Absolutely True Lies (21 page)

“Mama, it’s okay,” Daisy said.

“Just wait for Deacon to get here,” Jamie replied, downing an overflowing shot glass. “He agrees with me. We pack her off to rehab and then see if we can get her on that D-list sober-living show.”

“Maybe I should go to college,” Daisy suggested. “And study like, gorillas or something. Be like that Sigourney Goodall lady who lives in the woods. I totally love animals.”

This earned a derisive sneer from Jamie, but he didn’t speak again until he’d taken a hearty swig right from the whiskey bottle. “Sweetheart, we had to bribe your studio teacher to pass you just so that you could get a high school diploma. You have a fourth-grade reading level. The only college that would ever take you is DeVry University, and you’d flunk out in a week.”

So no one had noticed the Sigourney Goodall thing but me? I didn’t bring it up. This conversation was quickly devolving, and I was still sitting there in my Care Bears best, wondering what the hell I was doing in that room in the first place. If they wanted me to change the tone of the book, I would have loved if someone told me what I was changing it
to
. Although the good news seemed to
be that I was keeping my job, at least for now. Though it didn’t seem like Jamie particularly wanted to pay me or anyone else at the moment. As for the comments about Daisy’s intelligence level and education, Jamie was probably right, but he didn’t need to be such a prick about it.

“If you paid to get me out of high school, why can’t you pay to get me into college?” Daisy replied snottily. I knew she wasn’t really serious, but it was a good point. Idiot legacy children buy their way into Ivy Leagues all the time.

“With what money?” Jamie asked, throwing up his hands. I wondered how much he’d had to drink before I’d even walked in the room. “In about three months, the only marketable skill you’ll have left is your ass. And I don’t think
Hustler
wages will buy Yale a new library.”

“Stop it, just stop it,” Faith screeched, covering her face with her hands. She stood up, rocking dangerously on her heels. Her mascara and eyeliner, usually so perfect, were melting in great raccoon-like circles around her bloodshot eyes. Faith was starting to look like a meth addict’s mug shot. “I want you out of this room.
Now
.”

From the kitchen area, Jamie rolled his eyes and tucked the bottle under one arm. “My pleasure. You three can whine and cry over each other all night. I’ll be at the nearest bar.” He stalked to the door and slammed it behind him.

“He’s right, you know,” Daisy said.

Faith stopped crying and turned to her daughter, sniffling loudly. “No, he’s not. He’s not right about everything. He just thinks he is.”

Daisy looked at me. “What do you think, Holly?”

Six weeks ago, I was writing reviews of low-end spas and movies everybody had already seen. Now I was sitting in the penthouse suite of a five-star hotel in Rome, counseling one of the biggest celebrities in the world. She may have just gone from famous to notorious, but that didn’t lessen her importance in the grand scheme of things. I wasn’t in any position to offer her advice, and I knew it.
I could barely get my own life in order, let alone find a way to pull Daisy off the edge of this precipice.

“I don’t know about these things,” I said.

“Oh, I know that,” Daisy replied, a touch of mockery in her voice. “But you’re like one of those boring, regular people who watch my show and buy my albums.”

No, sweetheart
,
I thought.
You’re wrong about that. But glad to know your ego is intact
.

“What I wanna know is, what would make you like me again?”

In that moment, it finally struck me as odd that Daisy was still facing jail time for drug use, possession, and possible sale, and the only thing we were talking about was resurrecting her career. Either they had already bought off someone in the Italian government and had no fear of harsh prosecution or every one of them had seriously screwed-up priorities.

As for trying to make Daisy likable again, my views were too tied up with my personal opinions to be a valid tool. But I had to say something. “Truthfully, I am really tired of famous people claiming they did nothing wrong and complaining about the consequences of their actions. I would love to see someone admit that they made a mistake and be truly committed to making amends. If anyone came out and said, ‘Yes, I have a drug problem and I’m working on it,’ I think my opinion of them would go up. Look at Robert Downey, Jr.”

“But she doesn’t have a problem,” Faith protested. I would have argued with her assertion—since it was so clearly wrong—but it can’t be easy looking at a child you raised and admitting that you’ve screwed her up twelve ways from Sunday. I didn’t expect an entirely self-aware assessment of the situation from Faith.

“That’s not what Holly’s saying, Mama,” Daisy said.

Actually, it was exactly what I was saying. How anyone could think it was perfectly normal to take “hundreds of pills” (by Daisy’s own admission) was beyond me. In my entire life, I hadn’t cumulatively taken hundreds of pills.

“She’s saying I just pretend I’m sorry and people will feel bad for me.” Her eyes were round and anime-like. Suddenly, Daisy didn’t look so worn and defeated and I could see little sparks of the idealistic ingenue back in her. Her renewed hope and optimism greatly lessened my sympathy. I had a feeling that any minute, the same old spoiled, prattling little pop star would burst forth and I’d want to strangle her.

Faith shot me a look of concern. “Our publicist said we should issue a statement saying that Daisy thought it was baby powder. She thinks we shouldn’t admit guilt.”

Baby powder, really? Who would intentionally snort baby powder? What was she going to claim, that her nose had that “not-so-fresh” feeling? “No one believes those statements” was all I said.

“But Nelly repped those video game girls who got caught stealing from the Bulgari event. She’s really expensive.”

Because expensive always equals good. I remembered Camille telling me the story about the Bulgari theft, and it was ridiculous. Two hosts from a cable video-gamer show went to a private event at the jewelry store and tried to shove necklaces and bracelets down their dresses. When they got caught, they claimed the jewelry was theirs and that they always stuffed their bras with precious metals. Even after being convicted and sent to jail for a six-month sentence (which, due to overcrowding, got shortened to five weeks), the gamer girls refused to admit guilt. To this day, they still cry foul over Bulgari taking away their “personal property” and “insulting their character.”

“Certainly you know the entertainment industry better than I, but you asked for my personal opinion. And if memory serves, those girls lost their show.”

Faith frowned. “I think you’re right. . . . Maybe we should fire Nelly; she is awfully expensive. But we did just pay to fly her over here.”

“I’m not saying you have to fire her,” I replied, chagrined. These
people were like lemmings, unable to formulate an opinion unless it was given to them. It was no wonder that Jamie was able to get away with so much. The Dixson ladies really were just looking for someone to tell them what to do. “But she does work for you. If there’s something you don’t agree with, tell her. She can’t do anything you don’t want her to.”

This earned looks of astonishment from both Daisy and Faith. It was like no one had ever imparted this wisdom to them before. “But then . . . how do we know the right thing to do?” Daisy asked.

I wanted to say “Try thinking for yourself,” but I figured that would come off as too harsh. If my chief complaint about Jamie was his condescension, I couldn’t very well start channeling the same spirit. “It’s true, we don’t always know what to do,” I admitted. “And we pay advisers and consultants to give us the benefit of their expertise. But in the end, we have to listen to that advice and do what feels like the best fit for us.”

Faith finally stopped sniffling. “Well, Deacon and Jamie want Daisy to go to rehab and Nelly wants us to say Daisy’s never seen drugs in her life.”

“What do you think, Daisy?” I asked.

“You’re the only one who ever asks what I think,” Daisy said quietly, biting her nails again.

“What? Everyone asks you what you want. We’re all here for
you
.”

A glimmer of the world-weary professional peeked out as Daisy glared at her mother. But it was just a peek; even as she spoke, the cutesy teenager was back. In fact, the shift happened so fast I wondered if I’d imagined it. “You ask what I want to drink, where I want to shop. No one asks me what I think.”

“What you
think
?” Faith parroted, perplexed.

“You’re eighteen. Almost nineteen,” I pointed out. “It’s time people stopped making decisions for you.”

Daisy looked away and resumed biting her nails. Having made
decisions for myself my entire life, I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to try to work through your first major choice at eighteen. “I want to hear what Nelly has to say,” she replied. “But I’m tired of Daddy and Jamie telling me what to do. They mess things up more than they help.” She turned to her mother. “Remember during my last contract negotiation when we nearly lost the record deal because Dad thought we should get seventy percent of the profits? He doesn’t know what he’s doing—he’s just greedy.”

“Okay, then,” Faith said. “We’ll all go to sleep early tonight and decide what to do in the morning. And thank you for your help, Holly.”

Faith and Daisy both got up and began moving around the suite, attending to tasks. I was clearly being dismissed, though my purpose in this room still hadn’t been defined. I had no idea what I was supposed to be writing about, if anything at all.

Much to my astonishment, Faith walked over and kissed me on the head. “Have a good night’s sleep, Holly.”

The move startled me into action, and I got up and walked to the door. It was only seven-thirty and I’d only just woken up, but that didn’t lessen the impact of the kiss. In my entire twenty-five years, even my mother had never made such a sweet gesture. I knew how much she cared, but she was always a little aloof. If I hugged her for too long, she’d grunt and say, “Yeah, yeah, you love me. I get it. I love you, too.”

I walked into the hallway, unsteady on my feet. I wasn’t sure what was real anymore. Or what I wanted. So I wandered through the hotel in my pajamas and slippers, finding myself at Ben’s door without even planning it.

“Hey. I guess you haven’t had a chance to change yet.”

“Oh, I’ve changed plenty,” I replied. “Listen, are you hungry?”

“Starving. I have to help my crew strike the set later tonight, but I have some time until then. Do you want to go out for dinner?”

“No. How do you feel about room service?”

CHAPTER 16

It seems like everyone always wants something from me. Sometimes it’s money, sometimes it’s power, and sometimes it’s sex. The problem is, in show business, these things are all tied up together and I can never tell which it is. I always want to believe that a person is interested in me for me, but I don’t even know if that’s happened yet. I’m starting to think it never will.

B
y the time Ben had to leave for the set, it was ten o’clock and my lips were nearly raw. I didn’t have sex with him or anything—though I’m not exactly a prude, I’ve never really believed in casual sex—but I will say that the eating portion of our hotel room date took up only about twenty minutes of our time.

When he left the hotel, I walked back up to my room and was surprised to find Vaughn sitting outside my door, texting on his phone. When he saw me, he looked up, eyeing my shorts and laughing.

“I was always a big fan of Cheer Bear.”

I unlocked my door, kicking him lightly with my slipper. “Are you the one who should be making fun?” I asked, staring down at him. “I’m not the Mr. Stalker Man waiting outside some poor, innocent girl’s hotel room.”

Vaughn heaved himself off the floor and followed me into the room without asking. “You are neither poor nor innocent.”

I threw the key onto the wardrobe and kicked off my slippers. “If my check from Jamie doesn’t clear, I will be very poor indeed.”

Vaughn walked over and flopped on my bed. There was something in the familiarity of the move that greatly unsettled me. I don’t know if I was still angry about his indecisiveness with me or weirded out because I’d just been rolling around on Ben’s bed a few floors down. Beyond that, my own bedsheets were still haphazard from my nap and it made the entire scene feel a little . . . dirty. “You should get dressed.”

“It’s ten
P.M.
Why would I get dressed?” I caught sight of myself in the mirror, realizing I looked like a refugee from a horror film slumber party.

“Because I need food. And a very large glass of wine.” Vaughn scrunched up his face in thought and then added, “Or a bottle. A large
bottle
of wine.”

I folded my arms across my chest with mock consternation. “And just how do you know I don’t already have plans?”

“Because your new little
boyfriend
had to go back to work to break down the outdoor set,” Vaughn replied. “I heard the Art Department call for him.”

I hated this. If he wanted to say something, why couldn’t he just come out with it already? And going out with Vaughn right now was a terrible idea. If I had been mentally and emotionally confused a few hours ago, the three glasses of Prosecco I’d imbibed myself since then wouldn’t help matters much. But being cooped up inside a hotel in Rome, when I might never be back here again, seemed wasteful and ludicrous. All I had to do was keep my wits about me and watch my mouth.

“Fine, one drink. Come back here in ten minutes.”

Vaughn yawned, making no move to get off my bed. “Throw on some clothes in your bathroom. It’ll take me more time to get up to my room and back than it will for you to change.”

“You’re infuriating,” I told him, grabbing a pair of jeans and a top from the wardrobe.

“It’s part of my charm,” he replied, grinning.

I went into the bathroom and shut the door firmly, hoping it seemed like I slammed the door in his face.

•  •  •

T
he concierge recommended Gusto, which took us near the riverside neighborhood of Spagna and a bustling restaurant and wine bar. As was turning out to be the case with most Roman eateries, the quiet­est place was not outside on the patio but in the very back, away from the university students looking for a hookup. And though I’d just eaten dinner, I still somehow found room for more pizza.

“God, I hope that check clears when we get back to L.A.,” I said, lifting yet another piece of greasy, cheesy pizza from the plate. “Because I am going to need a whole new wardrobe. By the end of this week, I’ll have gained at least fifteen pounds.”

“Try to tell me this food isn’t worth a few weeks of elastic-waist pants.” Vaughn had a piece of pizza in one hand and bruschetta in the other. We’d imbibed two bottles of wine between us (I had a surprising new fondness for white wines), as well as a few glasses of Prosecco sent by some Roman man who seemed determined to ignore Vaughn’s presence at our table.

I have a general rule about how much I’ll drink on any given day, and it involves stopping when I can no longer make sense of my wristwatch. But by this point, I’d been unable to tell time for quite a while and it didn’t seem to be slowing me down. I choose to believe my decision was based on the influence of Italy and not on my present company.

“Please tell me you’ve worn pants with an elastic waistband and that there are pictures.” I began giggling uncontrollably, the alcohol making everything seem funnier than it really was.

“I was the sweatpants kid for a year of middle school. I got really fat and refused to let my mom buy the ‘husky boy’ jeans.”

This sent me into a fit of laughter that doubled me over and al
most sent me to the floor. I was still clutching the upholstery of the booth when a waiter started weaving through the room shouting,
“Conto, conto!”
My face was flat against the slick booth, and the sideways legs rushing through the restaurant made my head spin.

“What does that mean?” Vaughn hissed, leaning over and ducking his head under the table to look at me.

“The check,” I replied, having looked it up after the first time I had to resort to mimicry to get my bill from a waiter. “He’s handing out people’s checks. I think it’s last call.”

“But . . .” Vaughn sat up, leaning his head back on the seat. “It’s not even one. I don’t want to go to sleep.”

It was past time to go home, and I didn’t just mean back to the hotel. It was somehow only Thursday, and though we were here until Monday, I was ready for my Roman holiday to come to an end. This whole Dixson fiasco had greatly complicated my life, and though there hadn’t been much there to begin with, it was an existence I was familiar with. I didn’t know if this was the new normal, or if these weeks were just an anomaly never to return.

“You know what the song says,” I said, wagging an unsteady finger at Vaughn. “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

He stared at me without a trace of joking and shrugged. “I’m happy to go anywhere you’re going.”

I flagged down the waiter and paid the check, suddenly desperate to get out of the restaurant. I was in dangerous territory and I knew it. The worst part was that I knew exactly how to stop it but I wasn’t sure I was willing. My constitution was weak and I hated myself for that.

I gave the waiter an obscene tip, which is considered pretty offensive in Italy, since the servers earn a living wage covered by a service charge written into the bill. It’s a lot like telling the restaurateur that you don’t trust he’s taking care of his employees. But I almost felt like I was paying him for my escape rather than my meal and drinks. As I executed the transaction and waved away my change, I noticed
that Vaughn was too close to me for comfort. He lurked right at my back, invading my personal space and further clouding my already questionable judgment. As soon as he ever-so-casually put a hand to the small of my back, I bolted out the front door.

Once outside, I started to look around for a cab, but he grabbed my hand and dragged me down the street to the tree-lined Tiber river walk.

“We have to go back to the hotel,” I said and pulled back, making very little real effort to disentangle myself from his fingers. His hand was smooth and soft, and cool to the touch. I tried to remember what Ben’s hands felt like, but couldn’t. I told myself that it was because of my current state of inebriation. I also couldn’t figure out why everyone suddenly wanted to hold my hand.

“Why?” Vaughn asked, tugging me toward the river, which glittered from the lights reflecting off its surface. “This is Rome, for God’s sake! It’s the most romantic city in the world.”

“Isn’t Paris supposed to be the most romantic city?” I asked, stumbling along after my hand. I was having this encounter with the wrong man, my brain screamed. If the word
romantic
was going to figure in a conversation with Vaughn, it should have happened before now. What was I doing and why wasn’t I running down the street away from him?

“I’ve never been to Paris,” he replied.

We reached the river’s edge and I ran my free hand against the cold stone of the wall, needing something calm and steady to hold me up. Abruptly, he spun me around and pressed me up against the wall, his body just centimeters from mine. Vaughn finally let go of me, but then used his now free hand to reach up and graze the outline of my chin. I felt frozen, ashamed of what I was allowing to happen, but so desperate to let it all play out the way I’d wanted it to.

“What are you doing?” I asked in something between a whisper and a moan.

Vaughn leaned very close to my face, his lips so close to mine that
I could feel his ragged exhalations. The sensation rippled across my skin, making me dizzy. “I don’t know,” he replied, his tone sincere.

I thought he was going to kiss me, but Vaughn only touched his forehead to mine. In that moment, it felt just as intimate.

“I don’t want you to date Ben.” He sighed.

“Why?” I knew the answer to that question, but I had to ask.

Before he answered, Vaughn dragged his nose lightly across the tip of my own. Even now, he was still toying with me. It was maddening, but I felt powerless to stop it. “You know why.”

I jerked my head back, just out of his reach. I was already making this too easy for him. “No, I don’t. Tell me.”

He reached up and threaded his fingers into my hair, grasping gently but with just enough force that it momentarily stopped my breath in my throat. “You shouldn’t be with him.”

There was so much left unsaid at the end of that sentence. I felt like I was losing my mind. I couldn’t possibly be misinterpreting his meaning; why couldn’t he just make the words come out of his mouth like a normal person?

I could feel my lower lip jutting out in a decided pout. The alarm bells were going off in my brain, and I knew that if I wasn’t careful, the alcohol would shortly turn me into an annoying, sobbing mess. I could already feel the pressure of the moisture creeping out from the corners of my eyes.

“Then say it. We’re not teenagers. I’m tired of playing games with you.”

Instead of answering, he kissed me. His lips were hard, forceful—almost biting. His hands wrapped around the sides of my face, pulling me deeper into his orbit. I’d thought about this a million times since our odd little dinner on the balcony in Miami. There were so many moments I’d hoped for this, even prepared myself for it, and now. . . . It felt wrong. Not because I didn’t like the kiss. But in light of his strange behavior and my increasing attraction to Ben, I couldn’t enjoy it.

I was the one to finally pull away, but it probably took me far too long to do it. “I have to go,” I said. I pushed away and tried to walk back toward the street, the alcohol in my system making the pavement feel uneven.

“Then let’s go,” he said. “Come back to the hotel with me.”

“We’re staying in the same hotel.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He chased after me, trying to grab my hands. I yanked them out of reach.

“I know what you meant.” I kept moving toward the street, which seemed impossibly far away. I didn’t turn back to look at Vaughn because I was afraid if he tried to kiss me again, I wouldn’t resist. “And you know why I can’t.”

“Because of Benji?” Vaughn’s tone was derisive, mocking.

“Benji is a dog’s name.” I hadn’t asked Ben how he felt about the nickname, but I had a sneaking suspicion he didn’t love it.

Vaughn increased his speed, coming up right behind me and lightly putting his hands on my hips. “I’m better than that guy.”

I whirled around, pushing away his hands. “What makes you think that? You had a million chances to make a move on me before tonight and you didn’t take them. And then as soon as someone else expresses interest I’m suddenly worth the effort?”

“Are you mad at me or you?” If I didn’t appreciate Vaughn’s condescending “Dad” voice, I really didn’t like his mocking tone, either. There was something aggressive about it that made me nervous.

“Sometimes I think I’ve got a handle on you,” I said. I started moving again, backing away from him slowly. “Then you become this other person. The truth is, I don’t know who you are or what you want.”

“I want everything,” he blurted out.

I didn’t understand what that meant, but I got the sense it was the truest thing he’d said to me since the moment we met. “Then it’s too bad that’s not the way the world works.”

I finally reached the street and started to head for the piazza on the opposite side. Even though we’d only been outside for about twenty minutes, the neighborhood had fallen fast asleep. There wasn’t a taxi or moving vehicle anywhere in my range of sight. And owing to the endlessly flowing Roman vino, I couldn’t remember how to get back to the InterContinental.

I could hear him following along behind me, though his gait had slowed. “Holly, please. Let’s talk about this. We can get some coffee and—”

I didn’t turn around, but I did hold out my hand for Vaughn to remain where he was. “Just stay away from me, at least for right now. We’ll talk tomorrow. ”

This time, he didn’t try to follow.

•  •  •

I
t took me a few attempts, but I managed to find my way back to the hotel without help. It was only a five or so minute walk, but I still found the street signs a little fuzzy, making the trip far longer than that.

My mood worsened as I walked into the lobby and saw Vaughn was already there, hanging out with several male crew members. The guys were all talking and laughing, and Vaughn looked like he didn’t have a care in the world. As I crossed to the elevator, I heard him say, “It’s early, there must be an open bar around here somewhere.” He didn’t even look at me as I passed.