Hollywood Hot Mess (2 page)

“Yeah.” I hold my breath and move upwind from him. My phone buzzes. It’s a text message from the chauffeur asking if I’m ready to be picked up. I reply and move to the sidewalk’s edge to wait for my ride.

“Why was Mama calling you Hollywood?” Homeless Man asks. At the corner, a sleek blacked-out Tahoe turns onto the block. I wait until the car stops in front of me and the driver gets out to open my door. Homeless Man stares with openmouthed wonder like I’m the Queen of England. I pull a purple Sharpie from my bag and autograph his pack of cigarettes—dotting the
i
in my last name with a purple heart like I always have.

“Once upon a time, I was Pigtails,” I say with a smile, handing him his cigarettes. “Thanks for the smoke. Sorry I was a bitch.” He doesn’t say a word, too stunned to move. The chauffeur helps me into the SUV and we slide into traffic.

I’m not supposed to smoke in here, but for some reason the driver doesn’t ask me to put it out. He must know what a shit experience I just had. I have more than earned this damn cigarette. I try to tell myself it isn’t a big deal. I peed in a cup in front of a woman who spends all day, every day, watching people pee in a cup. Just because I’m famous...or used to be...doesn’t technically make my pee any different. It’s not like she’s going to sell it on eBay.

What is a big deal is the interview Jerrie scheduled for today. I mean come
on.
I haven’t had my hair highlighted in months. I look atrocious. The only silver lining I see is this shiny SUV the magazine hired to drive me to and from the interview.

It’s late afternoon when I slide from the Tahoe’s backseat, black jeans, black tank and my need-to-see-a-stylist blond hair twisted into a messy bun. People on the sidewalk stare. They always do. But no one recognizes me, and I hate the part of me that wants someone to. America used to love me as much as they do Devon Hayes. Now I’m another forgotten child star whose life went tragically awry.

Jerrie swears this interview is nothing major. A back-of-the-magazine fluff piece the studio hopes will breathe life back into my flatline career. I’ve told myself all day it isn’t a big deal. But it is. Without the movie to talk about, all that’s left is me. Who wants to hear that pathetic fall-from-grace tale of woe? Not me. Standing in front of the coffee shop in a perfect fall breeze, I feel like I’m facing Oprah’s cream leather couch. My stomach churns, and I swallow against the jagged rock lodged in my throat. I tell myself I’m tougher than this and push through the glass door with borrowed bravado.

Inside, the stale scent of roasted coffee beans and hipsters assaults my nose. It’s all dark wood, burlap bags and chrome. Patrons huddle close to softly glowing laptop screens. Not a single eye turns my way. Until...

“Carly!” My name is trumpeted from a dim corner and the next second a short, round brunette is hurtling toward me. Before I can duck her, she wraps me up in a stranglehold hug. I’m frozen in some awkward position with one hand shielding my face and the other clutching my cross-body bag.

The downside of D-list fame? Sometimes you do get recognized. Ten times out of ten, it’s a nut job like this. A few years ago I rolled with it, still desperate to be the little pigtailed girl America wanted. These days, I’m perfectly fine being the bad girl America loves to hate. Being a bitch is infinitely more fun. I wriggle my arms between us and break her anaconda grip.

“Excuse me. Do I know you?”

The brunette recoils momentarily, beyond bewildered. Seconds pass before she erupts in awkward laughter that makes everyone stare.

“Do I know you?” She cackles like a beady-eyed parrot. “You’re funny, Carly. Rehab turned you into a real comedian!” She takes my elbow and pulls me toward the back. I’m so shocked by her reaction I stumble along at her heels. “I’ve gotten us a private table.”

Wait...what?
Is this lunatic my interview?

We approach a table separated by half-wall partitions near the restrooms. A laptop, tape recorder and notepad sit neatly arranged in front of her seat. Great, I apparently have an interview with a madwoman who thinks we’re long-lost BFFs. This day can’t get any better.

“I ordered your coffee.” She points to a steaming cup opposite her. “Still take it black with a sprinkle of cinnamon?” Thankfully, her attention is on her laptop. Shock washes over me. Even an obsessed fan wouldn’t know how I take my coffee. Would they? I slide into a cold metal chair. Its icy back freezes my bare arms.

Jessica
is printed across her laptop in hot-pink vinyl letters. Which is zero help because I’ve probably met a million Jessicas. She slides on a pair of reading glasses. Her toothy grin is playful, yet warm, and I do see something vaguely familiar in this smile. Something I might recognize if the drugs hadn’t washed my memories away.

“Yeah, um, thanks,” I offer, leaning into the cup of coffee and racking my brain trying to figure out who in the hell this woman is. She’s close to my age. I’d say midtwenties max. Maybe she’s interviewed me before? Maybe Jerrie told her how I like my coffee? “Refresh my memory. When was the last time we saw each other?” It’s a harmless enough ask.

Her eyes grow big. She looks around to be sure no one’s listening. “I was there that night, Carly.” Her tone is barely above a whisper, like this is some dirty little secret we share.

“What night?” I whisper back, still at a total loss.

“Last December?” she asks. Her strained expression makes it clear she doesn’t want to explain further. I shake my head and the sigh that comes out of her is closer to a groan. “When you overdosed in the Roosevelt’s pool?” She places her hand on mine like she wants to comfort me.

I suck in an icy breath and sit back, jerking my hand away, not the least bit comforted. That night
.
How could I forget
that night
? At the same time, how the hell am I supposed to remember it? Had I been sober enough to know what the hell was going on I wouldn’t have flirted with death in L.A.’s trendiest swimming hole, now would I? Jessica jumps when I recoil, immediately shaking her head.

“I’m sorry, Carly. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

I nod absently and gnaw my inner lip, staring at the floor for a moment to collect my thoughts. Normally, I’d walk at a comment like this—interview over, zero fucks given. But I don’t. Only the handful of people who were actually there know the truth of that night. It was a private party. What people think they know is that I was pushed into the pool and hit my head. That’s the story Jerrie spun. Why in the hell everyone kept their mouths shut, especially this reporter sitting across the table, is beyond me.

I shrug, because what can I say? This does, however, put “Jessica” into a much smaller social circle. Dumbed down as I am by the Neurontin my doctor has me on, I simply can’t place her. “Are you ready?” I force a smile, trying desperately to change the topic of conversation. Her concern mellows into a wary nod.

“Do you mind?” she asks, pointing a manicured nail at the recorder.

“Knock yourself out.”

“I promise to make this as painless as possible.” She clears her throat and reads the first question from her list. “Carly, you were less than a year old when you landed your first role on
Life on Easy Street
, a show that went on to become America’s highest-rated sitcom and win tons of awards. How did you get into acting so young?” The question is total fluff, but her look turns graveyard serious. Is she for real? I’m not sure whether to laugh in her face or feel sorry for her. I sip my coffee, relax my shoulders and swallow the tickle at the back of my throat. Questions like this I can answer in my sleep. This interview has to be a home run. Mocking my interviewer is a surefire way to strike out.

“My mother was a
Price Is Right
girl when she was young. She still had connections in the business when I was born. I was a really happy baby. Always smiling, never crying. One thing led to another. I was offered the part before I left the audition.”

“Is your mother still your manager?” Her question is good-natured enough, but it sours my stomach.

“No.”

“What about your father? Is he still in the picture?”

“No.” My tone could freeze lava.

“Do you care to elaborate?” She lets out a bemused giggle at my deadpan responses.

“No.” I fix her in an emotionless stare. She squirms, but gets the point.

“Moving on.” She adjusts her glasses and turns back to the computer screen. “Playing Pigtails was the role of a lifetime for you. What did you identify with most about that character?”

I take another sip of coffee and rest my arms over the lacquered tabletop, encouraged by how well things are going. “Pigtails got to live every kid’s fantasy life. A huge, loving family, overly indulgent parents, tons of neighborhood kids to play with. It was a perfect world where nothing bad ever happened. I used to hate leaving set. What kid wouldn’t want that life?”

“Were you as mischievous as Pigtails?”

My smile widens and I remember all the on-set pranks I used to play on my poor castmates. “I picked up a few things,” I answer with a secretive smile.

“What was your favorite episode?”

“When we filmed in Hawaii. I got to swim with dolphins and snorkel and learn to hula dance. It was an amazing trip.”

“
Life on Easy Street
has been off air for five years now. Do you keep up with the cast?”

“I was fourteen when the show wrapped. My life’s a lot different than it was then. Most of my costars went on to other TV jobs. I’ve been focusing on film projects. I don’t even see Maria.”

“Maria Rhodes? Isn’t she in rehab?”

My onstage big sister and real-life partner in crime is possibly a hotter mess than I am. Hearing someone talk so callously about her makes me ill. But what can I say? It’s the truth. Jessica stops the recorder and leans in. “Do you want to talk about rehab and where you are with your sobriety?” Her voice is low and serious. I drum my fingernails against the warm ceramic mug in my hand.

I can’t believe she’s actually asking this off record. Most reporters would have gone for the jugular. Tried to trip me up. I’m starting to like Jessica. Maybe everyone’s not out to get me after all. “I’ll talk about my sobriety. Let’s not get into rehab, and all
that
.”

She nods and starts the recorder again. “So, tell me where you are now. Sober? Healthy? Ready to work?”

“Absolutely! All of the above. I’ve cleaned myself up and realized addiction is a disease you have to fight daily to beat. Mentally, I’m stronger than ever. I can’t wait to get back to work.”

“Back to work?” Her eyebrow ticks up. She’s lost in thought until realization breaks over her face. “Shut up! You mean you got
The Mighty Fall
part? With Devon Hayes?”

At the mention of my new film, I scramble to turn off the tape recorder.

“Jessica, I can’t talk about that. The studio had me sign an NDA.”

Her phone buzzes. She looks down at it, momentarily distracted. “Excuse me one second. It’s Spence.”

“Spence?” It’s a whisper she doesn’t hear. My brain spins wildly, not at all ready for this part of my past to collide with the present. Sweat prickles the back of my neck. I wipe it away and stare at the floor. The walls push in and the twilight zone I’m occupying becomes crystal clear. A briefcase rests beside her chair. Peeking from between the gold zipper is a leather folio emblazoned with the Hugo Studios logo. Lightning strikes my brain. I know exactly who Jessica is.

His voice oozes from the phone just as confident, charming and dangerous as I remember it. Spencer Hugo. The man. The myth. The legend.

“Hey, Spence.” She lets her hair fall over her face for a little privacy. “Yes, she’s sitting right here.”

A deep breath and a double chug of coffee calm me. I look Jessica over, more carefully this time. She’s not his type. Not nearly fabulous enough to adorn his arm. But she’s exactly the type that would be so besotted with him it wouldn’t matter. For girls like her, knowing a guy like Spence Hugo is everything in this town.

His father was a legendary studio head who died tragically. Poor Spence was left with the unfortunate task of spending daddy’s money and managing the empire of movie rights Mr. Hugo turned into gold. His name is at the top of every VIP list. Valets fight over driving his French—blue Bugatti a handful of feet to a prime parking space beside the front door. If you know anything, you know Spence. And for some reason, he’s always liked me.
Really
liked me. For years, he was the one fueling my obliterated state of being when the
Easy Street
money ran out. I loved him for it back then. Now? He is the biggest red flag flying.

“Okay. Yes, I’ll ask her.” Jessica turns to me, shaking her head apologetically. She’s familiar enough. I don’t really
know
her. But she’s someone who’d know everything about me. One of the hangers-on that decorated the party periphery, desperate to be part of our clique. A nameless tagalong that treaded in Spence’s impressive wake. There were plenty of them. Because that’s the kind of guy Spence is. His presence fills a room to the point you can seriously forget your hair is on fire the moment he looks at you.

“Spence wants to know if you have a new phone number?” she asks.

A girl fresh out of rehab should not be answering questions like this. No good can come from reconnecting with Spence, but honestly, I’m so starved for normal human contact it’s easy to ignore the warning bells. I grab the purple Sharpie that’s always attached to my bag’s strap and scribble my new number on a napkin, mentally kicking my weak ass.

“I’ve got her new number for you.” Her smile alone tells me Spence’s undivided attention has tossed her onto cloud nine. “Okay!” Her voice ticks up with flirtation when she answers a question. How does he do it? How can he manage to make one girl want him when he is so obviously using her to get to someone else? “I’ll give it to her. Promise.” She ends the call and turns to me, cheeks flushed, trying to act as if she isn’t melting inside, because that’s what Spence does to women.