What I Did for Love (3 page)

“Ease up, Bram,” Trevor said. “She’s had a tough year.”

“The downside of being worshipped,” Bram replied.

Trev sniffed. “Nothing you’ll ever have to worry about.”

Bram picked up her abandoned margarita, sipped, and shud
dered at the taste. “I’ve never seen the public take a celebrity divorce so personally. I’m surprised none of your crazed fans set themselves on fire.”

“People feel like Georgie’s family,” Trevor said. “They grew up with Scooter Brown.”

Bram set the glass down. “They grew up with me, too.”

“But Georgie and Scooter are basically the same person,” Trevor pointed out. “You and Skip aren’t.”

“Thank God.” Bram rose from the chaise. “I still hate that uptight little preppy prick.”

But Georgie had loved Skip Scofield. She’d loved everything about him. His big heart, his loyalty, the way he’d tried to protect Scooter from the Scofield family. The way he’d eventually fallen in love with her silly round face and rubber-band mouth. She’d loved everything except the man Skip turned into when the cameras stopped rolling.

The three of them had fallen back into their old pattern—Bram on the attack and Trevor defending her. But she wasn’t a kid any longer, and she needed to defend herself. “I don’t think you hate Skip at all. I think you always wanted to be Skip, but you fell so far short of the mark that you had to pretend to despise him.”

Bram yawned. “Maybe you’re right. Trev, are you sure no one’s left any weed lying around? Or even a cigarette?”

“I’m sure,” Trevor said, just as the phone rang. “Don’t kill each other while I answer that.”

Trevor went inside.

She wanted to punish Bram for being exactly who he was. “I could have been trampled to death today. Thanks for nothing.”

“You were handling it. And without Daddy. Now that was the real surprise.”

She stared him down. “What do you want, Bram? We both know your showing up here isn’t an accident.”

He rose, wandered toward the railing, and peered down at the beach. “If Trev had been stupid enough to take you up on your bizarre offer, what would you have done for a sex life?”

“Right. That’s something I’m going to talk to you about.”

“Who better to confide in?” he said. “I was there at the beginning, remember?”

She couldn’t bear another moment, and she spun toward the French doors.

“Just out of curiosity, Scoot…,” he said from behind her. “Now that Trev’s rejected you, who’s next in line to be Mr. Georgie York?”

She pasted on a smile full of mockery and turned back. “Aren’t you sweet to tax that big evil head of yours worrying about my future when your own life is such a screwed-up mess.” Her hand was trembling, but she gave what she hoped passed for a jaunty wave and went inside. Trev had just gotten off the phone, but she was too drained to do more than ask him to at least consider her idea.

By the time she reached Pacific Palisades, she was so tightly coiled she ached. She ignored the photographer parked at the end of her court and turned into a narrow driveway that curled down to an unassuming pseudo-Mediterranean ranch that could have fit into her former home’s swimming pool. She hadn’t been able to bear staying in the house where she and Lance had lived. This rental came furnished with bulky pieces that were too heavy for the small rooms, just as the ceilings were too low for the rough wooden beams, but she didn’t care enough to look for another place.

She cranked open a bedroom window, then made herself check her voice mail.

“Georgie, I saw the stupid tabloid, and—”

Delete

“Georgie, I’m so sorry—”

Delete

“He’s a bastard, kiddo, and you’re—”

Delete

Her friends were well meaning—most of them, anyway—but their nonstop sympathy choked her. She wanted to be the one handing out sympathy for a change, not always having to receive it.

“Georgie, call me immediately.” Her father’s crisp voice filled the room. “There’s a photo in the new
Flash
that’s bound to upset you. I don’t want you to be taken off guard.”

Too late, Daddy.

“It’s important that you rise to the occasion. I’ve e-mailed Aaron a statement to post on your Web site telling the world how happy you are for Lance. I’m sure you know—”

She jammed the delete button. Why couldn’t her father just once behave like a father instead of a manager? He’d begun building her career when she was five, less than a year after her mother’s death. He’d accompanied her to every cattle call, orchestrated her first television commercials, and forced her to take the singing and dancing lessons that had won her the starring role in the Broadway revival of
Annie,
the part that had led to her casting as Scooter Brown. Unlike so many other parents of child stars, her father had made sure her money was wisely invested. Thanks to him, she’d never have to work again, and while she was grateful he’d watched after her money so well, she’d give up every penny to have had a real father.

She stepped back from the phone as she heard Lance’s voice. “Georgie, it’s me,” he said softly. “We arrived in the Philippines yesterday. I just heard about a story in
Flash
…I don’t know if you’ve seen it yet. I—I wanted to tell you myself before you read about it. Jade is pregnant…”

She listened to his message all the way to the end. She heard the guilt in his voice, the entreaty, the pride he wasn’t a good enough actor to conceal. He still wanted her to forgive him for leaving, to forgive him for lying to the press about how she hadn’t
wanted a baby. Lance was an actor, with an actor’s need for everyone to love him, even the woman whose heart he’d broken. He wanted her to hand him a free pass on guilt. But she couldn’t. She’d given him everything. Not just her heart, not just her body, but everything she had, and look where it had taken her.

She sank down against the couch. It had been a year, and here she was. Crying again. When was she going to get over it? When was she going to stop acting exactly like the loser the world believed her to be? If she kept on like this, the bitterness eating away inside her would win, and she’d turn into a person she didn’t want to be. She needed to do something—anything—that would make her look—that would make her
feel
—like a winner.

What
would Scooter Brown do? That was the question Georgie kept asking herself, and that was how she ended up crossing the outdoor patio at The Ivy to a table right by the restaurant’s famous white picket fence. Scooter Brown, the spunky orphaned stowaway who’d hidden in the servants’ quarters of the Scofield estate to keep herself out of foster care, would have taken charge of her own destiny, and it was long past time for Georgie to do exactly that.

She waved at a big-name rapper, acknowledged a talk-show host, and blew a kiss toward a former
Grey’s Anatomy
star. Only Rory Keene, the new head of Vortex Studios, was too absorbed in her luncheon conversation with a C.A.A. honcho to notice Georgie’s arrival.

Item number one on Georgie’s new list:
Be seen with the perfect man.
With that humiliating photograph of her staring at the sonogram of Lance’s baby plastered everywhere, she had to stop hiding and do what she should have done months ago. Today’s lunch date needed to be big enough news for everyone to forget her stricken expression.

Unfortunately, the perfect man she’d chosen for her first date hadn’t arrived, forcing her to sit at an empty table for two. Georgie tried to look as though she was happy to have a few extra minutes to herself. She couldn’t get mad at Trevor. Maybe she hadn’t been
able to convince him to get married, but at least he’d agreed to step into her media circus for a few weeks.

The Ivy was an L.A. institution, the perfect place to see and be seen, with an army of paparazzi permanently camped out in front. Celebrities who dined at Ivy and pretended to be annoyed by the attention they received were the world’s biggest hypocrites, especially those who sat outside on the patio where the weathered picket fence ran alongside the sidewalk and busy Robertson Boulevard.

Georgie settled under a white umbrella. Drinking wine at lunch could signal she was drowning her troubles in alcohol, so she ordered iced tea. Two women paused on the sidewalk beyond the picket fence to gawk at her.
Where was Trevor?

Her plan was simple. Instead of avoiding publicity, she’d court it, but on her terms—as a single woman having the time of her life. She’d spend a few weeks with one perfect man, a few weeks with another. She wouldn’t date any of them long enough to suggest a serious love affair. Just fun, fun, fun accompanied by lots of photos of her laughing and enjoying herself—photos that her publicist would make certain were well distributed. She knew a dozen great-looking actors who were anxious for publicity and understood the rules of the game. Trevor would kick off her campaign. If only he weren’t so averse to being on time.

And if only the whole idea of voluntarily encouraging publicity weren’t so repugnant.

Five minutes ticked by. She’d dressed exactly right for the occasion in the outfit her talented stylist had picked out for her—a black cotton sundress with wide scarlet piping at the bodice and a scatter of free-form tan and brown leaves tumbling down the short, narrow skirt. Matching ankle-wrapped brown wedges and amber earrings completed the look of casual, offbeat sophistication that suited her better than either frills or slut-clothes. She’d had the dress skillfully fit to camouflage her weight loss.

Eight minutes had passed. Rory Keene finally spotted her and gave a friendly wave. Georgie waved back. Fifteen years earlier, during the second season of
Skip and Scooter,
Rory had been a lowly production assistant, but now she was the head of Vortex Studios and one of the most powerful women in Hollywood. Since Georgie’s last two films had been box-office flops and her newest one promised to do even worse, she hated having someone so influential see her sitting here looking like a loser. But then, what was new about that?

She never used to be a defeatist, and she had to stop thinking like one. Except ten minutes had elapsed…

Georgie pretended not to notice the stares she was receiving, but she’d started to perspire. Being alone at The Ivy was tantamount to a public shunning. She debated flipping open her cell, but she didn’t want to look as though she had to track down her date.

Across the patio, a group of thin, painstakingly stylish young heiresses with beautiful, vacant faces had gathered for lunch. They included the vapid daughters of a fading rock star, a studio mogul, and an international soft drink tycoon. The girls were famous for being famous—icons of everything that was trendy and scrumptiously unaffordable for the ordinary women who poured over their photos. None of them wanted to admit they lived off Daddy’s money, so they tended to list their occupation as “purse designer.” But their real job was being photographed, and their leader, the soft drink heiress, rose from the table and glided like a sleek Ferrari toward Georgie.

“Hi, I’m Madison Merrill. We haven’t met.” She angled her hips for the long lenses of the paparazzi across the street, giving them a flattering view of her Stella McCartney trapeze dress. “I just loved you in
Summer in the City.
I don’t understand why it wasn’t a big hit. I love romantic comedies.” A crease dented her perfect forehead, and she hastily added, “I mean, I love serious stuff, too, like, you know, Scorcese and everything.”

“I understand.” Georgie offered up her perky smile and imagined the paparazzi clicking away, getting great photos of the fabulously photogenic Madison Merrill standing by an emaciated Georgie York, who was seated
alone
at a table for two.

“
Skip and Scooter
was great, too.” Madison moved a few steps back so the table umbrella didn’t shadow her face. “It was my favorite TV show when I was like nine.”

The girl was too stupid to be subtle. She’d have to work on that if she wanted to stay ahead in L.A.

Madison gazed at the empty chair. “I’ve got to get back to my friends. You could like sit with us if you don’t have anybody to eat with?” She made the statement into a question.

Georgie tugged on one of her amber earrings. “Oh, no. He got held up in a meeting. I promised I’d wait for him. Men.”

“I guess.” Madison waved at the photographers and trotted back to her seat.

Georgie felt as if a flashing neon arrow was pointing at the empty chair across the table. Thousands of men all around the world—millions of them—would give anything to have lunch with Skipper Brown, but she’d had to pick her unreliable former best friend.

Georgie’s server popped up for the third time. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to order now, Miss York?”

Georgie was trapped. She couldn’t stay. She couldn’t leave. “Another iced tea, please.”

The server disappeared. Georgie lifted her wrist and gazed pointedly at her watch. She couldn’t put it off. She had to pretend to be getting a call. It would be her date telling her he’d been in an automobile accident. First she’d pretend to be concerned, then she’d be relieved that no one was hurt, then she’d be totally understanding.

Stood Up! Mystery Man Ditches Date with Georgie

She could already see the photo of herself alone at a table for two. How could such a basic plan have backfired so quickly? She
should start traveling with an entourage like every other celebrity, but she’d always hated the idea of being surrounded by paid companionship.

As she reached for her cell, she grew aware of a subtle shift in the atmosphere, an invisible electric current zipping across the patio. She looked up and her blood froze. Bramwell Shepard had just walked in.

Heads ping-ponged all over the patio, bouncing from Bram to her and then back again. He was dressed like the aimless second son of an exiled European monarch: a designer blazer—probably Gucci—great jeans that emphasized all six feet two inches of his height; and a faded black T-shirt that signified he didn’t give a damn. A pair of male models ogled him enviously. Madison Merrill half rose from her chair to intercept him. But Bram was heading right toward Georgie.

Car brakes squealed as the paparazzi dashed into the traffic from across the street to get the shot of the week, maybe the entire month, since they hadn’t been seen together since the show ended. Bram reached her table, ducked under the umbrella, and brushed a kiss over her lips. “Trev couldn’t make it.” He kept his voice low against eavesdroppers. “Unavoidable last-minute circumstances.”

“I can’t believe you’re doing this!” She could believe it. Bram wanted something from her—maybe a public scene? She forced her frozen lips into what she hoped the cameras would register as a smile. “What did you do to him?”

“So much suspicion. Poor guy wrenched his back getting out of the shower.” Bram settled into the chair across from her, keeping his voice as quiet as hers and offering up his most seductive smile.

“Then why didn’t he call me and cancel?” she said.

“He didn’t want to bring up bad memories. Like the way Lance the Loser canceled your marriage. Trev’s thoughtful that way.”

Her smile broadened, but her whisper was venomous. “You’re trying to set me up. I know it.”

Bram faked amused laughter. “Talk about paranoid. And ungrateful. Even though Trev was writhing in pain, he didn’t want to make you sit here by yourself. You might not know this, Scoot, but everybody in town already feels sorry for you, and Trev couldn’t stand embarrassing you even more than you’ve embarrassed yourself. Which is why he called me.”

She rested her cheek in her hand and gazed at him with counterfeit affection. “You’re lying. He knows how I feel about you better than anyone.”

“You should be thankful I was willing to help you out.”

“Then why did you show up half an hour late?”

“You know I’ve always had trouble with time.”

“Bull!” She grinned for the cameras until her cheeks ached. “You wanted to make a big entrance. At my expense.”

He kept smiling, too, and she tilted her head and laughed, and he reached across the table and chucked her under the chin, and it was
Skip and Scooter
all over again.

By the time the server appeared, the crowd of photographers on the sidewalk had spilled into the street, and her stomach was a mass of knots. Within minutes these photos would be popping up on computer screens all around the world, and the circus would pick up steam.

“Crab cakes for Scooter here,” Bram said with an elegant flick of his hand. “Scotch on the rocks for me. Laphroaig. And lobster ravioli.” The waiter disappeared. “God, I need a cigarette.”

He picked up her hand and rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. Her skin burned at his unwelcome touch. She felt a callus on the bottom of his finger and couldn’t imagine how it had gotten there. Bram might have grown up in a rough neighborhood, but he’d never worked hard in his life. She came up with a merry laugh. “I hate you.”

He took a drink from her iced tea glass and let the chiseled edges of his mouth curl into a smile. “The feeling’s mutual.”

Bram had no reason to hate her. She’d been the good soldier while he’d single-handedly ruined one of the best sitcoms in television history. During the first two years of
Skip and Scooter,
he’d only occasionally misbehaved, but as the years passed, he’d grown more uncontrollable, and by the time Skip and Scooter’s on-screen relationship had begun to turn romantic, he cared about nothing but having a good time. He spent money as fast as he earned it on fancy cars, a designer wardrobe, and supporting an army of hangers-on from his childhood. The cast didn’t know from one day to the next whether he’d show up on the set drunk or sober, whether he’d show up at all. He totaled cars, trashed dance clubs, and shrugged off any attempts to curb his recklessness. Nothing was safe from him, not women, reputations, or a crew member’s drug stash.

If he’d been playing a darker character, the show might have survived the sex tape that had surfaced at the end of season eight, but Bram played buttoned-down, good guy Skip Scofield, youthful heir to the Scofield fortune, and even the most loyal fans were outraged by what they saw.
Skip and Scooter
was canceled a few weeks later, earning him the wrath of the public and the hatred of everyone connected with the show.

Their meal dragged on until Georgie couldn’t bear it. She set down her fork next to her dismantled, uneaten crab cake, studied her watch, and tried to look as if Christmas Day had unfortunately come to an end. “Aw…Too bad. I have to go.”

Bram speared the final bite of his ravioli and thrust his fork in her mouth. “Not so fast. You can’t leave Ivy without having dessert.”

“Don’t you dare prolong this farce.”

“Careful. You’re losing your happy face.”

She choked down the ravioli and pasted her smile back on. “You’re broke, aren’t you? My father invested my money, but you squandered yours. That’s why you’re doing this. No one will give you a job because you’re unreliable, and you need publicity to get back on your feet.” Although Bram still worked, he only got minor
parts these days, playing morally weak characters—a cheating husband, a lecherous drunk—not even meaty villains. “You’re so desperate you have to piggyback off my press coverage.”

“You’ve got to admit it’s working.
Skip and Scooter
together again.” He lifted his hand for their server, who hurried over. “We’ll have the pecan shortcake with hot fudge sauce. Two spoons.”

When the server was gone, she leaned forward and dropped her voice even lower. “How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways. I hate thee for making my childhood miserable…”

“You were fifteen when the series started. Not exactly a kid.”

“But Scooter was only fourteen, and I was naïve.”

“I’ll say.”

“I hate you for embarrassing me in front of the cast, the crew, the press, in front of
everybody
—with your stupid practical jokes.”

“Who knew you’d keep falling for them?”

“I hate you for all the hours I spent sitting around the set waiting for you.”

“Unprofessional, I’ll admit. But you kept your nose buried in books, so you should thank me for your superior education.”

“And for your sleazeball behavior that got us canceled and cost me millions.”