Accidental It Girl (13 page)

W
hat are you two doing here?” I ask, shocked to find Luke and Brooke sitting in the living room on a work-day. “I thought you had a premiere, Luke.”

I stumble into the apartment, dragging my injured leg behind me. In one swift motion, Brooke mutes the television and shoots up out of her seat. Startled, Luke mimics Brooke, then moves swiftly to her side. His pale green eyes are grave, troubled. He nervously shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

“Sadie,” Brooke croons, “we have something to tell you.”

“Oh, God! Someone died.”

“No, no one's dead. But you may want to sit down for this,” she says calmly.

Brooke elbows Luke sharply in the ribs. He responds by shuffling to my side, taking my arm, and guiding me to the nearest chair.

“What is it?” I ask, becoming increasingly concerned at the anxiety on Brooke's face, and the dense fog of tension and apprehension that seems to be permeating every square inch of our apartment.

“Apparently, well…” Brooke begins. “Um…” Brooke turns to Luke for help.

He starts, “Brooke saw something today. And then she called me and we did a little digging and…well, somebody…I mean, it seems a large number of somebodys think that you're dating Duncan Stoke.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “I know.
Celeb,
right? I just came from seeing Todd. I thought it might have been one of his pranks. But—”

“It's not just
Celeb,
Sadie,” interrupts Brooke. “I saw it online—”

“Online?” I yelp.

“And…” Brooke's voice trails off. She grabs a stack of newspaper and sheaves of printer paper. As if in slow motion I watch as Brooke lays each of the publications in a fan shape on the coffee table.

The room slowly, subtly begins to spin around me. I turn my head away from the coffee table and watch the closed captioning on the muted TV spell out CNN's latest on the world's natural disasters—earthquakes, floods, Tom Cruise's love life. I half expect to see “Sadie Price framed as Duncan Stoke's girlfriend…” tick across the screen.

The heavy thumping in my chest begins to slow, and the panic I've felt for the last several hours shifts smoothly, quietly into a sort of numbness.

I have now entered an alternate reality.

Each of the magazines features a picture of me. I'm in
all
the papers. Assorted shots of me walking, chattering on my new cell phone, and rubbing expensive silk panties against my cheek are in no fewer than three New York dailies, one national daily, two glossies, and on countless websites.

I. Am. Famous.

I am famous for being the burrito-loving, panty-sniffing secret girlfriend of a celebrity whose name sounds remarkably like that of a porn star. In other words, my life is now the stuff of farce. In two days I've gone from relatively ordinary, skipped straight past slightly odd, rocketed over fairly bizarre, and landed right in unbelievably weird territory.

Oh, but on the bright side, I've finally managed to wrangle myself a boyfriend who is both inattentive and emotionally unavailable. Well done, me.

“One paper could be an accident…a mistake. But this…” I say, pointing to the massive collection of photos and stories. “This is something…
different
.” I've never seen anything like it. Ever.

“And all the papers on the same day,” adds Luke. “It's not even like
Celeb
had it and the bad information spread to the other papers. That would take weeks, not hours—”

“We're talking in circles,” says Brooke.

“Do you have any enemies? Anyone who might want to harm you in any way?” Luke asks. He obviously got all his investigative skills from watching prime-time cop dramas. He sounds exactly like a character from
Law & Order
.

“Do you think if I knew who took these I'd be
here
? No, I'd be out beating him or her to a bloody pulp.”

“Are you dating him?” asks Brooke with just the slightest hint of jealousy in her voice.

“No. Are you kidding? No!”

Brooke's shoulders slump down a little, her whole demeanor switches from empathy to relief. “Right. Of course.”

I can do nothing but shake my head at her. She actually thought I stole her fantasy man. This is so bizarre.

I reach across the coffee table and pick up the phone receiver to dial Todd's number; I need to see if he's found anything out.

Great, there's no freaking dial tone.

“What's wrong with the phone?” I ask indignantly.

“We had to unplug it,” replies Luke.

“It's been ringing off the hook since we got here,” adds Brooke.

“Could you please plug it in for me?” I ask Luke. “I have to call Todd.”

Luke plods across the room and pushes the cord back into the wall socket. The second he does, the phone's shrill ring floods the apartment.

I click the
ON
button. “Hello?”

“Sadie, it's you! I've been trying to get you all morning.”

I instantly feel all the blood drain from my face, and my hands become cold and jittery.

“Mother,” I say—the closest thing to a greeting I can manage just now.

“How are you, darling?” she asks between my deep calming breaths.

“Fine,” I say. I really don't want to get into all this with her. This is one of those times when a real mother would come in handy. Unfortunately I don't have a real mother. I have a
Paige
.

“Oh, Sadie. We're all just so excited for you. You're just the talk of the town. The ladies at my golf outing this morning were going on and on about it. They all want to be invited to the wedding,” she says cheerily.

“The
wedding
?” I scream.

“Duncan Stoke, of course, honey. You know, it's the funniest thing…. Dr. Hank and I rented
Empire of Glory
just last week. I didn't particularly care for it, but Hank positively adored it. Duncan is quite—”

“Mother,” I interrupt.

“…handsome, though. I always hoped that something good would come of this…well…this
career
thing you've been trying. I had a feeling you would run into one of these celebrities—”

“Mother!” I try again.

“…and get along. You're so
creative,
after all, darling—”

“
Mother
!” I blast at the top of my lungs. Brooke covers her ears, while Luke sinks down into the sofa, pretending not to listen.

Sweet blissful silence finally prevails. I start, “I am not dating Duncan Stoke. This a huge mistake. I don't even know him. I've never even
photographed
him.”

“Oh,” she says, disappointed. She adds, “Well, that is a shock.” I guiltily imagine her standing on the seventh tee, in her plaid capri pants and pink sun visor, leaning on her golf bag—the same red as her nails—while breaking the “upsetting” news to her golf ladies. Then, of course, she'll have to explain what I do for a living to clarify how the “misunderstanding” might have come about. I have to admit, I do get the tiniest bit of satisfaction from the fact that my job runs counter to my mother's sensibilities.

“I'm actually contemplating legal action,” I lie. “I'm going to get it straightened out.”

“I'm so sorry.” She doesn't say it like she's sorry that I'm in this predicament, or with some empathy for my obvious emotional turmoil. She says it like I should be disappointed in myself for not having landed a movie star.

Brooke, cupping her hands around her mouth, shouts, “Sadie, I need some help!”

“I have to go,” I say to my mother. I mouth “Thank you” to Brooke.

“All right, dear. Just one more thing. I sent a package to you—”

Damn, the Brown Box. “I, uh…haven't had a chance…I mean, I got it. But I really have to go. I'll call you…” When? When do I want to call her? Tomorrow? Next week? Next month? Christmas? “…soon.”

I hastily say good-bye and hang up the phone.

“Okay, I've got to get this under control,” I say to no one in particular. “My mother's golf buddies are
proud
of me. This is ridiculous.”

Right on cue, the phone begins ringing again. Two seconds later, it's joined by the buzzing of the lobby intercom button.

Brooke sprints to the intercom box, and Todd's voice echoes through the apartment, “Is she there?”

I gingerly get out of the chair, hobble to the phone jack, and yank the cord from the wall.

In no time, Todd is standing in the entryway, panting. He's the only person I know who can get winded from taking the elevator.

Todd bounds toward us with a stack of papers in his hands. He lays the pile on our little dining table and says, “I don't want you to get upset—”

“I've seen them, Todd.”

“Oh.” His countenance shifts. He casually rests his hand on the pile of papers and looks at me with a devilish and strangely come-hither smirk. “You're dating him, aren't you? Come on, you can tell me. That sob story in my office was just to throw me off, right? Come on, Sadie, your secret's safe with me.”

I can't help but let out a chuckle.

“What?” he continues. “He's the guy who answered the cell phone, yeah? That was Stoke. I thought he sounded like an actor—”

But it's the word
actor
that makes my stomach lurch. Change the subject now, Sadie! “So what did you find out about the photographer?”

“I couldn't get any info on him.”

I groan in disbelief as Todd expounds. “I'm not kidding, Sadie, no one's talking. All I could find out is that the pictures are coming from a very anonymous source, and the source carries some pretty heavy clout.”

“What the hell? Heavy clout?” Someone with clout wants to screw me over? Okay, well, technically lots of people with clout want to screw me over. But who would actually do it?

And, the story shouldn't be this big. Okay, granted, it's just a few blurbs here and there, but they're in
all
the papers. “Well connected” doesn't even begin to describe whoever did this to me. To be able to convince all these news outlets of a complete fallacy is huge. Even when a tabloid story is made up, there's usually a grain of truth in there somewhere—or at least the appearance of a grain.
This
doesn't make any sense. Who would be psycho enough to stalk me, take pictures of me, and then publish those pictures in grand style all over the country?

Only one name springs to mind: Ethan Wyatt.

Ethan Wyatt might just be crazy enough to do it. He blames me for the car crash. For the Lori Dunn story. He said what goes around comes around.