Remember When 3: The Finale (Remember Trilogy #3) (14 page)

   “Mission accomplished,” I confirmed, pulling his smiling face down for a kiss.

Chapter 17

CINDERELLA MAN

   The next day, Trip had a “read-through” for
Slap Shot
, and he asked if I’d like to go with him. We took the Batmobile to the studio, and I can’t say that I wasn’t excited about it. Not only was I going to get a real insider taste of Hollywood, but I’d be seeing where Trip worked.

   He stopped briefly at the gatehouse and gave a salute to the security guard, who did nothing more than salute back and say, “Good afternoon, Mr. Wiley,” before raising the gate.
Trip was well-known
everywhere
, but the familiarity vibe was definitely different on his home turf. He hadn’t even turned into
him
yet. I guessed there was no need to amp up the Wiley just for the gatekeeper.

   We drove past a few
low office buildings, which Trip explained were for “the moneybags,” and down a narrower street lined with trailers, for “the peons.” He maneuvered around a million identical white structures that looked like airplane hangars, and I wondered how he knew just where to go. My eyes kept darting around between the buildings, hoping to see some action. I mean, this was a Hollywood studio lot! I’d never seen one in person and only had my impression of them from the movies. So, where were all the lions on leashes? The clowns walking around on stilts? The feathered showgirls and the zombies and the cowboys?

   The only humans
I saw walking around were a few harried-looking, but fairly normal people.

   What a gyp.

   We parked in the lot near a building with a big, black
B 124
painted on the side, and Trip let me out of the car. He held my hand and led me through the doors. It was bitter cold!

   “Why is it so cold in here?”

   Actually, it was only my top half that was freezing. Even though I was wearing a pair of shorts, the nerve endings in my legs had been deadened after four winters in my St. Norman’s skirt. To this day, as long as my torso is bundled, I could brave the arctic tundra in a pair of bikini bottoms and be perfectly comfortable. True story.

   He smiled and answered my question. “You’ll see.”

   We walked through another set of doors—where it got even colder—and I saw the massive hockey rink that took over the space. “Oh my gosh! Is this the
Slap Shot
set?”

  
His smile turned into the full-force grin, proudly announcing, “Yep. All the interiors are going to be shot right here. Welcome to the home arena of the Charlestown Chiefs.”

   “Wow! Cool! So, you’ll get to shoot it right here? No going on location?”

   “Maybe just a few quick trips for the exteriors.”

   I snuggled against his side, trying to get warm.
“
Quick
trips. Okay, I can handle that.”

   He
rubbed his hand along my arm to warm me up. “It’s not like you won’t be coming with me, babe.”

   I
caught the look in his eyes and was suddenly very warmed by his words. He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. It should have been.

   He led us out of the freezer and
across the lobby again, through another set of doors and down a hallway. The temperature was more bearable back there, and by the time we made it to a door marked “PROD,” it was comfortable. It was a large, fairly non-descript room that reminded me of a gymnasium. There was a long table set up in the middle with about a dozen people sitting around it on folding chairs, getting ready to do the read-through.

   An older
, balding man spotted us first. “Ah! There he is now. Nice of you to join us, Mr. Wiley.”

   There was no malice in the man’s voice, and Trip smiled as we made our way over. He gripped my hand a little tighter and whispered, “Brace
yourself.”

   I didn’t know what was in store for me, but I found out soon enough. As we neared the table, the
Elmer Fudd guy said, “And it looks like you brought me a present,” eyeing me appreciatively.

  
Trip snickered, “Not a chance, pal,” before addressing the other people in the room. “Everyone, this is Layla Warren.” He gave a warning look to Elmer and added, “And I brought her for
me
.”

   I smiled and said my hellos
as the people around the table greeted me. I finally looked over at Elmer and stopped dead in my tracks. The balding old man in front of my eyes was none other than Patrick Van Keegan! I was practically weaned on his movies growing up. He was my father’s favorite actor. A lot of other people’s, too. He’d starred in some of the biggest films ever made. The guy was a legend, and positively the hottest thing to hit the screens post-James Dean, pre-Trip Wiley.

   I was grateful when Trip directed me to
sit over near the craft table so I wouldn’t have to speak. I was completely star struck, and my hands had begun to shake. It was crazy. I was sleeping with the most famous actor on the planet, and I had firsthand knowledge that he was just a regular person underneath the fame. He just happened to have an irregular job that made him extraordinarily well-known. But there I was, getting all googly-eyed from being in the same room as Patrick Van Keegan. But hell. After all, Trip was presently the actor Patrick
used
to be. Who wouldn’t get star-fuckery around that?

  
But my God he’d gotten old. It broke my heart a little bit. I almost wished I hadn’t just met him.

  
The table Trip directed me toward was completely laden with snacks and drinks, and I grabbed a bottle of water out of the iced tub, but bypassed helping myself to any food. I took a seat on one of the folding chairs nearby and introduced myself to the other two girls who were there. Amber Lynn was fairly new to town. Chrystal Lynn was not. They didn’t wait to inform me that they were both “dancers.”

   Chrysta
l Lynn gave me the once-over and promptly asked, “So, you’re fucking Trip Wiley?”

   She asked it so matter-of-factly.
Like she was inquiring about my shoes.

  
Ummm…
“He’s my boyfriend.”

   I saw the two girls exchange a
snarky look, and it was enough to make me want to go Jersey on their mini-skirted asses.

   “Our frie
nd Marcy was doing him a while back. He’s really hot. You’re so lucky.”

  
Note to self: Remember to kill my boyfriend.

  
Amber Lynn piped in just then. “We’re fucking Patrick.”

  
I’m sure my mouth gaped open as I asked, “Both of you?”

  
Amber Lynn sounded as though she were trying to impart some newfound Hollywood wisdom when she taunted, “What, did you just come here from the farm?” They both shared a giggle at that before Amber continued, “It’s a whole ‘nother world out here, honey. You might want to wake up and realize it. Sex is money out here.”

  
Chrystal Lynn high-fived her slutty friend and added, “And there’s a helluva lotta rich people!”

   The Bimbo Twins started cackling again, and
it was enough to turn my stomach. They were both unbearably stupid, and they were both there with Patrick. What kind of world was this that Trip lived in? That
I
was living in?

   I took a sip
of my water when the old, ballbusting reporter in me decided to mess with them—I was just getting ready to ask their opinion on the situation in Darfur. However, I didn’t get to open my mouth, because Patrick Van Keegan had opened his. Loudly.

   His booming voice yelled
at the director, “You think I don’t know that? I was making movies while you were still in diapers, you little shit!”

  
His voice echoed around the large room, stunning everyone into silence. He stomped over to where we were sitting and grabbed at Amber’s hand as he commanded, “Come on, girls. We’re leaving!”

  
I caught Trip’s attention and gave him the wide-eyes. He gave a casual shrug and went back to work. Thankfully, the meeting didn’t take very long, and before I knew it, we were back in the Batmobile, wending our way through the lot once more.

   “So, what happened at the
table?” I asked. “Patrick Van Keegan lost his shit!”

   Again, Trip only offered a shrug
like it was no big deal. “He wanted to change some of his dialogue in a pivotal scene. Carlos refused to budge.”

   “
You can do that? Isn’t that the screenwriter’s job?”

  
“Normally. But a script is written long before any actors are cast. The best directors will have a screenwriter tweak a scene to suit the actors after the fact. For the bigger names, anyhow.”

  
“So… what? Carlos made Patrick feel like he wasn’t big enough to warrant the change?”

  
“Nah. It was simply a bad suggestion. Carlos knew that and challenged him on it.” He turned the car toward the gatehouse as he added, “Don’t worry about it. He’s just blowing off some steam. He’ll come around. The Oscars are in a few more days. Makes everyone crazy.”

  
I’d been witness to that phenomenon over the past week. Oscar season brought out the jitters in everyone in town. Not just the actors and directors, but the boutique-owners and the salespeople at the jewelry stores. Who was going to wear who? What megastar could best show off the diamonds? It was so weird to me that stuff like that was enough to throw an entire city into such a tailspin. It seemed so…
superficial
.

   But I felt like Patrick’s outburst was due to something bigger than a flipping awards ceremony, for
godsakes. I was pretty sure he wasn’t even nominated for anything. Was
that
it? Had his star gone so dim that he thought he’d simply fade away? It must be a bizarre transition, going from having the world at your feet to being shoved to the background, practically forgotten. It must have been even harder for Patrick to have the younger version of himself sitting right there next to him, knowing Trip’s name would be above his in the credits, the hottest new thing since… well… him. At least it would explain The Bimbo Twins. It probably made Patrick feel like a big man to be nailing not one, but two cheap strippers purely for sport.

  
Hollywood was glamorous and exciting, but it was also the kind of place that could chew a person up and spit them out. The thought filled me with an unwarranted sense of dread:

  
When he had ultimately aged out of heartthrob status, when the cameras finally stopped flashing in his face, would Trip someday grow into the same, cynical, broken man as Patrick Van Keegan?

Chapter
18

LIPSTICK & DYNAMITE

   We’d decided to treat our Academy Awards evening like a date and got ready in separate rooms. I spent most of my prep time in the guest bathroom—the beautiful, decorating-magazine bathroom—while Trip took over the master suite next door. I was anxiety-ridden, sitting at the dressing table, the stylist putting the finishing touches on my makeup, when I heard Trip through our adjoining wall, singing in the shower.

   I had to strain to hear what
the song was. The evening’s selection was “You Got the Touch” from the
Boogie Nights
soundtrack, and Trip was belting it out with as much passion and pitchiness as Dirk Diggler. It was enough to make me forget my nerves for a minute, and I started laughing so hard that tears gathered at my eyes, enough so that Betty admonished me for threatening to ruin my eyeliner.

   After she’d gone, I checked out her handiwork in the huge mirror over the sink. She did this crazy smoky thing with my eyes which looked really cool. I was sure that if I’d tried to recreate
it on my own, I’d end up looking more like a heroin addict instead of a spicy vixen.

   But that
night, it was sexy.

   She’d curled my hair so that it had these great, 1920s-type finger-waves going
on, one side pulled up and held with a diamond and brown-topaz comb, on loan from Harry Winston.

  
That’s right, kids.
Harry Effing Winston
. I was freaking out about the whole night, but just seeing those famous diamonds at my head pretty much sent me over the edge. I mean, I was going to the goddamn Academy Awards. Me. Layla Warren. On the arm of the biggest movie star on the planet.

  
Wearing
Harry. Winston. Diamonds
.

  
The same flower shapes from the comb were recreated along the delicate necklace in coordinating jewels. I had politely refused the earrings, though. I could totally have seen me losing the things and didn’t want to worry about them all night. It would have been too much sparkle anyway, even for Oscar Night. I opted for my own, simple, diamond studs instead.

  
Oh. And don’t tell anyone, but I was wearing Club Monaco Glaze on my lips. You know, that Monica Lewinsky shade that was all the rage twenty fashion cycles ago? But it was still the perfect color for my skintone, and if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, you know what I’m saying?

   I stripped off my robe and went out into the bedroom to slip into my dress.

   Only it wasn’t there.

   Hanging in its spot instead was the cream gown I had
picked out at Siobhan’s.

  
It actually took my mind a few seconds to register what was happening. When it did, my only thought was,
He didn’t!

  
Sonofabitch, he did.

   I stormed down the hallway to Trip’s room and burst through the door. “Where’s my dress?”

   He was standing there in just a white towel, slung low on his perfect hips. If I wasn’t so angry, I would have appreciated the view a bit more. He didn’t even bother to look at me, and continued to debate the neckties in his hands as he answered, “Hanging in your room.”

   “That’s not the dress I bought.”

   “No, but it’s the one you liked.”

  
“Trip! I know what you’re trying to do, and it’s very sweet, really. But it costs too much. It’s why I didn’t buy it in the first place! I just can’t in good conscience allow you to spend that kind of money on such a thing.”

   He lowered the ties and turned toward me.
And when he did, his jaw dropped to the floor and his eyes bugged out of his head like a Looney Toon.

  
Ayooooogah!

  
I suddenly realized I’d been standing there in just my beige push-up strapless bra, a tiny pair of panties, lace-top thigh-high stockings… and garters. I figured it was a special occasion, so what the hell.

  
Trip’s tongue rolled across the floor and back up into his mouth as he regained his composure.

 
He perched a hip against the dresser and crossed his arms over his naked chest. He looked so gorgeous standing there in just a towel, with his intentionally mussed hair and his calm, commanding stance.

   A smirk decorated his face as he said, “Lay, I don’t know if you
’ve noticed, but I can afford stuff like this now.”

  
“It’s too much.”

   “Not by a longshot.”

   “Well, I’m just going to return it.” I crossed my arms over
my
chest. See? I could be stubborn, too.

  
Trip dropped his arms and came over toward me. He put his hands on my shoulders and implored, “Look. Please don’t deny me the pleasure of buying you things. Besides, you can’t return it. It’s already been altered.”

   “You could feed a sma
ll country for the price of that dress!”

  
“Babe. I give enough money away to feed some very
large
countries. Don’t get all guilty on me. It’s okay to spoil yourself every now and then. Just let me do this, okay?”

   I
pursed my lips and squinted at him, but didn’t answer. He knew he was winning me over. Because honestly? I really freaking loved that dress.

   “
Besides, it’s a big deal for Siobhan to see her stuff strutting down the red carpet. When you’re asked who you’re wearing, don’t forget to add where you got it. Got it?”

  
Okay, I admit it. I was wrong. Fairytales
do
exist. I suddenly had a new appreciation for
Pretty Woman
, because all I could think at that moment was that I was Cinderfuckinrella. There he was like a kid on Christmas, so excited to unveil his surprise
and I was yelling at him for it. What was I going to do for an encore? Kick him in the nards?

  
“Fine. Okay. Yes. Thank you, Trip. This is really an incredible thing to do. I’m blown away.”

  
He was smiling as bent his head to plant one on me, saying, “You can show me how grateful you are later.”

   Our lips met,
and my fingers immediately went to the back of his still-damp hair. He slid his hands along my backside, pulled me tighter against his hips, and groaned against my mouth. I was feeling a little dizzy from his…
enthusiasm
, and wrapped my arms around his shoulders, raising up on my toes and pressing into him. Just as things started to get interesting, he tore his lips from mine with a grunt and said, “Shit, Lay-Lay. We’d better get dressed. The car will be here any minute.”

*
* *

   Trip w
as sitting in an armchair in a corner of the foyer when I met up with him. He looked positively drool-worthy, lounging out casually in his formalwear, his fingers against his temple, w
aiting for me
.

  
I stood in front of his knees, gave him a twirl and asked, “How do I look?”

  
He didn’t break his pose, but appraised me with a scandalous perusal along my entire body. “I don’t know, babe. It hurts to look right at you. Gorgeous, in any case.”

   Then h
e got up from his chair, wrapped an arm around my waist, and pulled me to him. “Stop smiling at me like that. It makes me want to blow off this whole night and just take you back to bed.”

   I almost let him.

   I was a nervous wreck in the limo on the way to the Kodak Theatre. Trip kept his hand on my knee, and he must have been nervous, too, because his fingers never slipped any higher. The limo had a bar alcove with a few decanters of liquor, and I wondered how many times he’d taken advantage of such perks in the old days.

   We
made it to our destination in decent time, but had to idle in a queue of similar cars, waiting for our turn to pull up to the main entrance. That was the hardest part of the whole evening, I think. Just having to sit there and sweat it out, the raucous cheers of the crowd pouring through the closed windows in an oppressive deluge of sound. Despite the waning sun, the strobe-like flashing of hundreds of cameras punctuated the sky. Up ahead, I could see the sentinel of monstrous Oscar statues, their heads glowing a fiery gold, lining the entrance to the red carpet.

  
Holy shit. I was really there. At the Academy Awards. Holy. Effing. Shit.

  
Are you there, God? It’s me, Layla. It’s been a while, and I’m really sorry about that, but I would be eternally grateful and all that jazz if you could help me make it down this carpet without stumbling, sweating, or otherwise embarrassing myself in any way, shape, or form. I’m guessing you’ve never given stilettos a shot, and let me tell you, you are one lucky dude. They are like spikey little torture devices designed solely to make your feet throb incessantly while mocking your lack of grace. And we both know grace has never been high on my list of positive attributes to begin with. So, yeah, any help you can give? Greatly appreciated. Oh. And please don’t let me have a wardrobe malfunction and slip a nip. Muchas gracias. Amen.

  
My nerves were pretty well shot to begin with, but sitting there, crammed inside some claustrophobia-inducing limousine, waiting indefinitely for the night to get underway, was positively nail-biting. Plus, I was trying to forget that the last time I’d seen Trip emerge from a limo, my world fell apart.

   But then I made myself remember that I had asked for this. I was the one who begged and pleaded with my boyfriend to bring me to this thing. And
he
was the one who actually had to get onstage and speak!

   I took
a few deep breaths, determined to lose my anxiety, and instead focused on making sure Trip was okay. “How you doing over there, pal?”

   Trip looked cool as a cucumber.
So handsome in his tux. He gave me a calm smile, which would convince anyone else that a night like that was a common occurrence for him.

   Finally, it was our turn.

   Our door was opened, and the dull roar that I could hear from inside the car became a deafening cacophony of screeching and whistles and screams outside of it. Trip held his hand out to me, a smirk on his face, and I’m quite sure he was thinking about the last time I’d watched him escort someone out of a limousine. But he seemed much happier that this time, it was me. So was I. I made sure to exit the car while pressing my knees together, like Betty had warned me to do, and I utilized her tip so the cameras couldn’t catch my hoo-hah in a Britney Spears shot.

  
It was still daylight outside, but that didn’t stop my eyes from blinding from the flash of the million or so cameras aimed in our direction. All I wanted to do was get down the mile-long length of red carpet as quickly as possible, preferably without tripping and falling flat on my face. But every few steps, a photographer would call, “Trip! Over here!” and I’d feel Trip’s hand at the small of my back, nudging me in the direction of a camera. We’d been there for almost ten minutes, and I don’t think we made it further than ten feet down the carpet.

  
Trip had prepared me for that on the ride over. He’d explained that he always let the paparazzi take all the shots they wanted when he was at a work-related event like this. He did it in the hopes that they’d leave him alone when he was just out and about, living his life.

   Not that they did.

   But Trip was holding up
his
end of the bargain, turning toward each and every camera down that runway, smiling and waving to each and every person that called his name.

   He
leaned his head into my ear and said, “You’re doing great. Only nine thousand more pictures to go.”

   I looked at him and he gave me a quick wink, which made me laugh and helped me to relax. There I was, a
panicky mess, and my boyfriend was just eating it up. He flashed that megawatt grin, the full-force smile that always knocked me out. Me, and everyone else on the planet.

  
About midway down the carpet, I gave his hand a quick squeeze before releasing him out into the wild. At my insistence, we’d made the plan ahead of time for me to fade into the background for a few moments, in order to let Trip be
him
for a while, soak up some of that spotlight on his own. After all, this was
his
world. I was simply along for the ride.

   He was almost immediately
intercepted by a certain up-and-coming starlet, and I recognized her from the tabloids as one of the many young women Trip had been linked with over the years. She was pencil-thin and beautiful, but had a big, poofy mop of hair that reminded me of Tina Yothers. The flirty way she talked with him confirmed that there was some history there. Thankfully, he kept the conversation to a minimum, and made his escape before she could tear off her Vera Wang and jump him right there on the red carpet.