Accidental It Girl (17 page)

T
wo weeks have passed since the photos of Duncan and me “having a steamy midnight canoodling session in a dark alley” (as
Celeb
so eloquently put it) appeared in nearly every major tabloid in the country. Ethan's vendetta doesn't seem to be waning, and what's worse—he's made significant strides in his technique. The pictures are getting bigger and of better quality. That is to say, they're not as grainy. The quality of me
in
the pictures, on the other hand, seems to be on the decline. To be fair, I think that's partly my fault.

The first few times I tried the cool-under-pressure/ignoring technique were a bit touch and go. My first attempt ended around the time I threw a newspaper at Ethan's head. My second effort went awry in the minutes following my gynecologist asking the question “Is that strange bearded fellow in the lobby your husband? He's making the pregnant women nervous.” The third resulted in my purchasing the world's largest Elton Johnesque sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat à la Princess Di. I then walked around Manhattan shaking like a leaf and looking like an enterprising drag queen doing a one-person dramatic interpretation of “Candle in the Wind '97.”

Not helping things is the fact that Duncan's movie opened last weekend.
The Speed of Light
is a hit. A major hit. It absolutely decimated all previous Memorial Day records. He's the man of the moment. And I am his accidental It Girl. My fake boyfriend is the hottest gossip story of the summer.

His face is featured prominently on
The Speed of Light
posters that are conveniently situated at every bus stop in the five boroughs. There's a full-body shot of him on a massive billboard that takes up seven floors of a major office building in Times Square. There are television commercials for his upcoming film, and a torrent of continuing press about the one that's already in theaters. He's on the cover of three magazines, in the entertainment section of the
New York Times
—above the fold—and Duncan Stoke has even been poked fun at on
The Daily Show
and
The View
. I'm the famous
nobody
allegedly dating the
somebody
that
everybody's
talking about.

Now, I'm not saying that it's hard, okay? I'm not saying that Ethan Wyatt has a point. I'm just saying it's…challenging. Challenging at worst.

All right, it might be a
little
hard.

Even the most casual walk down the street is a test of my self-control. I cannot touch, wipe, or scratch anything on my person when outside the safety of my apartment. I cannot yawn, sneeze, or cough. I cannot wander aimlessly into porn shops or X-rated movie theaters. Not that I did a whole lot of that before this nightmare began, but at least then it was an
option
.

The grocery store is a minefield of possibly embarrassing photographs. The tampon aisle notwithstanding, there are also adult diapers, prune juice, and condoms. Department stores are no better—lingerie, hosiery, and china patterns could all be easily misconstrued. Eating out is a problem, too. I have to sit at the back of restaurants and order things that don't require me to open my mouth too wide, or get too sloppy. On the bright side, I think I've discovered how actresses maintain their figures. Salad is pretty much the only thing manageable in small bites.

So, it's kind of hard. But here's the thing—my situation is different. For Ethan, this is all the bad stuff there is. The cameras scoping him out on the street are the
only
downside of his lifestyle. I'm willing to bet that having several million dollars in the bank is a pretty good salve for the minor nuisance of life in a fishbowl. (First off, the fishbowl would be
huge
.) It has to be twenty times easier for him. Right?

I'm just a regular girl. I have a very humble fishbowl…and a fake boyfriend who is currently America's number-one grossing movie star. This means that it's gone beyond Ethan and his silly photos; the stories that accompany them keep getting bigger and better. (By better, I mean
frightening
.)

My favorites so far…

One: “Stoke Plans Romantic Reunion as Press Tour Returns to New York.” This one was illustrated by a picture of me inspecting a bra in La Perla, and had a list of items said to have been purchased by Duncan for our rendezvous. Among them was fruit-flavored massage oil and a CD entitled
Mozart for Lovers
.

Two: “Duncan's Gal Friday—Stoke's Mystery Girlfriend Said to be a NYC Photographer.” This blurb was under a photo of me reading
Cosmopolitan
and shoving a muffin in my mouth. Pretty inoffensive, right? Yeah, except the article I happened to be reading at the time was “65 Ways to Make Him Go Ooooh.” I was genuinely curious, but not for the reasons the papers suggested. I honestly have no intention of making Duncan Stoke “Go Ooooh.”

Three: “Stoke's Blonde Ambition.” This little gem featured a half-dozen people Duncan Stoke has “dated.” I was, of course, the grand finale of the layout—with my head cocked awkwardly to the side, one eye closed, and half of my tongue sticking out. The readers of that particular magazine now believe that I am either outrageously homely, mentally challenged, or both.

These layouts are like bad yearbook pictures, or photo albums from a year that you'd rather forget. I see the pictures of me in the papers just the same way other people see them—oddly removed from their context. Like the tabloid-reading public at large, I see that girl on the page and think, there's a girl who eats burritos on the run and ruins her favorite shirt because she doesn't have time to sit down for a meal. I think, There's a girl who buys frilly underwear that in all likelihood no one but she will be able to appreciate. I think, There's a person who, though perhaps pretty and talented on someone's scale, is nonetheless clumsily stumbling through life. The only problem is, these aren't just bad yearbook photos. Yearbooks get shoved in the back of bookshelves, buried under old prom dresses in your childhood bedroom. These pictures are distributed nationwide, new ones appear weekly—daily in some cases—on the newsstand down the block from my apartment. I can't help but look at them. I try my best to think of these things as a minor nuisance, try not to think about how similar my current situation is to the one I put Ethan in. I
try
.

Adding to my streak of unprecedented bad luck, Paige has taken it upon herself to act as my bodyguard. My mother seems to think that because she's taken cardio-boxing classes at the gym, she is an expert in self-defense. This came as a shock to me, as I thought everyone in the Western world had figured out that rhythmic boxing provides only a false sense of security. The boxing-to-the-beat self-defense technique is only effective against bands of frolicsome marauders who commit crimes solely when accompanied by an upbeat techno soundtrack. (One-two-three, and right hook. Step-ball-change and jab, ladies!) I suppose Paige could cripple an attacker with her stilettos. But then, that would require her to convince the attackers to put the heels on and walk around the city for an hour.

To sum up, Ethan Wyatt is winning.

 

“No, Todd, I can do it. I
swear
!” I plead into the phone. “I need to work. Please?” It keeps me sane. Todd's been reluctant to give me the best assignments—the last-minute and very profitable kind—because my car's in the shop. I think I've almost got him convinced that I can make it to the Upper East Side before Naomi Watts finishes a Madison Avenue shopping spree.

“Todd, I'll give you my firstborn.”

“Take that back and you have a deal,” he quips.

“Thank you! Thank you! Thank—”

“Okay,” he says. “Go!”

I drop the phone on the bed and run through the living room gathering my camera equipment, purse, and a couple of PowerBars.

Paige languidly looks up from her copy of
Harper's Bazaar
. “Where are you off to?”

“A job…Upper East Side…Naomi Watts…Gotta go!” I stutter breathlessly.

“Oh, I'll just get my shoes!” she replies with a sudden cheery sort of look about her.

“No really. I'll be fine,” I say, slamming the front door behind me.

 

I step out into the city and head for the subway station. It's rush hour, the express train will be much faster than a cab.

“Sadie!” my mother screams behind me. “Hold on! Here I come!”

I look behind me to see Paige wobbling down the street. A man power-walking by her smartly gives my mother a wide berth. I have to say, though, I'm pretty impressed. That's the closest thing to a jog I've ever seen anybody do in a pair of Manolo mules.

“Really, I'll be fine,” I tell her as she catches up. “You can go back to the apartment and…sit or something.”

“No, no. I'm the
muscle,
darling. Remember?”

Paige and I descend the steps into the subway station and, looking behind me, I see Ethan—in his stupid disguise—right behind us. I force my mother, teetering on her heels, to race through the turnstile, and cram us both into the jam-packed train just before the doors close.

Wiggling between suit-clad commuters, I find a spot to stand. My mother takes a position nearby, but across the aisle. We barely have time to catch our breath before the train lurches to a start.

I glance around, hoping against hope that Ethan didn't make it onto the train.

No such luck.

Looking over my left shoulder, I spot a dirty red baseball cap at the other end of the car—inching its way through the crowd toward me.

“Oh!” I hear myself exclaim, before slapping my hand over my mouth. That was somebody touching my butt.

“What's wrong, darling?” my mother asks, clueless. Okay, so it wasn't her.

Right, whatever. It's a crowded subway car. It was probably just an accident. I inch my way forward the slightest bit—closer to a middle-aged woman in a crisp white maid's uniform who's sitting directly below me on the bench. She seems to be a low risk for groping. I clutch my camera gear and handbag close to my chest.

I slowly turn my head to catch a glimpse of the possible psycho and/or embarrassed commuter who got a piece of my tush.

A tall, unbelievably hot guy is just inches from my face. His rather muscular left arm is raised, hand grasping the top commuter pole. He smiles at me warmly and says, “Sorry.”

“No problem,” I say, flirting back. Not sure if he's flirting, but I'm willing to take the chance. For some reason this random opportunity to flirt and be girly in front of Ethan sends a surge of adrenaline through my veins.

The stranger smiles some more and says, “You got enough room there?” Totally flirting—and really good-looking.

“Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks.”

I could so use a diversion right now. It'd be nice to have a date with a handsome man who, by the looks of the snappy leather messenger bag and casual yet business-appropriate attire, is gainfully employed in something other than the entertainment industry. I'd like to be just a normal girl—who isn't being stalked—going on a date with a cute guy.

The train slows suddenly, making everyone rock forward with a jolt.

There goes his hand again.

“I swear to God, that was an accident,” the stranger fawns, his eyes imploring me to believe him.

“Sure it was,” I quip.

“Really,” he retorts. “I don't make a habit of feeling up beautiful women on the subway.”

I'm beautiful!

“Oh, that's what they all say,” I reply—trying not to bat my eyelashes.

“This happens to you a lot, does it?”

“Why else would I be riding the subway at rush hour?”

He laughs, and I giggle in an appropriately girly way (read: victim of goofy yet uncontrollable female reflex).

My mother whispers behind me, “Good catch. And you-know-who seems to be annoyed.”

I turn my head, all the better to glare at her and indicate with a lot of staring and blinking that she should shut up.

Turning back to the handsome stranger, I inadvertently make eye contact with the lady in the white uniform.

She gapes up at me with a broad smile. She must have heard us talking. I return her smile.

The lady grins back, but not in that disinterested yet friendly way that strangers do when on the subway. She's looking at me like she knows me—like she's waiting for me to recognize her. How do I know her? A source maybe?

I don't think I know her. But if I don't, why is she looking at me like that? I suppose she could be a random crackpot. Probably best not to stare.

I'll just pretend to be examining my shoes.

I let my eyes drift casually down to the floor.