Imposter (13 page)

THE NEXT MORNING, I BUY ANNALEIGH
a latte and a Danish pastry and take it to her room. She answers the door in faded cotton pj's.

“How are you doing?” I ask.

She returns to the bed and sits cross-legged on the comforter, eyeing the pastry. “You know those fishing shows on TV? The ones where guys trash-talk about the size of their bass catch?”

“No.”

“Well, you would, if you lived in Arkansas. Anyway, they always hold the fish up like a trophy, and you see it trying to breathe, but it knows it's dying. Right now, I feel like that fish.”

I think she's trying to be funny, but it's hard to tell.

“Look, I'm not going to flake out on you, okay?” she says suddenly. “So stop worrying.”

“Who said anything about flaking out?”

“Trust me, I get it. If I were you, I'd be worried too. But I won't screw this up for you.”

Maybe I ought to be touched that she cares. Instead, I'm annoyed that she thinks this conversation is about me. “I'm worried about
you,
Annaleigh. Not the movie.”

“Oh. Well then,” she says, holding up the pastry, “you're doing a good job of looking after me. Five more of these and I'll be ready for anything. Including a new wardrobe.”

“With all the running you've been doing, I don't think you need to worry.”

She's about to take a bite when she notices the backpack slung over my shoulder. “What's that for?”

“There's something we need to do. You should probably get dressed first.”

“What's going on?”

I fold my arms. “You're just going to have to trust me.”

She opens her mouth, and closes it again. “Fine,” she says, heading for the bathroom. “Give me five minutes.”

I press the key for the top floor. Annaleigh leans against the elevator wall and tugs at the strap of her running vest. It's tight against her. Every curve, every muscle is visible.

The doors open, but she doesn't step out. It's eerily quiet. “Are we allowed up here?” she asks.

I press a finger to my lips and whisper, “Definitely not.”

The door to the suite is very slightly ajar, just as planned. I nudge it open.

“Okay,” she says. “Now I'm getting nervous.”

“Nervous is good. This room costs twenty-five thousand dollars per night.”

“You're kidding.”

“Never been more serious.”

There's a tray beside the door. A couple plates of largely
untouched food. A jar of caviar. An empty bottle of champagne. Last night's guests have been enjoying themselves.

I close and lock the door behind us.

“What are you doing, Seth?”

“We don't want to be interrupted. Trust me.”

She's been trying to play it cool, but now she blushes. “Exactly what do you have in mind?”

I beckon her farther inside.

She follows me along the marble hallway. “Wait a minute. Is this the
Pretty Woman
suite?”

“Uh-huh.”

She stares at the floor-to-ceiling windows. Los Angeles is spread out before us, an urban ocean stretching to the horizon.

“You're not about to drop three grand on the bed and ask me to stick around for the week, like Julia Roberts, are you?” she asks.

“No, I don't have three grand. Plus, security will drag us off a long time before that. But don't worry. I gave housekeeping fifty bucks to clean this room last.” I place my backpack on the floor and pull out a couple bottles. Hand one to Annaleigh and glance at my watch. “We've got another forty-five minutes to enjoy the view. And we're going to do it in style.”

“Gatorade? Seriously?”

“It's important to stay hydrated.”

We clink plastic bottles. Annaleigh takes a swig, and continues to explore the suite, which is at least twice as large as my house. She runs her free hand along the columns that line the hallway, and stops beside double doors. “Forty-five minutes, right?”

“More like forty-two.”

“You're
sure
?”

“Yeah. Why?”

She opens the doors and wanders inside. I join her. It's the largest bathroom I've ever seen. Dark marble floor. Fresh bouquets of flowers on either end of the deep tub. There's even a TV built into the wall.

“In
Pretty Woman,
Julia Roberts got a bath,” she says.

I follow her eyes to the tub. “Yeah. Wait . . . no way!”

“Why not?”

“Because it's crazy.”

“You said no one would interrupt us.”

“Sure, but . . .”

Her thumb drifts up to her mouth. She almost bites the nail, but stops herself. “So what if they
do
interrupt us? They kick us out, right? Maybe take photographs and sell the story to TMZ. Tell me how that's any worse than all the other crap that's been happening.”

I want to say that it can always be worse, and that I carefully organized this episode
inside
the hotel so that we wouldn't risk generating publicity
outside
. But that's not really her point. She's tired of paying for other people's mistakes. Why shouldn't she go crazy herself?

“Forty minutes,” I tell her. “I'll keep guard.”

I check the corridor for signs of unwanted visitors. As I lock the door again my cell phone chimes. It's a text from Sabrina:
Need 2 meet. 3PM. Back of hotel.

I almost delete the message, but I have things I want to say to
Sabrina too, about photographs and a mysterious stalker. Things that are best discussed away from the rehearsal room.

I text back that I'll be there.

Five minutes later, Annaleigh shuts off the water. It sloshes as she slides into the bath. “You can come in now,” she calls out.

I hesitate. “Really?”

“Really.”

I open the doors. She's submerged beneath a nest of bubbles. Only her left leg rises above the surface.

“I just realized that a bath is kind of boring if you don't have someone to talk to,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“You're letting the warmth out, by the way.”

“Oh.” I close the doors behind me.

When I turn around again, she's got a smile on her face like she's teasing. It's not the smile that draws me in, though. It's her wet hair, and the color in her cheeks and lips, as if she's radiating heat.

“So we've got about thirty-five minutes,” she says.

“Unless housekeeping comes early.”

“True.” She lifts a finger to her lips. “I've been thinking—if we get kicked out, Brian'll have to find someplace else for us. I vote for the Chateau Marmont. Or maybe the Four Seasons.” She tilts her head to the side. “Are you planning to stay over there? This long-distance conversation feels kind of weird.”

“Unlike taking a bath in someone else's suite, you mean?”

“It's no one's suite until someone checks in.”

I pad over to the tub and sit at the end. She places one dripping
foot in my lap and points her toes like a ballerina. “Julia Roberts got a foot massage,” she says.

“Do I look like Richard Gere?”

“No. You look like his cute grandson.”

I run my hands over her foot. Press my thumbs into the pad of every toe, and slide a finger between them. She watches me intently, her breathing slow and deep. I love the sound of it, and the way she bites her lower lip.

“You haven't tickled me yet,” she says. “Must be all that practice. You probably bring all your girlfriends to the
Pretty Woman
suite, huh?”

I nod. “Every one of them. I always figure, what's twenty-five grand for a decent foot massage, right?”

“Don't exaggerate. You told me you bribed the cleaning staff with fifty bucks. You cheapskate, you.”

“Ah, you've seen through me already.”

She opens her mouth as if to reply, but hesitates. “Not
through
you, no. Just seeing the real you, I think.” She cups her hands and lifts a cloud of bubbles. “Why are you being nice to me, Seth?”

“Why shouldn't I be?”

“I don't want you to feel sorry for me.”

My thumbs come to rest on the top of her foot. “I'm being nice because you deserve it. Because you're the one person in this whole place who's real.”

“Real,” she murmurs, like it's a funny concept. “Is any of this real? At home I spend every day just trying to get by. My last boyfriend wasn't nice to me. Be honest. Is this just one of those summer camp moments where everything is magical because it can't last?”

It's a good question. I thought that being on the beach with Sabrina was real, and I was wrong. What makes this situation any different?

“It's real if we want it to be, right?” I reply.

She closes her eyes momentarily. I figure this is the end, and the reality we suspended the moment we walked into the bathroom is about to return with a vengeance. But then Annaleigh slides along the tub and kneels so that we're eye to eye. Drops of water run down her neck and over her shoulders.

She smells of soap and shampoo. I know exactly what I want to do but I'm too afraid to do it.

“Will you go out with me tonight?” I ask, stalling.

Her already pink cheeks grow rosier still. “Yeah. I'd like that.”

I run my fingers through her hair. She cups my chin and leans forward, closes her eyes, and kisses me. Her lips are soft. Every brush of her tongue is pure electricity.

I don't need to ask if she's in character now. There are no cameras and no audience here. There's just the two of us, holding tight to each other.

SABRINA PULLS UP AT THREE O'CLOCK
SHARP
.

“Thanks for coming,” she says as I climb into her car.

Her makeup is perfect. Not a hair is out of place. The outside world may ruffle Annaleigh's feathers, but not Sabrina's.

We get onto Santa Monica Boulevard, heading east. “So how are you doing?” she asks brightly, as if she has already forgotten yesterday's awkward rehearsal.

“Why do you want to see me, Sabrina?”

She fingers the ends of her hair. Whatever expectations she had for this meeting clearly didn't include me being short with her.

“Sabrina?”

She peers at the rearview mirror and her shoulders slump. When I check the side mirror, I see why. The green Mazda is right behind us.

“Who is he?” I ask.

“I don't know. Probably a paparazzo.”

“Uh-uh. He didn't take that photo of us at the party. He
wants
us to know he's watching too. Even sends stupid texts.” I check him out in the side mirror, but I can't get a good look. “Stop at this traffic signal.”

“The light's green.”

“Just do it.”

She brakes suddenly. Our stalker is tailing us so close that we're bumper to bumper as we stop. We're two rocks in a creek, and traffic flows around us like water.

I step out to the sound of blaring horns. It's a crazy thing to do, but I want the guy to know how it feels to be trapped. To feel like the one being pursued.

I can just make him out, jamming the lock on his door. I hold up my cell phone and he covers his face with his hands. Doesn't matter. There's nothing he can do to stop me from taking a picture of his license plate.

Then I'm back in Sabrina's car. “Wait until the light turns red, and floor it,” I tell her.

Seconds tick by, and the light switches from green to yellow, and yellow to—

Sabrina guns the gas. The cross traffic doesn't even move before we careen across the intersection. Behind us, the Mazda is stuck at the light.

“We need to get off this street,” I say. “He'll catch up again.”

She takes the next left. A few blocks later, she turns right.

I email the photograph to Gant. He said I needed to find out who this guy was. Well, now we've got his license plate. It's a start.

For a minute, neither of us speaks. Sabrina still looks tense, though.

“Are you going to tell me what this is about?” I ask.

She's gripping the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles are white. “I know this entertainment reporter,” she begins.
“We've done a couple interviews. I've told her stuff off the record, and she's never used it, so I trust her. Anyway, I asked her about the story on Annaleigh's father. She did some rooting around and . . . well, there's something weird about it.”

“Like what?”

“Someone went to a lot of trouble to hide all that stuff about Annaleigh's family. I mean, the moment she was cast, every gossip columnist worth their dime would've started digging. My contact did, and she said she couldn't find anything.”

“Maybe she wasn't looking hard enough.”

“No way. Whoever dug up the info knew what they were looking for. Must've had details—where she's from, contact information, that sort of thing.”

Could Kris have paid someone to find this stuff out? It's possible, but unlikely.

“
You
know Annaleigh's contact info,” I point out. “And you just said you know a reporter.”

“Wait. You don't think that I did this, do you?” Sabrina stares straight ahead, shoulders rigid. “That
is
what you think, isn't it?”

I don't answer because I'm not sure. It'd be crazy for her to tell me all this if she's the one pulling the strings, but then, I don't know who took and sold those photos of Sabrina and me at the party either. Fact is, some of those pictures came out immediately after the kiss cam, almost like someone was trying to divert attention back to Sabrina. If there's a list of suspects, Sabrina's on it.

I stare out the window at the city to my right and the hills to my
left. We're in the vicinity of Hollywood Reservoir. Does Sabrina know that Annaleigh and I came here for the photo shoot? Is this another clue?

“How does anyone really have friends?” she murmurs, although I can't tell if she's talking to me, or herself. “I really wanted us to be friends.”

“Yeah, well, so did I. But friends don't bring their ex-boyfriends back into the movie without warning. Friends don't make out in a dark corner one minute and then bad-mouth each other the next. How am I supposed to feel about that?”

“You're right,” she says. “I wasn't thinking straight.”

It's not even an explanation, let alone an apology. Maybe she doesn't know the answer herself.

“Why do you want us to be friends when you hardly know me?” I ask.

“I know that evening on the beach, you really
listened
to me and seemed to care. Being with you was like starting over, seeing everything for the first time, without all the bad stuff. You don't know how long it's been since I felt like I could open up.”

Her words pull me back to the beach. But instead of reliving the roller-coaster emotion of the encounter, I just feel confused.

“You wouldn't even let on which version of you I was talking to,” I remind her. “How can I trust you when I don't even know who you are?”

For a while she doesn't answer. Then she begins to nod, slow at first and then faster. “Okay, then,” she says. “I'll tell you the truth. If we can't even be friends, at least I'll set the record straight.”

Sabrina turns off the street and we begin the climb into the Hollywood Hills. We're heading away from Beverly Hills, and the hotel, and Annaleigh.

“Where are we going?” I ask her.

She doesn't look at me. “Somewhere no one can hear us.”