Map to the Stars (4 page)

Once the queen of punctual left, action in the room resumed and no one glanced in my direction again. My surroundings were a surreal mix of Movieland and posh hotel. Graham was seated facing another man who I figured for the reporter, based on the inches of pancake makeup plastering his face and his “this face can deliver breaking news and you won't even be scared” features. The black felt backdrop hung from the ceiling in a semicircle, enclosing Graham and the reporter on three sides and obscuring the silk wallpaper and the view of office buildings beyond. I knew just enough to recognize that this was so the viewers at home would see Graham in his chair with nothing distracting behind him, aside from the foam-mounted movie poster advertising
Triton
propped up on an easel. Wynn kept
Access Hollywood
on in the background while we did homework, so I'd seen this celebrity-floating-in-black-space setup countless times.

I'd also seen Graham countless times, but in person there was almost this energy shimmering around him or maybe even radiating
from him. Obviously, I still thought he was a total asshat for the way he'd treated me the day before, but I suddenly understood what people meant when they referred to “star power.” Good thing I had enough common sense not to get sucked into his force field. No matter how well his shoulders filled out a waffle-weave henley.

I couldn't interpret the look Graham sent my way (Annoyed? Chagrined?), but it lasted only a second and then he adjusted himself in his chair and flashed the reporter a smile that clearly conveyed, “Sure, I could be your best friend.” If the reporter weren't wearing so much pancake on his face, I'm fairly sure his blush would have shown through. Graham, on the other hand, seemed to need no makeup whatsoever. He leaned back in his seat and threw an arm across the back of it like he owned the place.

And then everyone was once AGAIN focused on me. I stared back at them for a second before realizing they were waiting on my go signal. “Oops, sorry. Go ahead.” I clicked the stopwatch. Nothing like being dropped into a foreign situation to make me feel totally incompetent. Ugh!
Where on earth is Mom anyway
, I thought as the dial swept its circle.

“Um, first minute,” I whispered sixty seconds later, waving a little to get the reporter's attention.

The camera operator threw up his hands and Graham giggled.

Giggled.

Then he said, “You can't actually talk, or your voice will be on the tape. You have to use hand signals. Hold up a finger for each minute. Okay?” he said, demonstrating as if I might not know how to count to
five on my fingers. Surprisingly, there was a note of something odd in his voice. Sympathy? From the obnoxious Graham Cabot?

Then, even more amazingly, he added, “Hey, don't worry about it. You should have seen me on my first ever day of shooting. They had to shut down the production because I kept forgetting to use my ‘inside voice' and then, right in the middle of a scene, my mom's cell went off.”

The word
cell
was still hanging in the air when my own phone exploded in a cacophony of alarm bells. I jumped up like fire ants were attacking the seat of my pants. My snooze button was set to thirty minutes and I must have hit it instead of turning the stupid thing off before leaving my room. I was ready to run screaming from the room when I heard a low rumble.

It grew.

Graham and the reporter had tears of laughter running down their faces. Graham clutched his side. When he caught my eye, he winked. That was so unexpected that, totally unwittingly, a giggle escaped my own mouth. Before long, everyone else, whether of their own volition, or maybe just to suck up to the movie star in the room, had joined in.

I wasn't even sure
why
I was laughing, given how perturbed with him I was, but there was just something about that wink that made me feel like he'd invited me into his personal bubble. And something about him that made me want to be there, despite every misgiving I had.

Graham got up from his seat, carefully unclipping his mike from the folds of his shirt, and crossed over to stand in front of me. My
laughter turned to hiccups as I gulped for breath and tried to stand. He stuck out a hand.

“Can we maybe start over here?” he asked. He seemed sincere, but then again, he
was
an actor. I contemplated him for a moment. If I said no, it would be awkward and maybe even confrontational, so a big part of my brain was screaming, “Just say yes, so you can take the easy out.” But another part was flashing back on that look he'd leveled me with in his bedroom.

Sure, he seemed perfectly friendly now, but maybe it was because there were people around. Then again, there had been people around the day before too. My brain got all jumbled, the way it always did when I was in a potentially ugly social situation, so I did the only thing I could think to do in the moment. I hiccuped my assent and placed my hand into his.

And tried to convince myself that the all-over shiver I felt when our hands touched was just my achy-from-laughter rib cage protesting the vigorous shake.

I was fairly sure I was imagining it—I mean, I
had
to be imagining it, right?—but I could have sworn Graham Cabot kept stealing tiny glances at me.

After the whole crew got their laughter under control, we got down to business. By the time the third interview was over, I had mastered the stopwatch and been given the additional responsibility of handing the blank DVD each reporter entered the suite with to the tape editors in the adjoining room. They'd pop it in and monitor the feed coming from the camera and then I'd collect and return the finished recording. Except for the mystery of those glances from Graham, joking with Lenny and Brian in the control room was about the only thing making my job not quite stick-a-fork-in-my-eye level.

Don't get me wrong, it was definitely slightly interesting to be on the inside of a Hollywood moment, but I was learning that behind the scenes was not all it was cracked up to be. Every few minutes a new reporter would walk through the door. There would be one minute
of pleasantries while I handed off their DVD and then an interview consisting of the exact same three questions and the exact same three answers.

Reporter: Tell us a little about
Triton
.

Graham: Well,
Triton
is about the son of Poseidon, who fights evil underwater with his trident and a magical conch shell. My character has to battle Ladon, a hundred-headed sea serpent, for control of the sea. And of course, I do it in part to win the heart of the mermaid Coralia.

Reporter: Just great! Okay, so what was it like filming underwater so much?

Graham (with a laugh): That definitely wasn't my favorite part of this experience. The tank that we used was the same one they used for
Titanic
, so we were in Mexico for months and it was really warm outside, but for whatever reason the tank was always this side of freezing. I never knew hypothermia would be a career hazard when I signed up for this movie star thing. (More laughter from both Graham and reporter.)

Reporter: So I think we're clear that the water wasn't your favorite part. What was?

Graham: Oh, that's easy. Getting to work with Adrian Porter. He's an amazing director and any actor would count themselves lucky to work with him. I'm just flattered that I had the chance to at this point in my career.

Cue intent nod from reporter and then heartfelt thanks, as if Graham had personally insisted on the privilege of sitting down with, say, Theresa Lopez from WAAI Tupelo. Then handshakes and backslaps. Occasionally there was the “I really never do this, but . . .” autograph requested for the ten-year-old superfan daughter back home.

This was fun the first time, less fun the fifth time, and mind-numbing by the tenth time. We were now on hour three.

At the first break, an hour and a half ago, Mom had slipped silently into the room.
How did
she
know to wait until the changing of the reporters?
She went straight to Graham—where they greeted each other like long-lost kin—to see if he needed any powder (of course he didn't) and then stopped by my chair.

“Sorry about this morning, sweets. I got sucked into the craziness as soon as I stepped off the elevator and I haven't stopped since. I'm running around putting makeup on anyone who moves, at this point. One of the publicists is getting married next month and just had me diagram a full makeup plan for the big day. Can you believe it? People are tearing around here like a bunch of wet hens. Hey, how are you holding up?” She gave a furtive glance in Graham's direction before whispering, “Did you make amends?”

“I'm fine and we did. It's actually sort of monotonous in here. Seriously, Mom, you don't have to worry about me. Just do what you need to do, I'll be fine.”

Mom gave me a grateful squeeze on the arm. “Thanks, hon. Lunch is in a bit in the hospitality suite. Catch you then?”

“Okay, sure.”

Now mealtime was fast approaching and I could have sworn I wasn't making up the little looks Graham kept throwing my way between interviews. Was I breaking some other cardinal press-junket rule? But strangely, they didn't seem like mocking glances. They seemed . . . shy. Which was seriously weird.

For one thing, the guy probably had a Victoria's Secret model for a girlfriend. I'd never been inside a Victoria's Secret, much less had a chance on their runway. Anyway, I don't know why I was even contemplating any of this. Assuming we
had
somehow landed in the Twilight Zone and what he was doing could be construed as flirting, it's not like I'd be interested. What would I possibly have in common with a movie star?

But as one reporter left and the next one made small talk with the cameraman, Graham beckoned me over. For the first time today, he was less than completely in command of the room. If anything, he looked like he was squirming in his shoes, and he stuffed his hands deep into his (perfectly distressed) jeans pockets when he stood.

“Hey, so, um, I can't exactly go into the hospitality suite with everyone in there just waiting to pounce, so I was wondering if maybe, um . . .”

He trailed off. I picked up his dangling sentence for him.

“Oh, you want me to get you something and bring it back here when we break? Sure, that's no problem.”

“No. I mean, yes. I mean, no, not exactly. I
do
want you to get something for me, but, um, I was hoping maybe you would bring your lunch back too. I mean, if the walls in here aren't totally closing in on
you after all these interviews.”

I was so taken aback I didn't answer. Graham must have interpreted that as reluctance on my part because he rushed on. “Don't feel obligated or anything. I'm totally fine here on my own. I can always watch TV or whatever. I just thought, maybe, well, there aren't exactly a lot of people my age around these things and I was kind of excited when I found out from your mom that you were gonna be hanging around all summer. I was hoping we could be friends, even if we didn't exactly get off to the best start.”

He looked almost vulnerable. Which was crazy. The guy could open up the window and spit and it would land on someone perfectly willing to sacrifice a lunch hour for his company. He had to be the least starved-for-company guy on the planet.

Right?

Any fight I might have had left in me (as if I ever had any fight in me when it wasn't just me and Mom or Dad or Wynn) went out, because now I was more than a little curious. Plus, Wynn would hang me by my ankles off the old railroad bridge if I turned down this particular invitation. So I answered, “Oh yeah. No, I mean, that would be cool. I just have to find my mom and tell her. She was planning to meet me.”

“Oh, you should definitely catch up with her then. Forget I asked.”

“No, it's no problem. I mean, I
want
to. I'm kind of in the same boat. I haven't seen any of my friends since we moved to LA and I probably won't meet anyone else my age again till I start school. It's totally cool.”

Graham looked grateful and put his hand on my arm. I tried not to jump at the touch. “I'd offer to get our food,” he said, “but I probably wouldn't get back until dinnertime if I set foot out there. Sorry, it's not exactly model ‘guy behavior' to send the girl out for lunch, huh?”

“Well, it is when I work for you,” I answered, and he winced. “Sorry,” I said quickly.

“No, it's cool. I just don't want you to think you have to or anything. This wasn't a boss/employee thing.”

Oh. Right.

“Um, okay. So, any weird dietary requirements I should know about?” I waited patiently for the “no mayo, no bacon, low-carb bread on the side” Hollywood version of a sandwich, but Graham surprised me by saying, “Pile anything and everything on. The more, the better. The weirder, the better. Surprise me. Just no pickles.”

He made a perfectly adorable sour face when he talked about pickles and I had to remind myself that this was my employer here.
Just
my employer. Who only wanted to hang out with me because I was the single other person under the age of twenty-five around (although some of these women might claim otherwise). An employer who I would never be interested in anyway, because I am not the type of girl to lose control just because a guy has a dimple in his left cheek that is so deep I could swim in it. Not that girl at all.

“Sure thing,” I told him, and headed back to my seat for the last few interviews before lunch. When I popped into the adjoining suite to collect the recording from Lenny and Brian, they started in.

“So, Loverboy's making his move, huh?” Lenny asked.

“What?” I pretended not to know what they were talking about.

“You forget, the room is miked for sound.” Brian clutched at his heart and pretended it was thumping.

I turned red. “Seriously, guys. It's just lunch. It doesn't mean anything.”

“You tell yourself what you want, Newbie. You're also forgetting we get the camera feed. And I saw the look on that boy's face when he was trying to work up the nerve to ask you to have lunch with him.”

“Brought me right back to my single days,” teased Lenny as he punched Brian on the shoulder. “Wish we didn't have to get lunch ourselves. I wouldn't mind taking in the show.”

I escaped before they could turn their focus back to me. Besides, they were talking pure crazy.

I probably should have restrained myself. Graham had been perfectly normal all morning, but after an evening of dreaming up revenge scenarios, I couldn't help myself when presented with such an easy opportunity. Besides, he
had
told me to get inventive. The “sandwich” I made Graham had six different types of meat including one mystery one, plus peanut butter, plus marshmallow spread, plus mayonnaise, hot sauce,
and
raisins.

Graham picked it up and held it in front of his face, examining it carefully from all sides. With his eyes locked on mine (
do NOT notice how nice his eyes are, Annie!
)
,
he leaned forward with deliberation and took a giant bite out of it. He chewed slowly, tilting his head back and forth as he contemplated the taste. I waited for a reaction that never
came.

He returned the sandwich carefully to his plate and remarked, “Not bad. You have skills.”

“Are you serious? That is like the most disgusting combination of foods possible. You can't honestly tell me you want another bite.”

Wordlessly, he picked up the sandwich again and took an even larger bite, chewing with relish. I picked up my own turkey and mustard on wheat and managed a delicate nibble.

“Wimp,” Graham commented.

“Really? What, because I like normal flavor combinations. Although I'm from the South, so if I had my way this would be deep-fried. But still.”

“How much would it take to get you to try one bite of this?” he asked, holding up his sandwich for my inspection.

“How much you got?” I challenged. Graham leaned back in his chair and raised both eyebrows.

Oh. Right. About a zillion dollars.

His eyebrows wagged up and down at me and it was impossible not to laugh.

“So? Are you game?” he asked.

I pretended to think hard. My eyes settled on my own plate and I had an idea. “I will if you will,” I told him. “I'll try your sandwich, if you take a bite of this pickle.” I held it up and Graham recoiled as if examining roadkill.

“Uh-uh. No way.”

“So you'll eat
that
,” I said, waving my hand over his sandwich,
“but you won't try one bite of a harmless little pickle?”

“Yup, you've pretty much nailed it,” he answered, tucking back into his soggy mess of a lunch.

“Now who's the wimp?”

He looked amused. “To think, your mom assured me you were the sweetest girl ever.”

Traitor.
I'd get her for that one.

“So, speaking of your mom, she said last night that you were downstairs working on a heartfelt apology to me. I'm ready to hear it whenever.”

He was so serious when he said it that I choked on the sip of water I'd just taken. My face turned red as I sputtered and coughed. Graham jumped from his seat and thumped my back a few times.

“Hey, are you okay?” Graham put his hands on my shoulders and peered into my face. I nodded, mortified, before dabbing at the tears my coughing spell had produced. Graham exhaled and returned to his seat.

“I was only kidding, you know.”

Oh. Guess that's why the guy made the big bucks. No one could say he couldn't act.

“Uh, sorry,” I mumbled, ending on another cough.

“It's all good. Actually, I'm the one who's sorry. That I yelled at you like that yesterday, I mean. I swear, I'm not normally that guy. It was a rotten travel day and finding a stalker in my bed was sort of the cherry on the cake.”

“Icing,” I said, before I could stop myself.

“Huh?”

“It's icing on the cake. Cherry on the sundae.”

“Oh. Yeah, I'm sort of bad about mixing up expressions.” Graham shrugged and added a smile.

I didn't want to admit what that smile did to my insides, so I quickly added, “Anyway, you can continue with your apology.”

“Nope. I was done. Your turn. Let's hear what you have to say in that Southern accent of yours.”

I picked at my sandwich and sucked in some air. Fine, okay, I guess it wouldn't kill me. “I'm sorry. I didn't expect you for another few hours and I thought I'd have plenty of time to be out of your bed before you got there.”

Graham smiled wickedly and said, “Hold on. I'm trying to come up with a witty response that doesn't sound totally dirty, but it's not easy with the bed thing in there.”

I nearly choked again and before I could compose my thoughts enough to respond, the door clicked open and Lenny and Brian clamored in, balancing plates piled high. “How's lunch, young love?” joked Lenny.