The way I feel about you has nothing to do with her. The very first time we met it was like I felt this instant connection. Not because you look like her, but in spite of it. I just can’t get you out of my mind.”
He put his hands on my face and stroked my cheekbones. “I could look at you all night,” he whispered. “Or longer.”
I didn’t think about being in a car in the dumpy parking lot. I didn’t think about the photographers or Jay or Jason or Haley. I reached out and seized the moment—which, in this instance, happened to be the same thing as seizing Brady.
Our mouths joined and roamed. He hauled himself over the center console and onto my side. Fortunately, the seat shifted back, at least a little. I straddled him (smacking my head against the ceiling in the process). When he pulled my new blue dress over my head, it caught on an earring. I winced for only an instant. Nothing mattered but me and Brady and our awkward grappling.
He caressed my breast as I undid his jeans, their buttons annoying me with their slowness. Our breathing was hard and hot, the leather of the seats was cool. He said, “God, you’re beautiful,” And, “God, you’re hot,” and a couple of other things that don’t need to be repeated.
I whacked my elbow on the window and swore. I’d never done this in a car before. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the feel of his body.
When it was over, he held me in his arms, our sweat mingling, and stroked my back. “That was amazing.”
“Mmm.” I nuzzled his neck.
“Next time it’ll be in a bed.”
“I don’t know. I kind of like this car thing.”
“You do, huh?” He leaned back to examine my face. “Naughty girl.”
All at once, it occurred to me that we were in a public place. Fortunately, our corner of the lot was still dark, the pickup truck empty. My dress lay crumpled on the floor. I slipped it over my head, careful not to snag my earrings this time. I began to giggle.
“What?”
“I can’t believe we did that.”
“I’m glad we did.”
“Me, too.”
He tried to straighten and hit his head on the ceiling. “Shit!”
I laughed. “Okay, maybe we’d be better off in a bed.”
He slid back over the console, jostling me in the process, and pulled up his pants. “It just so happens that I’ve got one of those in my apartment.”
“That sounds . . . wonderful.” Oh, to be able to spend the night with Brady! “But I can’t tonight.”
“Why not?” He turned his key in the ignition. The clock on the dashboard read 11:52.
I gasped. “Oh, my God! How did it get so late? I’ve got to go!”
“Why?”
This was not the time to tell him about Ben. Obviously, I should have mentioned him sooner, but I had no idea things would move so fast.
“There’s things I have to do tomorrow. I have to get up early. And if I don’t get enough sleep, I’m just . . . I just need to go.”
“Okay.” He looked hurt.
“I really like you.” It seemed crazy that I had to say that given what had just happened, but I wanted to be clear. “And I want to spend more time with you. Next weekend, maybe?”
“Can’t. I’m flying to Australia this week. Tomorrow night, actually. We’re shooting a Betwixt Channel movie.”
“Australia? With Haley?”
He shook his head. “She isn’t in this one.”
Phew.
“When will you be back?”
“Shooting’s supposed to take four weeks, but sometimes they run over.”
“That’s so long.”
“Don’t look so sad.” He ran a hand over my messy blond hair. “It’s not forever.”
Chapter Twenty-two
There were four messages on my cell phone.
From Ben, at 8:13 p.m.: When will you be home?
From Shavonne, at 8:52 p.m.: Ben said he won’t go to bed until you’re back, so my mom said to call you. Can you call him?
From Ben again, at 10:41 p.m. (crying this time): Mommy! I want you to come home!
From Deborah, at 11:05 p.m. (sounding tense): You said you would be back by eleven. Shavonne needs to go to bed.
From Deborah again, at 11:58 (sounding pissed): I hope you understand how much you have inconvenienced us. The night was ruined for all of us, and Ben did not behave.
After Brady dropped me off at the minivan (I’d been afraid he’d ask why I needed such a big car, but he didn’t), I tried Deborah’s cell phone: no answer. I didn’t dare call the house. If I woke Shaun, I’d never hear the end of it. I might never hear the end of it, anyway.
When I got home forty minut
es later, having sped the whole way, the guesthouse was empty, and the big house was dark. A piece of paper lay on the kitchen table.
Roni,
Deb called—I’ve got Ben.
Hank
Oh, crap! I picked up the phone to call him before I realized they’d all be asleep. Hank was an early-to-bed kind of guy, which meant he’d already been awoken once this evening, when Deborah called.
With Ben gone, I could have slept in the bed. Instead, I changed into pajamas and lay down on the couch.
“Hi, Hank. It’s me. Sorry about last night.”
I’d set my alarm for seven o’clock, so I could have a cup of coffee and sound reasonably alert when I called.
“Ben was really upset.” His voice was soft, his tone even.
“I know. Thanks for getting him.”
He cleared his throat. “It’s fine that you’re dating, but it shouldn’t get in the way of your time with our son.”
“It’s fine that I’m dating?”
“You’re free every other weekend. That should be enough time for you to do your partying.”
“I wasn’t partying!” I was having sex in a car.
“It’s tough on Ben, this business of switching houses. We need to do everything we can to make him feel secure. When you make him feel like you’re too busy to spend the evening with him—and then break your word on top of it—”
That did it.
“The only reason Ben is feeling insecure is because you walked out on our family! How dare you tell me when I can and can’t date? If you hadn’t fucked someone else while we were married, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation!”
In my whole life, I don’t think I had ever used the word “fucked” in a literal sense. But if not now, when?
When Hank spoke again, his voice was cold. “Ben is still sleeping. Do you want me to bring him over when he wakes up?”
“Of course not. I’m happy to get him.”
My conversation with Deborah was slightly less cordial.
“I see you made it home.” She stood in her kitchen doorway, arms crossed in front of her chest.
“Deborah, I am so, so sorry. Things ran late, and I should have called. I left my cell phone in my car, which was really stupid. I didn’t even realize what time it was, and then when I saw it was after eleven—”
