Under the Lights (2 page)

I don't really need a new assistant. After all, before I hired Ally, I was doing just fine with only an agent (who's since been replaced), a manager (who quit after I hooked up with his daughter…okay, daughters), a driver, and a maid. But as I walk around my bedroom in the Malibu beach house I've turned into my fulltime residence, I feel like she's inserted herself into my life as a necessity.

Nannette's birthday—send sunflowers!
her purple pen screams from the August 4th square of the calendar she replaces on my wall every month.
Always wear Ben Sherman to Esquivel—hostess is dating a designer's brother
is on a Post-it wall in the closet.
Call
your grandmother on Fridays at three
is next to the Bang & Olufsen on my nightstand.

Try getting your agent or manager to find out the best time to call your grandmother in her nursing home, taking into account when all her friends will be around and she can show off your name on her caller ID, essentially making her weekend. I dare you.

That same phone rings now, which triggers a feeling of dread in my gut, like I'm one of Pavlov's fucking puppies. Only one person calls the house phone here rather than my cell, and it's not someone I possess any desire to talk to, ever. Unfortunately, I can't exactly ignore her, either. I snatch the phone and drop onto my bed, answering it without bothering to glance at the screen.

“What is it, Marsha?” I ask, already bored with the conversation that hasn't started yet.

“For the billionth time, Joshua, it's Yvette. Or Mother, if you're feeling novel.”

I roll my eyes. Yvette is the fucking stupid name she chose when she first started auditioning a billion years ago and landed on
Time Goes By
, the absurd soap that's been her baby for longer than I have. As if she's fooling anyone into thinking she's exotic and French instead of a one-time diner waitress from Oklahoma.

Sort of like how she pretends she's thirty-four, even though she's got a nineteen-year-old son who's more famous than she is.

“How can I help you?”

“You can come to dinner tonight, at the house,” she says coolly, referring to the thirty-room mansion she and my father occupy in Bel-Air, although they reside in different wings. “I thought it would be nice to eat together, as a family.”

We have never, in as far as I can recall, done anything as a family.

Unless it was for publicity.

“Photo shoot?”

She sighs. “No, Joshua, not a photo shoot. I just want us all to eat together. Is that so much to ask? Elaine is preparing those pork chops you like.”

“I have literally no idea which pork chops you're referring to.”

“Seven o'clock,” she says huffily. Then her voice brightens a bit. “I look forward to seeing you then!”

It's hard to say who hangs up faster.

I'm not sure when's the last time I saw both my parents in the same room, but it's obvious there's something behind this stupid dinner, and I won't find out what until I go. Just as well—I don't have dinner plans anyway, unless you count the tequila I expect to be licking out of a belly button later. But I'm not meeting Paz and Hudson until eleven, so I jump in the shower, throw on jeans and a T-shirt I know my mother will hate, and tell my driver, Ronen, to be out front at six thirty—that should get me there about half an hour late.

“I asked you to be here at seven, Joshua,” she says tightly when I arrive, her eyes narrowing on my outfit. “And is it so much to ask that you dress like an adult for dinner? If you're old enough to live by yourself in the beach house, you're old enough to put on a button-down. Go get dressed.”

“You want me to head back out?” I jerk my thumb toward the door. “I mean, sure, but I won't be back for a couple of hours.”

“You have plenty of clothing in your room upstairs. Go change into something presentable and then join us.”

“There
is
a photo shoot, isn't there.”

“
Harold!
” she calls out impatiently. As if my dad gives a shit what I wear to dinner.

“Do what your mother says, Joshua,” I hear, and I look up to see him sitting at the kitchen counter, a bunch of papers spread out in front of him, a pen in his teeth. Clearly, he has no more desire to be here than I do, to the surprise of absolutely fucking nobody.

I'm already sick of this whole night, so I choose the path of least resistance and haul my ass upstairs to get a shirt. It's true I've left plenty of shit in this house. I make a mental note to have Ally deal with clearing it out. The less I have tying me to this place, the better.

It's almost eight by the time we actually sit down to the stupid farce of a dinner, and though I know I've never had Elaine's pork chops before, they're pretty damn good. My mom amps up the small talk, putting her acting skills to maximum use as she pretends to give a shit about my life.

“Have you talked to Calvin about your next project?” she asks me, taking a tiny bite of cucumber, not even pretending she'll be eating more than half a salad for dinner.

“I dropped Calvin a year ago,” I remind her dully, though that's not exactly the truth of how it went down. “Holly Bremen's my agent now.”

“Right, right. Well, Holly, then?”

“I'm having dinner with her tomorrow.” I exhale sharply and take a long drink from my wineglass, even though my mom's preferred pinot noir tastes like ass. “Can we get to the point of this dinner?”

“Joshua—”

“He's right, Yvette,” Harold says flatly. “I have work to do. If there's something you need, just say it.”

She sucks in a sharp, insulted breath and forces a single tear into her eye. It's her signature move, and you'd think she'd know by now that it doesn't move either me or my father for a second. We know all her soap actress shit backward and forward. “So much for the support of family. I'm really counting on you both in this difficult time.”

“Your parents are already dead, Yvette, so whatever it is, just spit it out.”

I nearly choke on my wine when I laugh. I forgot just how much of a dick my father can be.

“My show's been canceled,” she says icily. “You happy now, asshole?”

Huh. For a second, I think I might actually feel… bad for my mother. Granted, she's a pretty lousy actress, and the show's terrible, but it's her entire fucking life. She was on that show when she met my dad. Her pregnancy with me is actually documented in some sort of terrible borderline-incest storyline. When I was little, I used to think it was cool to watch those episodes and point myself out in her belly. At least until she'd shut off the TV because she hated the way seeing herself pregnant reminded her of having cankles.

Harold must feel the same twinge of sympathy I do, because he actually musters up an “I'm sorry to hear that, Yvette.”

“Me too,” I mumble.

Just like that, the sugary smile jumps back onto her face. “I'm so glad to hear that the two of you are in my corner, just like I knew you would be. I think you're going to love the idea I have for my next move, now that I'll have some free time.”

Some
free time? I snort. As if my mother does anything other than the show and get trashed on wine coolers at her favorite spa.

She ignores me and plows onward. “And really, wouldn't it be nice to have some more time together as a family? I think this is really something that will bring us all together.”

And just like that, I know exactly what she's going to say. “I am
not
doing a fucking reality show, Marsha.”

“Oh, Yvette…” Harold sighs. “Come on.”

“What happened to your support?” she demands. “I need you both on board with this. It's important for me to maintain an onscreen presence.”

“Why can't you just jump to another soap?” I ask.

“Because that sneaky bitch Laura is screwing Tom and he told her the show was tanking weeks before anyone else found out. She already snatched up the role on
Myrtle's Beach
I would've been perfect for.”

“What about that other one?” asks Harold. “The one with the redhead.”

“I've had creative differences with one of the producers.” Which probably means she's fucked him. Fantastic. “Anyway, I've been on
Time Goes By
for twenty years, and I think it's time to do something different, get my name and face out there to a new audience. We could
all
use that, couldn't we?”

“I'm not exactly hurting for clients,” Harold says wryly.

“I'm doing fine, too, thanks for asking.”

She glares daggers at me, then turns to my father. “You're absolutely correct, Harold. I didn't mean to suggest you needed any assistance. But I'd love to have you on every now and again.”

Funny how she didn't offer me the same option. And I blame the fact that I seem to have drunk the
entire bottle of wine in front of me for why it took me so long to realize why. “You need me, don't you? I'm a condition of you getting this show.”

She clutches the stem of her wineglass until her bony knuckles turn white. “The studio did mention that they would be interested in featuring my son alongside me, yes.”

I shake my head. “Un-fucking-believable.”

Harold sighs, but when I glance over at him, he's typing furiously on the ancient BlackBerry he insists on using. He's clearly checked out of this conversation; it's just me and Marsha now.

“Is this really so much to ask?” she all but spits.

“A reality show?
Yes
, it's a lot to ask.”

Her jaw clenches, and then it relaxes and she takes a sip of wine. “Well, then, given that obviously we'll have to be tightening some purse strings around here, I must say, I look forward to having you back here, Joshua.”

I roll my eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, now that we're losing my income we'll obviously have to give up some things. And the beach house really is one of our most expensive assets. Considering neither your father nor I ever use it…”

“I'll buy the damn thing from you, if that's what you want.”

But of course it isn't. She smiles evilly. “Well, as it happens, I've been approached about the house a number of times. I'd have to consider all offers.”

She knows I can't outbid anyone. Hell, I probably can't even pay market value. Modeling and doing appearances pays, but it doesn't pay Malibu-beach-house money. “You're seriously blackmailing me with my fucking house to get me to do your stupid show?”

She takes another sip of wine, then turns to my father. “How are your pork chops, dear?”

He mumbles something under his breath as he continues to send e-mails.

“Well, this has been lovely,” I declare, wiping off my mouth and dropping my napkin on the table. “I'll be in touch.” Pushing back my chair, I enjoy the way the screech against the hardwood makes my mother wince, and then I pull out my phone and head back up to my old room. Much as I hate to admit it, I need a job that actually pays. I brace myself for a patented Ally “I told you so” and dial.

“What's up, Josh?” She's just out of breath enough for me to know I've interrupted something good. It gives me twisted joy to know Liam probably wants to punch me in the nuts right now.

“A script. Pick one. Whichever one you think will have the highest price tag attached. Fuck, pick all of 'em. Just talk to Holly and set up the auditions.”

She's trying not to laugh, but she's a lousy actress. “For real? Will you actually show up?”

“Yeah. Whenever. You know my schedule.”

“Better than I know my own,” she says cheerfully. “Anything else?”

There's a fumbling, and then I hear, “Yes.” Liam's grabbed her phone. “Don't worry, Chester. I'll pass along your very important message requiring Ally to keep making out with me now. I assure you she's doing a fantastic job.” Then he hangs up on me.

I sigh and text Ronen to come back and pick me up. I need to get out of this house and into a bottle of Patrón.

Tell me again
why
you're even bothering to try to dig Josh Chester out of his apathetic little hole when you have about a billion better things to do right now?” I slide back into the passenger seat of Ally's car, skinny iced hazelnut latté in hand, and check my reflection in the side mirror. Oof. I need to log some tanning hours, stat.

She gets in the driver's seat and puts her own vanilla latté in the cup holder between us. “Trust me—he needs this. And he
will
step up. Eventually. I know Josh.”

“Which is still just so weird.” I take my first sip while she starts the car. “I can't believe you've survived working for him for over a year. I don't think anyone other than his driver's done that, and he's Israeli army.”