Absolutely True Lies (29 page)

I turned around and looked at his beefy, shirtless form and sighed. “I think I have to go to work today.” Seeing Ben in his half-naked Adonis glory, I was actually a little disappointed that I’d just gotten paid.

“Did they give you the rest of the money?” he asked.

“Well, no . . . but they gave me some of it,” I said. “At least I’m not destitute.”

“How much of the total?”

For the first time I could remember, I was truly irritated with Ben. “Eighty-five hundred.”

“Out of fifty.” It was a statement, and an annoyed one at that. Ben looked away and shook his head.

“Yes, out of fifty. But it’s something . . . Faith listened to me yesterday.”

“Come on, Holly,” he said, giving me a hard look. “You don’t think that, do you? She wasn’t listening to anything but the sound of you driving away. She could have gotten you the whole fifty if she really cared. Your mother was right about these people. Faith’s just worried about getting sued.”

My mind went immediately to the Bentley. Ben was probably right, but I’m as stubborn as they come. I wasn’t about to admit that I was being naïve. Especially not when he was speaking to me in that tone of voice. “If I don’t finish my job, I don’t deserve the rest of the money.”

Ben stared at me for a long few seconds. “So that’s it. . . . You’re just going to go back there and continue to let them treat you like some grinder monkey?”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means that they wind you up and you just go, no questions asked.” Ben’s voice was heated, raised. I’d never really seen him get upset before. I couldn’t decide if I found it scary or really hot.

“This is my job,” I answered. “What am I supposed to do?”

“What you’re supposed to do is show these people that you’re worth more than being treated like shit.” I’d also never heard Ben swear before. He threw up his hands. “Go ahead if you’re really going to go. But I don’t want to listen to one more anecdote about being left behind or unfed or used as a drug mule. If you go back to that job, you know exactly what to expect.”

I nodded, stung. “Fine. But I’m not a slob,” I muttered, more for myself than for him. “You’re a neat freak with OCD.” It was true; everything in his apartment was arranged symmetrically, and when something moved out of place, he spent ten minutes measuring it back into position. I’d also noticed that he touched every doorknob or handle exactly three times. Until now, I’d been too nice to say anything. “Now, can I have my clothes? There are like a billion people with cameras outside.”

I reached out for the pile Ben was holding, but he pulled it back. “These are your clothes from Tuesday. Your Monday dress is crumpled in the corner of the bathroom, and your outfit from yesterday is hanging on the chair in the dining room. Which would you prefer?”

I snatched my Tuesday clothes out of his hand and moved toward the bathroom. “Smart-ass.” If I was going to lose this argument, at least I could have the last word.

CHAPTER 20

When things go wrong, it’s easy to run away and hide, pretend it’s not happening or claim there’s nothing to be done. But we always have a choice. We can sit down and let the walls crumble or we can find a way to build a new, stronger wall. The first step in doing that is admitting that the only person who can really help you, is you. I’m not saying it’s not important to have family and friends by your side. It is, but they can only do so much. In the end, you’re the one who needs to make the changes. You’re the one who has to say, “I deserve to be happy. I deserve to succeed.”

I
agreed to return to work, but not without talking to Faith first. I needed her to know that the games of the last couple of months could not continue. It would have been an uncomfortable conversation no matter what, but the fact that I currently lived in her guesthouse made it that much worse. Luckily, she hadn’t been home since our return to L.A.

I sat across from her at a table in the Rehabilication café, thinking neutral ground would be best. I tried to channel Ben, the sanest person I knew. “I appreciate the money, but you will pay me the rest. And that includes every expense I’ve incurred since starting this job. I understand you’re still sorting out your finances, but I will not turn over a finished manuscript until we’re current on payments.”

“Okay. Anything else?” Faith sounded annoyed, but I didn’t care.

“Two things.” I reached into my bag and pulled out a large plastic-­bound folio and pushed it across to her. I’d had it printed up the night before. “First, I need you to read the work I’m doing. We’re a team here; I can write down the words, but I need your feedback.”

Faith opened the cover and flipped through the pages. “I can do that. The other thing?”

“Let Axel and Sharla come visit Daisy.” This was the part of the conversation I was less certain about. I knew it was dicey, challenging Daisy’s mother over her personal affairs, but I felt strongly about this. “You’ve invited so many people to see and talk to Daisy and they never come. I know a makeup artist and hairstylist aren’t the A-list visitors you were hoping for, but they love her. And they’ve stuck with her, which is a hell of a lot more than you can say about the rest of those assholes.”

She didn’t answer right away. Faith continued to flip through the pages of the book, reading a passage here or there. When she finally looked up, she said, “I suppose. She does love them, too.”

My business with her finished, I stood up. “That’s everything. Let’s get back to work.”

Faith reached up and grabbed one of my hands. “I am sorry, you know. You’ve been just wonderful through this whole ordeal. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

“Thanks,” I said. I didn’t believe a word of it.

•  •  •

I
worked with Daisy nearly every day over the next two weeks, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say she matured years in those fourteen short days. She was still having insane, rabbit sex in every available corner of the rehab facility, but when she wasn’t talking about Lee’s physical prowess, we actually had some pretty interesting conversations.

Deacon never made it back to California to visit his daughter. He stayed in Europe for the duration of Fashion Week, then made
a pit stop in Barbados for, as he told Faith in an e-mail, a “much-needed vacation.” What he was vacationing from, I’ll never know. During that time, Daisy only had two regular visitors aside from her mother and me. Twice a week, Axel and Sharla carpooled down and spent the afternoon, sometimes joining in on our sessions and often doing Daisy’s hair and makeup to keep up her spirits. I couldn’t help but think back to Rome, where Axel and Sharla weren’t considered important enough to ride in the nice car, stay at the fancy hotel, or eat in the five-star restaurant. I thought it odd that none of those who had “made the cut” so much as bothered to send flowers or call to check in, no matter how many times Faith pestered them to. I hoped Daisy realized now who her true friends were, though I didn’t waste my breath asking.

On one of their first “glam” afternoons, I sat out front with Axel while he smoked. Technically, he could’ve had a cigarette in the courtyard, but he said Daisy had quit when she was sixteen and he didn’t want to tempt her.

“I know it was you,” he told me. “Daisy Mae wouldn’t question her momma about something like visitors.”

I shrugged, unwilling to take credit for something any decent person would have done. It was unfortunate that I was one of the few decent people in this situation. “She needed you. And I think you needed her, too.”

“She can be a wicked little bitch, but we’re besties.”

“I have a question. Daisy doesn’t call paparazzi, does she? Radar tried to get me to rat her out—I didn’t, of course—but they said until rehab, Daisy was the one behind most of the stories about her. But that’s nuts, right?”

Axel took a long drag of his cigarette and stared at me. It was all the answer I needed, but after he exhaled, he said, “Nobody’s gonna tell your story but you.”

Even after all this time, I still wasn’t sure pictures of Daisy on the elliptical were her “story.” “So she’d just call them up?”

“Daisy Mae is a proper diva, she doesn’t need to do her own dirty work.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and brought up the contacts with one hand. The other stayed on his cigarette. He held up the phone for me to see “Radar” listed in the contacts. “I’ve got ’em all, even the little ones.”

“Wow.”

“And you know, she always lets me keep the money, too.”

•  •  •

I
’m embarrassed to admit that it wasn’t until Axel and Sharla’s third visit that I realized I was no better than Daisy, at least not when it came to Camille. My friend had done everything in the world for me, from giving advice to babysitting my ornery cat, and I’d repaid her with mistrust. And maybe Donnie wasn’t the greatest guy in the world, but if the last few weeks with Ben had taught me anything, it was that adult relationships are not easy. I had been single for so long that I’d forgotten.

I was searching for a way to make amends when I remembered the diamond necklace Daisy had given me in Italy. It was still crumpled up in my purse, signaling my level of interest in jewelry. But I thought I might know of a way to put it to good use.

On a Thursday afternoon, I was sent home just after one because Chace needed a special “media coaching” session with Daisy. I drove back up to L.A. and right to Camille’s apartment. I knew she was at a casting session in Dallas, but I also guessed that Donnie had stayed home to ride the couch, which was confirmed when he opened the door after my first knock.

I was prepared with a speech, but I was momentarily stymied when I noticed how good Donnie looked. He’d lost about twenty pounds and wasn’t wearing his usual holey sweats. Instead of a greeting, I blurted out, “Are you on your way to a job interview?” That probably wasn’t the best the way to start.

“No,” Donnie replied, crossing his arms. “I’m home working on a rewrite.”

Here it comes,
I thought. The big project pitch—also known as why I should spend six months working for free on a movie that would never get made. But the pitch never came.

“I’m really busy, did you need something? I assume you came to apologize, but Camille’s in Texas.”

“I know that. I actually came to see you.” I reached into my purse and pulled out the necklace. It really was a gorgeous diamond, if you were into that sort of thing. The light caught the stone just right and momentarily made me see pink. “I know that you always tell Camille you guys can’t get married until you can afford a ring, so I wanted to help out. Here.” I held the necklace out for him.

“That’s a necklace, not a ring.”

“Yes, but it’s a two-carat solitaire. It’s a colorless diamond, which I hear is a good thing. All you’d have to do is get it reset as a ring.” I thought my plan was genius; I might be able to give Camille what she so desperately wanted, but it was also a test. If Donnie had the diamond in his hand and still wouldn’t propose, then he’d leave no doubt of his douchebaggery.

Donnie didn’t even touch the necklace. His arms stayed firmly crossed in front of him. “I don’t need your diamond.”

I knew it. I just
knew
that he’d been making excuses all this time. The only question was how I could make Camille see it. “It’s not charity, I swear. It came from Daisy Dixson. I figured since she caused this whole mess, she should pay to fix it.”

Donnie stared at me for a long moment. “You’re a piece of work, you know that? I don’t need your damn necklace because I already bought Camille a diamond.”

“What? You did?”

“
Yes,
I did. I’ve been saving up for it for two years. I thought it
would take me another year, but I signed a deal with Screen Gems last month.”

If my eyes were wide before, they were saucers now. I really need to work on my poker face. “Oh” was all I could think to say. “That’s fantastic.”

Donnie nodded, offering me a tight grin. “Yeah, I asked you for a year if you wanted to work on this idea with me. I finally gave up and wrote it myself.”

Camille had been right from the beginning. Until utter desperation led me to take the Dixson job, I’d never committed to anything. It was just easier to make fun of Donnie than to put in work on a project that might be rejected. I was the commitment-phobe, not Donnie.

“I am so sorry, Donnie,” I said, tears welling up in my eyes. “I pretend I know everything and . . . I’m just feeling around in a dark room, hoping I find the door . . . but I really am sorry.”

“Aw, geez, Hol. Don’t cry.” Again proving himself the better person, Donnie reached out and put a hand on my shoulder. “I could use your help planning the proposal.”

“Done,” I said, launching into a hug that probably crushed him.

“And please, just call Camille. She misses you like crazy.”

“Also done,” I said, my hand already reaching for the phone.

•  •  •

O
n the day before Daisy was to be released from rehab, I got called into a meeting in Dr. Chace’s office and was introduced to a man from Fairgate Publishing. He stayed quiet as Chace counseled us on the stresses of the newly free addict superstar, but as soon as Chace and Faith stepped away to talk to Daisy, the Fairgate man zeroed in on me.

“I’m Stephen Scott,” he said, shaking my hand. “And I’m a big fan of your work.”

“Really?” I didn’t mean to sound so astonished, but up until that moment, I had no idea any publisher was interested in this project.
Faith hadn’t told me she was passing along my pages to anyone, not that she owed me that information. “I mean, great.”

“How close are you to finishing the book?” he asked. “Daisy will be on
The View
Monday to talk about her time in rehab, and we’d like her to announce it then.”

It would require an all-nighter over the weekend, but with the relative calm of the last two weeks, I’d made remarkable progress. In that time, the book had shifted from being an autobiography of a pop princess to a cautionary tale of excess and growing up too fast. This was partly out of necessity, since neither Daisy nor Faith really cared about their lives before fame. Faith kept telling me she just couldn’t remember much, but I increasingly felt like that period was deliberately forgotten.

“I can make that deadline. But to be honest . . .” I didn’t know if it was appropriate to question this guy, but I knew my idiot agent wasn’t going to look out for me. I had to be strong and determined if I ever wanted to be taken seriously. “I don’t feel comfortable turning over any material until I’ve been paid. And so far I’ve basically only gotten expenses.”

I instinctively took a step back, expecting some sort of outrage, but Stephen just nodded calmly. “Of course. We’ll set up a meeting on Monday and exchange the draft for a check. We need to have you sign a new contract, anyway.”

“Why’s that?” I knew I sounded suspicious, but I didn’t try to hide it. After having been used and abused by these people, I was more than a little nervous that they were now trying to write me out of any royalties.

“Because Fairgate Publishing is assuming control of the book,” Stephen explained. “We’ll pay you directly.” He broke into a knowing smile. “And our checks always clear.”

“I get fifty percent of the royalty share,” I added quickly. I figured I was about to be handed a contract that was a mile long and largely inscrutable, so I wanted to be explicit about that point up front.

“I’ve read your original agreement. And if you don’t mind my saying, after having met these people, you deserve more than that.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “I like you,” I said. “I really do.”

Stephen pulled out an iPhone and began clicking away on an e-mail. “And your information is all in the contract, yes?”

“It should be. Why do you ask?”

“Your ticket to New York has to be in your legal name or they won’t let you on the plane.”

I hadn’t realized the contract signing was going to take place in New York. Though it was the Mecca of the publishing universe, so I should have expected that. I tried not to let my excitement show too much. Despite the fact that I never want to live there, I love Manhattan. And I hadn’t been able to afford to visit since graduating from college.

“Holly Ann Gracin, just like it says on the contract,” I said.

“Since you’re so close with Daisy and Faith, why don’t I put you all on the same flight Sunday morning? And is there someone you’d like to bring—on us? I don’t want you to be stuck in the city for days by yourself.”

I was definitely feeling like I could get used to this kind of treatment.

•  •  •

L
ater that night, Camille and I were waiting in line at Diddy Riese again. Celebration or commiseration, there was nothing like fresh ice cream sandwiches. The only difference was that this time, our respective men were with us. I had profusely apologized to Camille both in person and on the phone, but she was already past it. And I knew that in a couple of weeks, when she and Donnie got engaged, it would slip her mind completely. But I wouldn’t forget. I knew I needed to be a better friend.