Dazzled (38 page)

“Coffee, chocolate, men
… Some things are just better rich. I would have thought you’d appreciate that, Lilia.”

“You’re just a mercy fuck,” she continued, scathingly. “It’s obvious Miles feels sorry for you.”

“Yeah? Well, it’s obvious he loathes your bony ass. I guess that makes us even.”

“Not even nearly!” she hissed, losing her composure. “How long was it going on – you and him?”

I was filled with contempt. “If you really think Miles is capable of cheating, you don’t know him at all. He loathes cheats, and he’s not capable of being one. You’re on your own with that.”

She changed tack faster than a politician at an Elton John concert.

“Well, if you really cared about your
friend
, you’d realize how bad it’ll look if word gets out that he’s dating a Wisconsin skinny.”

“A what?”

“An o-beast! A fugly, overweight bitch.”

“Well, at least your vocabulary is improving. And, frankly, however you describe me, people will still think it’s an improvement over a cokehead prima donna with knobbly knees, sagging tits and an arse you could sharpen your pencil on.”

I fixed her with my thousand-yard stare that I learned in the Marines, (not really), and poked a finger at her bony chest.

“Girls like you make me sick, Lilia. You always have to blame everyone else when something goes wrong. I mean, you’re rich, famous, and even I can see that you’re a good actress – hell, you had Miles fooled when he thought you really cared for him – but that part of your life is over. So thank your lucky stars that you still have a career and leave him the fuck alone.”

“Or what?”

“I’ll find you.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“You’re not totally stupid then.”

And if only I could have swept out of there with my head held high. Well, actually, that’s exactly what I did – and walked straight into the door.

My nose exploded, and the pain was so bad, I think I saw stars. I know that had already happened a few times due to Miles’ mega orgasmathons, but as this was from being smacked in the face, believe me when I say it’s different.

“Ow! Fug! Crab! Ship!”

Which translates as, “Ow! Fuck! Crap! Shit!” because, come on, I had blood pouring out of my nose
.

Lilia just laughed at me and walked away, leaving me in tears with a pool of blood gathering on the floor.

“Classy… not,” she called over her shoulder.

Half blinded with pain, I staggered toward the sink and watched as blood dripped down. Worse still, both my eyes were swelling up into slits. I filled the sink with cold water, grabbed a handful of paper towels and wadded them up to make a cold compress.

Then my phone rang. Miles! Thank God! But as I picked it up, I dropped it into the water. It bleeped unhappily once, then died.

I collapsed into a heap on the floor and cried my eyes out.

Which was how Bette found me, a sweet old lady who was visiting from Oklahoma City. She probably thought I was a druggie who’d been mugged, because she backed out of there so fast, I was afraid she’d meet herself coming back. But when she returned a few minutes later, she’d brought the hotel security with her.

“Do we have a problem here, ma’am?”

“Ob caws theb’s a fuggin’ publum! I’b brogen by fuggin’ dose!”

“Do you speak English, ma’am? Do you need a doctor? Doc-tor? Doc-tor? Med-ic? Hos-pit-al?”

“I wan’ Biles!”

“I think she said she’s got piles,” Bette added, helpfully.

“Yeah, probably from sitting on the marble floor,” said the security guard. “That sure won’t help. We’d better get you up, ma’am!”

“Doh! I wan’ Biles! Biles Steebun! The ackdor!”

“She’s saying something about the backdoor. Do you think that’s how she got in?”

“Probably,” said the security guard. “We get a lot of crack whores shooting up in the alley. Pardon my French, ma’am.”

“Oh by Gud!”

“What was that, dear?”

“Let me handle this, ma’am,” said the security guard. “She could be dangerous.”

“She doesn’t look dangerous,” said Bette.

“Appearances can be deceptive,” intoned the dickwad.

“No need to be a smart-ass,” snapped Bette, which made the dickwad blink. She pointed at my shoulder bag. “Why don’t you do your job and see if she’s got ID?”

“Huh, probably stolen,” muttered dickwad.

“Photo ID will prove you right then, won’t it?” she stated. “I’m Bette by the way, dear. Visiting from
Oklahoma City. It’s so exciting to walk right into a crime scene. It’s just like on NCIS – even down to the blood. I wonder what the spatter pattern will tell us?”

“I gob hid id the dose.” I held out my hand. “By dame ib Clem.”

“Did you say your name is Clem, dear?”

Dickwad pulled out my passport. “According to this her name is Clare Milton from
England.”

“How exciting,” said Bette. “Do you know the Queen?”

It was only when Miles sent Rhonda to look for me that I was found.

He nearly freaked out when he saw me covered in blood, sitting in the dickwad’s office, with two NYPD specials in attendance.

“Jesus Christ, Clare! What the hell happened to you, baby?”

“Had an argubent wib a door,” I mumbled.

“What? You did all that by walking into a door?”

“Yeb.”

“Can you vouch for this person, sir?” said one of the cops.

Miles looked annoyed. “Of course I can! She’s my girlfriend!”

They all did the usual double take. They looked at him… they looked at me… they looked at him. It was like watching a tennis match in slow motion. And every single one of them was thinking the same thing:
what the hell is
he
doing with
her
?

Although they might also have been thinking about recommending him a good optician.

“Yeah!” said Miles, angrily. “And she’s a guest in this hotel and she needs a fucking doctor, not the police!”

It’s amazing what you can get when you’re famous.

We were whisked off by limo to some private clinic, all paid for by the hotel, who were desperate for me not to sue, or for Miles to give them a bad review – which, financially, probably amounted to the same thing. They had a reputation to uphold for cool, hip people to stay there, and although that didn’t apply to the girl who was dimmer than an eclipse at night who walked into doors, Miles was definitely someone they wanted to come back again.

It turned out that my nose wasn’t broken, thank God, but I did have two amazing black eyes.

Miles bought me a pair of ridiculously expensive Gucci sunglasses to cover them, but I still looked like a giant panda after a bad night out.

He cancelled everything else he was supposed to do that day, and we hung out in our room eating pizza, drinking beer, and watching TV.

Clips from the junket were shown later that evening. Jo-Anne was being interviewed on ‘Letterman’, and they were running it as a trailer.

I had to admit, there was something sexy about seeing my boyfriend on TV, especially as it wasn’t
Crimewatch
.

It was just my friggin’ luck. I was in a fantastic hotel room, overlooking the city that never sleeps, with a bona fide film star sex god, and my libido had taken a one-way ticket to a nunnery.

Worse still, I was going back to London the next day, and we didn’t know when we’d be able to see each other again.

Miles held my hand, and fed me pieces of pizza, which made him officially perfect in my book.

And then we sat back to enjoy Jo-Anne’s interview.

But just before they brought her on, a picture of Miles was shown on the screen.

“Hollywood insiders are trying to confirm a sighting of ‘Dazzled’ star Miles Stephens’ new girlfriend. Ever since costar Lilia Purcell was photographed in a compromising position with an unknown male and female, as well as – it is alleged – Golden Globe winner Charlie Sheehan, relations have been strained between the two stars. Today it seems the angelic actor has found love again in an unlikely place.”

And then they showed a photograph of me and him when we arrived at the hotel the day before – and Miles had his arm around me and was whispering something in my ear.

I remembered exactly what he’d said, because it had made me laugh.

“One day I’m going to buy you your own chocolate fountain – and then I’m going to dip my dick in it and see how much you really like chocolate.”

Yeah, that had made me laugh. But I wasn’t laughing now. Our secret was out.

Someone had talked.

Truly, Madly, Deeply

Miles

The press coverage was wholly negative. I was described as a cheating bastard who’d led Lilia astray then pushed her off the deep end. Clare was a manipulative, social-climbing homewrecker.

Lilia was looking pretty damn squeaky clean. It was amazing how quickly people ‘forgot’ those damn photographs, even though Joe Blow was in rehab and being divorced by his wife. Rumors, half-truths and blackwhite newspeak were enough. That’s what it felt like. I didn’t give a shit what they said about me, and I was starting to think that pretty much anything could be forgiven and forgotten with the right spin. It was a depressing thought.

And it was everything Rhonda had warned us could happen. I made a mental note to listen very carefully next time she told me something – the woman was a goddamn soothsayer.

Apart from the sheer fabrication of the whole thing, I think what hurt the most were the vicious attacks on Clare personally, based on one, blurry photograph: too fat, too ugly, what did I see in her, yadda, yadda, yadda. It made me want to come out of our corner fighting. Of course, Rhonda advised against that. Strongly.

“Miles, honey, you’ve just got to suck it up,” she said.

“But how can they get away with this? It’s all such bullshit!”

“Yep, got the memo on that. But I recommend that you do what you did last time – keep your head down and your mouth shut. And the same goes for you, Clare.”

“Will this affect his career?” Clare asked, carefully.

“I don’t give a fuck about that!” I shouted, unable to control my voice.

“Well, you should care,” Clare replied, forcefully, “because if you give up now, what’s been the point of it all? And Lilia wins.” She sighed and stared at her fingers. “I can’t even blame her.”

“What the…?”

“We don’t know for sure that she was the one who said anything – it could have been the hotel security, or people from the clinic. Hell, it could have been dear, sweet Bette from Oklahoma City for all we know. Lilia is just working to save her own skin.”

“Well, I never thought I’d say this,” said Rhonda, dryly, “but Clare’s right. Say nothing. Do nothing.”

“Fuck!” I couldn’t help snarling the word. “I’m surprised they haven’t said I’ve been beating her up as well!”

Rhonda tsked loudly. “Yes, well, you’re not going to like what I say next – either of you – but you’ve got to send Clare home, to avoid
exactly
that scenario. So far, the Press only have a grainy photograph of Clare, but if they see her bruised like this, they’ll have a field day.” She looked firmly at me. “And that
will
finish you.”

“Bloody hell,” breathed Clare. “She’s right. I’ve got to leave as soon as possible.”

“No, baby,” I pleaded with her, but her jaw tightened and she got that really stubborn look on her face.

“I’m going, Miles. I was going to head back tomorrow anyway. I’ll just change the flight for this evening – or sooner, if I can.”

I felt beaten. I didn’t know who the winner was – Lilia or the gossip sites. It certainly wasn’t me – or Clare.

“Look, it’s only five months until I graduate,” she said. “We’ll be fine. We’ll email and write… okay, well
I’ll
email and write, you can Skype me.”

“Maybe you could come out for my birthday?” I said, feeling hopeful.

“Um, I don’t think so. It’s right before my finals and…”

“No, of course, sorry. I wasn’t thinking. That’s way more important.”

Rhonda cleared her throat.

“Okay, kids, I’ll leave you to it. Nice to see you again, Clare. It’s been… eventful.”

They shook hands and risked a tentative smile at each other. I was glad that they seemed to be getting along better – it made things easier. Yeah, in the huge pit of chaos that surrounded me, it made things easier. A bit.

But when the time came, Clare wouldn’t even let me go to JFK with her.

“It would be just our friggin’ luck to get photographed with me looking like I’ve gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson,” she said. “We’ll just say goodbye here. In private.”

She was trying to be tough and I loved her for it. I was missing her already and she hadn’t even left yet.

“This sucks,” she mumbled into my chest as I wrapped my arms around her, feeling her soft curves pressing against me.

“Yeah, big time.”

“I love you,” she said, her voice so quiet I could hardly hear her.

“Love you, too, Clare. All the way. You’re… perfect.”

She laughed quietly.

“I am
so
going to remind you of that the next time I piss you off, or when I eat the last mini donut in the box.”

A knock at the door interrupted any reply I might have choked out. The airport car had arrived, and the valet was there to collect her suitcase.

We shared one more desperate kiss, and then she pulled away from me.

“By the way, I left you a present,” she said, as she stood at the door.

“You did?”

“Yeah, just something small. Read it and think of me.”

“Read it?”

“Yes, you know – black marks on the page that make up words.”

“Funny.”

She winked and blew me a kiss.

Then she was gone.

I realized she hadn’t told me where she’d put this present – or what it was.

Clare

God, I was going to miss him.

I left my ‘gift’ in an envelope marked
Private
and put it in his messenger bag, in the same pocket where his iPod charger lived. I knew that way he’d find it sooner rather than later once he got back to LA and I was in London. I wanted to leave him something funny and silly – something that would remind him of me.

I knew that it was going to be a very long five months. It was the most we’d been apart
ever
. I was dreading it, so it seemed important to leave something that would make him laugh. At least I hoped it would.

I’d written a résumé that summed up our sexcapades over the last few days – or rather, Miles Junior’s exploits. It may have been the only dick in the world to have its own CV – well, along with Mark Wahlberg’s equipment, perhaps.

Curriculum Vitae

Name:
Miles Junior

Nationality:
British

Driver’s license:
stick shift

Work Experience:
varied (blondes, brunettes, redheads)

Previous Employment:
bathrooms, school library, theater, restaurant restroom, on flight bathroom, sometimes bedrooms

Personal Attributes:
nine inches long, impressive girth; circumcised; liberal (dresses to the Left)

Always rises to the occasion and is good at thinking for himself. Dresses suitably for all events and knows how to behave in
public
private. Thoughtful, passionate and not dissimilar to an Eveready battery (keeps going longer).

Qualifications:
Masters degree in Physiology and Anatomy

Hobbies:
making surprise appearances, and attending charity events

Current Employment:
contented girlfriend

And I attached a close-up photograph of the prospective job applicant in his pink, rubber interview suit. I’d used my camera phone to take the photograph when we were messing about. I thought it would make Miles laugh.

It had been a mad few months, and a crazy week. My best friend was on his way to becoming an international movie star – but best of all, my best friend had become my lover.

Yeah, and now I was traveling First Class!

JFK was busy when I arrived, but the British Airways VIP lounge for first class passengers – excuse me the
Concorde Room
– was quiet. I liked the idea that I was considered first class, especially after having been dragged through the proverbial primordial slime by certain gossip websites and magazines. So yeah, first class was suiting me very well, even if it meant Miles had to pay to have a first class girlfriend.

Oh, who the hell was I kidding? I was so low rent, I would have made a reality TV show look classy.

And I have to admit that I was slightly intimidated by the sheer opulence of the first class lounge. Who knew that airport terminals had chandeliers? Oh, and complimentary champagne, which was probably a bad idea, but getting sloshed when I felt so miserable seemed like a sensible option. Yes, I know. Alcohol when you’re flying just dehydrates you and makes the jetlag worse. Whatever. But some situations can only be improved by administering industrial doses of alcohol or chocolate.

But then I discovered the real jewel in the crown of the Concorde Room: the spa!

With an hour to kill, I opted for a shoulder rub and flying feet. No, really, that’s what they called it. I suppose someone thought it was witty. But, wow, that was some foot treatment. It was almost as good as sex. Well, not quite, but if they’d given me a bar of dark chocolate to go with the free champagne, it would have been pretty darn close.

The masseuse, Marla from
Detroit, put these weird glove things on my feet that smelled of lime. I’ve never been a toe sucker –
ever
– but I swear, the aroma was so heavenly, it made me want to lick my own feet. God knows what I’d have done if Miles had been there – mount him on the ergonomic chair or give him a foot job? It would have been even money, either way.

Then Marla used hot stones to massage the soles of my feet – it was unbelievably wonderful and amazing, and I stopped feeling ticklish after the first 30 or 40 passes.

It was supposed to make my feet ‘feel lighter’. I wondered if it would work on the rest of my body. Yes, I was a curvy kind of gal (okay, chubby – well, hefty), but I’d always thought if I could just push the fat from my stomach up to my boobs, I’d have the perfect figure. I may have mentioned it before – I really should look into patenting that idea.

“I suppose you’ve met lots of famous people?” I said to Marla, by way of starting a conversation.

“Oh, you know it, ma’am! They all stop by here on their way to London. My magic hands are spoken of on five continents.”

Marla was brimming with humility as well as being fabulously indiscreet. Once I got her started, she couldn’t stop spilling the beans.

Celebrity A was a groper – never kept his hands to himself. Groped guys, too. “He’s not fussy,” she said.

Celebrity B had bad breath. “He could have stunned a buffalo at a thousand yards. I needed an oxygen mask just to give him a massage.”

Celebrity C had a fungal infection in her toenails. “I thought I was gonna hurl my chicken burrito when I started working on those trotters.”

Me, too, Marla. Me, too.

I would have
loved
to tell you which celebrities she was referring to, but you could probably Google it for yourself. Or use your imagination – that would work.

“I hope I’m not being indiscreet,” she giggled.

I wanted to channel my inner Oscar Wilde and say, “No, but your answers are.” Instead, I just smiled and pumped her for more dirt.