Hollywood Nights (11 page)

“How old is this… Brynn? Nineteen? Twenty?” Kenneth said.

“Twenty-four.”

“Jesus. So young.” Kenneth was forty, and fighting every wrinkle of it.

“I’m twenty-six.” I swallowed some more of my Manhattan. It was never too early for one, and that was my second. “And in any case, she’s also up to the task of dating me.”

Kenneth laughed loud enough to make the two women at the table closest to us turn their heads. “Is that so?”

I decided not to answer. “You will like this one, Kenneth. So, she’s an actress—”

“Who isn’t?”

I held up my hand. “An actress who happens to be from a place called Griffin, Ohio. Not much in town but a few hundred people trying to leave. I guess she did.”

“You can’t be serious. Not this sad story again. How many women out here at the same exact way? Little Miss Daffodil Queen from Nowhere, Oklahoma?”

“Give her a chance. Besides, this is an easy kill and you know it. She’s the hometown success story—or at least she will be once the press finds out more about her. They love stories like this because the masses eat it up.”

Kenneth licked his lips and settled farther into his chair, studying me. “I guess I can work with the sound of this. You’re the Hollywood star, and she’s a down-on-her-luck-but-plucky kind of girl.” Kenneth sipped his mimosa. “Nothing too controversial.” He paused, and I almost saw the thoughts turn in his head. “Typical Midwestern girl? All-American type? Corn fed with a big smile?”

“She’s smart and she has spunk.” I remembered Brynn’s long brown hair and the way she sometimes smiled when she believed no one noticed her.

“Now, that is exactly the kind of woman you need.” Kenneth tilted his head. “I like this.”

I opened my mouth to answer him, but some commotion across the street stopped me. Two of the five loitering photographers yelled at each other, and one punched the other. Two others tried to intervene, and the problem grew worse. I hadn’t seen photographers fight like that in a long time.

“Shit,” Kenneth said. “Maybe someone should call the police.”

I shook my head. “Just let them slug it out.”

“I wonder who’s here. They only fight if they think they can get a high-value shot.” Kenneth gulped down some more of his drink, and his eyes shifted around to scan the crowd. “I didn’t see anyone on the reservation list more famous than you.”

I laughed without humor as a LA police car arrived on scene. “Reminds me of the time the photographer from
Keep it Close
scaled the fence at my old house, right after I won the Golden Globe for
Regent
.”

That incident happened two months after Lana and I had started dating, and the photographer wanted photos of us together. He had been determined to do anything to get them, right up to climbing the fence and dangling off the side so his telephoto lens would capture a clearer photo of us in the backyard of the house. I remembered how much it had bothered me, and also how Lana had relished the whole experience. Should have been my first clue about her, but I hadn’t wanted to see it. Three months later, I’d moved us into the house on Mulholland Drive.

“Listen,” I said to Kenneth. “I want to make sure we maximize this over the next couple of weeks, okay? But I also don’t want this thing with Brynn to get out of control, like it did with Lana.”

“Lana. Topless sunbathing in that backyard of yours.” Kenneth tried to stifle a laugh. “I’ll never forget it.”

“Neither will the rest of America.”

Kenneth nodded at the photographers, who stood next to the police car talking to a portly cop. “They’ll do whatever they want with you and Brynn. You know this.”

“I know.” I gave him a meaningful look. “But you know there are approaches we can take to keep it positive.”

“Hmm.” Kenneth ate a bite of salad and after a moment, his eyes met mine. “I still have a few contacts over at the
Times
and someone at
Rockchick Mag
. You know how they are; they’ll take anything. Bottom feeders, but they like positive stories. Maybe I can pitch them a sit-down. Couple of photos. Style secrets. You know the drill.”

“With the two of us?” I downed the rest of my drink.

“Not an article featuring you, Mr. Self-Centered,” Kenneth said. “With her.”

“Just Brynn?”

“They always want to feature who’s next, and if she’s with you, that’s who’s next for sure.” He chewed his bottom lip, then clicked his teeth. “She’s booked some things, right? She’s not an actress in name only, is she?” He rolled his eyes. “God, if I hear one more time…”

“Commercials. She’s done a few of those.” I made this up as I went along, and hoped later it would turn out correct. “That’s all.”

“And how did you all meet?”

“I helped her out.” I decided to leave out the part about how I met Brynn in the parking lot outside a strip club. He didn’t need the finer points.

“Perfect. And she has an agent?”

“Doesn’t everyone in this town?” I signaled for the waiter. “Let’s have some of the Parmesan truffle fries.”

Seemed more attractive than eating the bun-less hamburger with only lettuce and tomato on the plate in front of me. When the waiter scampered away, I turned back to my publicist.

“Brynn will be good for me,” I said.

“Will be?” Kenneth laughed. “I like what she’s done to you already. She’s having a nice effect.”

“She is?”

“Never seen you order a meal with more than five hundred calories in it. It must be her.” Kenneth raised his half-empty champagne glass. “I’ll toast to that, honey.”

As I met him with my own glass, my phone buzzed on the table. The message came from Owen Jones, the only actor in town I considered halfway my friend.

What R U up to in about 2 hrs? Pool party at Hotel Le Rose. You in?

I knew it was probably a bad idea, but I typed a one-word reply:
yes

A
fter Tanner left, I retreated to the pool house for about fifteen minutes before my curiosity became too much to take. I had to know more about Tanner Vance, needed to know more about Tanner Vance. There was something about him. I also had the whole property to myself and an empty house. Couldn’t pass that up. An estate like this had secrets.

I slipped on a pair of flip-flops and casually strode over to the sliding doors on the backside of his house. As a kid, I’d been decent at picking locks; I’d had to do it more than once after my dad lost his house keys in a drunken haze or his car keys after a stupid bet with the guys down at the auto-body shop. Once, I’d hotwired Dad’s 1992 Ford Taurus.

Tanner’s house would be easy.

I walked up to first the sliding door and pulled the outside handle. Locked. Same with the second one, then the third. Undaunted, I scanned the property for another entrance. Mansions like this one never had only one back door. When I walked into the side yard, I found a back door next to a small pathway leading to the garage. Below the door lay a black woven mat. I flipped it over.

Jackpot.

A small house key on a green string lay on the brick. When I put the key in the door, the slid open and I heard the security system beep once, but the alarm didn’t sound. Tanner Vance must not have bothered to set it before he left for his meeting. The silent, empty, imposing house lay before me.

I closed the side entrance and locked it.

“All right,” I said to myself. “Let’s get started.”

The living room didn’t tell me much. It was beautiful and California cool, but an expensive decorator had finished it, and it was devoid of personal items. The large stainless-steel kitchen had little new to say, too. The library had a large book collection of broken spine favorites, but they didn’t tell me much beyond the obvious. Like a lot of people, Tanner enjoyed reading James Patterson, Stephen King, and Michael Crichton novels in between attempts to get through biographies and current events books. He was a Democrat. All of the political books on his shelves centered around Barack Obama, Bill Clinton, and JFK. At least we had that in common.

In the guest bathrooms, I only found typical toiletries and other nonsensical items. The second-floor hallway did have a few personal photos hung on the walls, but most of those related back to Tanner’s current life in LA.

The two guest rooms didn’t offer many clues about him, either. One featured a 1930s throwback bedroom-set with a variety of blues, and on the wall some signed records and music memorabilia. That only told me what he liked—alternative rock bands like Walk the Moon, Twenty-One Pilots
,
and Bastille
.
The other room looked like someone had thrown furniture in inside with no real regard for anyone who slept there.

The master bedroom gave me a lot. In his closet, I fingered my way through his clothes, a treasure trove of casual menswear and bespoke items designers always wanted to give celebrities. His closet would have made an editorial assistant from
Vogue
orgasm more than once. The main room had a desk, large king-sized bed, two wrought-iron nightstands, and a large mirror across from the bed.

It also had a black-and-white photo on the nightstand. I picked up the heavy silver frame. Lana’s hair tumbled across part of her face and she stared straight into the camera with a seductive smile; her smug expression made you want to stare at her, as if she was a rare bird on display.

I thought back to what I knew about the two of them—their split had happened about three months before, so it must have still been a fresh wound for Tanner. One headline a few days after she’d left him said he went on a three-day bender in Las Vegas with five Playboy models. There, he gambled like a high-roller and drank enough alcohol to keep him bleary-eyed and vacant.

Since he still had her photo on the carved nightstand, he must still love her. But of course, I knew that already. Why else would he hire me for a fake relationship? It wasn’t just to rehab his image. He wanted to make Lana jealous. Had to be it. Otherwise, why spend all of this money on someone like me?

“Can I help you with something?”

I jumped at the sound of the gravely female voice behind me, and dropped the photograph. It clattered against the nightstand glass. “What? Oh.” I fixed the photo. “I’m, I’m sorry. Who are you?”

The woman had gray hair pulled into a tight bun. “I’m Roberta. The housekeeper.”

I remembered what Tanner had said before I got out of the car. Time must have slipped away. “I was …”—I struggled—“looking for a shirt I left.”

“You’re a guest of Mr. Vance?”

“N—yes.”

She cocked her head, and I knew she didn’t believe me. “Just came up here to pick up Mr. Vance’s laundry. And you must be—?”

“Brynn. Brynn Price. Tanner’s new—er—girlfriend.”

Was that what I was? His girlfriend? The word didn’t feel natural at all, as if each letter had hidden spikes and barbs. I shuddered. Business. Tanner and I had nothing else between us. Just business.

“Oh, right. He mentioned I might run into you.”

Roberta didn’t give me another glance. She walked toward the vestibule between the master bedroom and bathroom, and then retrieved dirty clothes from a large wicker hamper near the sink. She placed the pile in a blue plastic laundry basket.

I followed her. “How long have you worked for him?”

“About four years. Coming up on five.” She struggled with some of the clothes, which Tanner had smashed and crammed in the hamper. I stepped in and helped her pull out the mess of dirty underwear, jeans, and shirts. “Thanks. Mr. Vance is particular about his clothing. He won’t let anyone wash them but me and the dry-cleaner.”

“Do you like working for him?”

“He can be kind when he wants to be, and he pays well. One of the best jobs I’ve had in a while, when I think about it.” She nodded at the door. “My husband is downstairs, cleaning the kitchen. We both used to work for Washington Mutual Bank, but we lost our jobs during the 2009 collapse. Didn’t have jobs for over a year.”

“That must have been awful.”

“It was.” Roberta stood up and placed the heavy laundry basket on her hip. “Most people don’t want to hire older folks like us. We put out about a hundred resumes between the two of us, and then my husband found this. It doesn’t take two people to do it, but Mr. Vance said he wanted to hire us both.” A small smile tugged at her lips. “He insisted.”