Absolutely True Lies (4 page)

I spun around just in time to see a forty-year-old guy with slicked-back, thinning hair pull up in a Bimmer. He lowered the passenger window and leaned over to talk to us. “Marmont’s played out for the night. Get in and I’ll take you to this after-hours in Silver Lake.”

“Is that the guy you were looking for?” Camille asked.

“Clock’s ticking, ladies.” No lie, the guy even held his wrist out and tapped the face of his watch. I think it was a Rolex, but for all I know, it was a fake—either good or bad. Fifty bucks or fifty thousand, they all look the same to me.

“No one’s getting in your car, asshole,” I told him.

Camille took things one step further, moving to kick the guy’s passenger door. As drunk as I was, I had the presence of mind to
pull her back, lest she put us both on the receiving end of an arrest warrant. “And come on, loser, you’re forty! What are you doing at after-hours clubs?”

“Screw you,” Bimmer Man said. “There are plenty of hotter girls than you out tonight.” He gave us the middle finger before swerving back out into traffic.

There was a long moment as we watched him go before Camille gave me the annoyingly smug look I knew was coming. “Please, go on, Holly. You were telling me about these four million eligible men?”

“Shut up and pick a taxi.”

CHAPTER 4

With a schedule as crazy as mine, one of the most important things is having good people by your side to make sure all of the arrangements are made. It’s easy for things to slip through the cracks when you have a last-minute appearance scheduled at a store or on an awards show. Is the hotel room booked? Does the airline know you need a vegan meal? Is there a car to meet you at the airport? Do you have enough time to get through security or from the hotel to your appearance?

My parents are the most important people in my life, but my manager and his helpers are a close second.

F
aith Dixson promised that we’d get started on the memoir in two weeks, after the family returned from Nice. So I didn’t worry when I didn’t hear from anyone right away, and used the time to try to figure out how the hell to do my new job. I called every writer I knew, asking about the rules and the tricks—and the no-no’s—of working with stars. I spent a fortune at Staples buying supplies and digital tape recorders and then bought out the celeb tell-all section at Barnes & Noble. And owing to Daisy’s obsessive fans and the lax stalker laws on the Internet, I was able to compile almost an entire life history for her. I followed her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and Pinterest, slogging through endless tweets about the best BB cream and how “totally amazeballs” her friend Teri was in that latest
ABC Family movie. If I was going down on this job, I was going down fighting.

I was gratified to discover that most celeb autobiographies are basically insipid chronicles of bad behavior, and told in an entirely linear way. There didn’t seem to be much stylish language or heady writing technique, which made me less afraid of the immediate road ahead. I did notice that even though the celebs in question hadn’t written a word of their own books, every line sounded like it came directly out of their mouths. I had no idea how to pull off that kind of feat; I could only hope that as I spent more time with Daisy, her voice would become second nature to me. Which was scary in another way entirely.

Once I couldn’t read another word of rock-star drivel, I went to Target and spent eighty dollars purchasing all four seasons of Daisy’s current show. The writing and acting were so terrible I only made it through about five episodes, but the behind-the-scenes footage turned out to be a gold mine. Despite the fact that all of my friends work on film sets, I had remarkably little idea what they did. Seeing this enormous crew working like cogs in Daisy’s teenybopper machine was fascinating. Everyone talked about how rewarding it was to spend fourteen hours a day working on something so fun and family-oriented. Now, I don’t know much about jobs like script supervisor or wardrobe stylist, but I can’t imagine anyone being happy and excited at the fourteen-hour mark. It had to be a lie, but it was definitely a lie I could print. I also instantly noticed that Daisy’s movie-set home had most of the same furniture as her real home. I wondered which came first.

And because I was now flush with cash, I got cable for those moments when I just couldn’t work anymore. I’d never had cable in my life, but I immediately wasted four days watching something called WE TV for reasons unknown. One night I found myself watching a show called
Rehabilication,
where an “addiction specialist” with dubious credentials tried to stop various celebrities from snorting
anything they could find—all while on a fabulous vacation. It was a terrible name for a show, but it was also apparently the name of the actual rehab center. First I wondered if Camille knew anyone who worked on the program, then considered who would routinely watch such garbage. And lest I be casting the first stone, I quickly turned the channel to History’s
The Nostradamus Effect.
Yes, it was equally suspect, but at least it was the History Channel.

It was a great two weeks. For the first time in a very long time, I was happy and relaxed. I went out with friends when they called and didn’t worry about having to chip in twenty-five bucks for dinner. I started to think this middle-class thing wasn’t too shabby after all.

But by the third week, I still hadn’t gotten a single phone call from the Dixson entourage. I wasn’t too concerned on Monday, but by Wednesday night, I started to panic. Had I missed some deadline I wasn’t aware existed? Was
I
supposed to call
them
? The clock on my microwave said it was past ten, but around here, business gets done pretty much twenty-four hours a day, so I wasn’t worried about calling Jameson. My thoughts were validated when he answered on the first ring.

“Hols?” he asked, concerned. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah, of course,” I said. “I was just checking in with you, seeing when I can start working with Daisy.”

“Oh,
right,
” he said like he’d forgotten to pick up the dry cleaning. “We’ve been swamped. . . . You understand.” Jameson paused for a moment, but I didn’t respond, even with the normal platitudes. I
didn’t
understand Daisy’s life—that’s why I needed to meet with her. I heard paper rustling before he continued. “I suppose we have a few hours tomorrow afternoon. How’s that sound?”

“That’s just fine,” I replied, nodding like an idiot as though he could see me through the phone.

“Great, we’ll see you then, Hols.” And then he hung up.

While I really liked the Dixson ladies, I wasn’t altogether sold
on Jameson. Maybe I was judging him too harshly, but to me, he seemed like one weird dude. He’d hung up on me after five sentences without telling me where to meet them or at what time. I assumed he meant the house, but how could I possibly know that? I was waiting for him to tell me that he’d been sending me messages telepathically since our first phone call, and that it was my fault I hadn’t received them.

Hey, in this town, you never know.

•  •  •

A
t six the next morning, there was a loud knock at my door. I briefly thought it was the first and my landlord had come screaming for the rent, but then remembered it was the middle of the month. While it always seemed like I just wrote my rent check and it was still miraculously time for the next, for once, I was off the hook for another couple of weeks.

I sat up, groggy and confused, and tried to decide if I should answer the door or just pretend I wasn’t home. But the knocker didn’t give me much of a choice; the banging just went on and on. I got up and threw on a sweatshirt, knowing the Vietnamese woman who lived two doors down would come out swinging a rolling pin in a matter of seconds.

I was surprised to find Jameson’s messenger on the other side of the door. Especially since my building has a security door that someone had clearly forgotten to close—again.

“Hi,” I said, bewildered.

“Man, sorry I’m late,” the kid told me, rubbing his eyes tiredly with one hand. The other was occupied with a large manila envelope that I guessed he was coming to deliver to me. “The traffic coming out of Bev Hills is already a real bitch.”

He held up the envelope and shook it before passing it to me. I stared at him for a second, trying to make sense of the weirdness that seemed to be taking over my life in the last few weeks. He was
late
coming over here? Unless he was supposed to show up last night or at 2:00
A.M
.
, I wasn’t sure how that was even possible.

The kid looked me up and down quickly. “You’re going like that?”

Clearly, I was missing a major part of this equation. “The only place I’m going is back to bed, and I assure you, it’s a really relaxed dress code.”

He looked at his watch, then up at me, smirking. “You do know your flight leaves at nine
A.M.
, right?”

The kid was joking. He
had
to be joking. “Flight?”

He nodded toward the envelope. “Mr. Lloyd said you’d need the tickets by five
A.M.
, but I forgot you lived in the tenth level of hell.” He yawned loudly. “It took me over an hour to get here.”

I’d been awake for three and a half minutes and today already sucked.

“Dante’s Inferno only has nine levels.”

“Who’s Dante?” he asked.

Confused and a little irritated, I closed the door in his face. Then I promptly ripped open the top of the envelope and shook the ticket into my outstretched hand. I felt like I was playing some strange lottery where I switched places with a crazy person and took over their life for a few days. I inhaled deeply to restore my inner calm before I could dare look down at the ticket.

And the winning city was . . . I squinted at the small print—Miami? I was flying to Miami and Jameson hadn’t bothered to tell me? I was shocked enough by the realization that I had to fly to my meeting with Daisy, but I assumed I was going someplace like Vegas or San Francisco, only a few hours away, where it just happened to be more convenient to fly than drive. But no, I was apparently traveling three thousand miles to have a conversation.

As I read through the information, I also noticed that there was no return ticket. Not only did I have to leave for the airport twenty minutes ago, I had no idea what—or how much—I was supposed
to pack. For a few seconds, I was really, truly irritated with Daisy Dixson and her publicity machine for their lack of consideration. Then, just as quickly, I realized that the oversight may not have been intentional. When you have millions of dollars, maybe this is just the way you roll. Bored with your everyday life? Head to Miami for a couple of days and see what happens. I could either spend the day cursing my new employers or just shut up and deal . . . and perhaps have a good time doing it.

I spent the next ten minutes showering and packing at tornado-­like wind speeds, throwing everything I could grab into a duffel bag I used to use for the gym. As it had been two years since I’d actually bothered to go to the gym, I figured I should find some new use for the bag. I was in such a hurry that as soon as I was finished, I had absolutely no idea what I’d even packed. For all I knew, the contents could include an evening dress, no underwear, and a parka. But none of it would really matter if I couldn’t make the flight on time, so I tossed the bag over one shoulder, left Smitty with a neighbor, and drove the 10 freeway like a bat out of hell.

I was lucky in that rush hour had barely begun and traffic wasn’t nearly as horrific as it would have been an hour later. All it took was a little reckless driving and illegal use of the carpool lane and I somehow made it to LAX in twenty minutes, and with only four people swearing at me or giving me the finger. That I noticed, anyway.

By 8:30, I was happily in my first-class seat, drinking a mimosa and having already forgotten the insanity of the morning so far. I was even starting to look forward to my impromptu work trip to Miami. After all, I was traveling with the rich and famous—how bad could it be?

•  •  •

T
he flight landed just before 5:00
P.M.
, and by 5:15, I found myself weaving through throngs of travelers in cheap Hawaiian shirts and flip-flops to get to baggage claim. I was still so Zen from five hours
of expensive champagne that I didn’t pause to consider the practical elements of this trip. The first of which were, where was I going from the airport, and how was I supposed to get there?

In light of who I was working for, I think I assumed that a car would be waiting for me at the terminal, but I waited nearly an hour and no one appeared. After a while, I must have looked like quite the idiot, sitting at the curb, watching as people came and went. Eventually, even the airport police began circling me suspiciously, perhaps thinking that my pink Nike workout bag held some sort of explosive device. Just as three cops huddled together and stared at me, whispering among themselves, I pulled out my cell phone and called Jameson.

“Hols!” He answered on the first ring. The guy must have had his Bluetooth surgically implanted in his ear. “How was the flight?”

“Just fine,” I told him. My champagne buzz was wearing off, and the ninety-five-degree, sticky heat was starting to get under my skin. “I’m at the airport now.”

“What are you still doing out there?” he asked me. “Get yourself a car and come play with us.”

“And where exactly would I be going?”

“We’re at the Fontainebleau, in the Presidential Suite. Just come on up when you get here.”

And, as always, Jameson just hung up. I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it for a second, willing some sane, normal person to call so that I could have a sane, normal conversation. No one called. I wasn’t even sure I knew someone who fit that description.

I heaved myself off the curb, then started back toward baggage claim in search of a car rental agency. It would be fine, I told myself. Surely they would pay me back for the car. What was a few hundred dollars up front?

•  •  •

I
t was seven o’clock by the time I reached the Fontainebleau and I was starving. I’d considered pulling into a convenience store along
the way, but I thought better of arriving at the Presidential Suite with Cheetos breath and neon orange fingertips. Besides, I figured the Dixsons had to eat dinner at some point.

While I thought it might be a challenge to even get to the Presidential Suite (we’ve all seen those movies where a starstruck teenage girl tries desperately to break into her idol’s hotel room), the Fontainebleau knew I was coming and whisked me upstairs before I could so much as utter the name Daisy Dixson and start a panic in the lobby. And I assure you, there would have been a panic. I was barely able to pull into the valet stand without accidentally running over some paparazzi. And the tween girls just “hanging out” in the lobby, pretending to read, weren’t working too hard to hide the real purpose of their visit. So I was appreciative when my name alone was enough to get things moving.

I was promptly assigned a personal attendant named Minka, who looked to be about my age but acted like a German efficiency specialist and didn’t appear to particularly like me. As she barked orders at a frightened bellman, she kept throwing me less than cordial looks. A few times, I think her nostrils actually flared. I had no idea what I’d done to incur her wrath, but I couldn’t wait to get away from her. As my duffel bag was spirited away, Minka prodded me toward the elevators with a firm hand pressed to the small of my back. I wasn’t sure if I was being handled or about to be taken hostage.