Sugar and Spice (6 page)

Chapter 8
You Have to Lie to People if It’s for Their Own Good

Trevor leaned back in his chair and stared out the window. The view from Fiona’s conference room was different from his usual view: There were no buildings, no billboards, just a little park with Japanese landscaping, complete with a koi pond. He knew Fiona was inspired by nature, or at least that’s the image she chose to convey to her clients. He, on the other hand, was inspired by artifice, by the unreal, by the
fake it till you make it
vibe of L.A. He loved the feeling that anything was possible in this city, as long as you had the brains and the energy and the sheer, unapologetic gall to invent it. Or to invent yourself.

Trevor knew that
L.A. Candy
was his best invention yet. And Season 2 was already exceeding expectations. The Jane-Madison feud was a ratings bonanza, fueled by Madison’s almost daily media appearances faux crying into a silk handkerchief. Scarlett was cooperating—
finally—
and was even doing some media herself.

Trevor’s idea about giving Hannah her own love interest was paying off, too. Oliver was working out very well so far, although how painful could it be to pretend to like a pretty, smart, sweet girl like Hannah? Still, he had better be worth it, since Trevor had been forced to sit through several dozen audition tapes to find the right guy.

As for Gaby, well, she had a new publicist, which had annoyed Trevor at first, since publicists could be a nightmare, making all kinds of crazy demands on behalf of their clients. But this one, Annabelle, had some good ideas. Gaby
did
need to start dating up; Trevor had actually cringed when he saw the tabloid pictures of her with some guy named “Skull” at STK last weekend. Gaby needed to improve her image, maybe with new hair and makeup and sexier clothes. She needed star quality, or at least the appearance of it. And if Annabelle could make this happen, why
shouldn’t
Trevor give Gaby more airtime?

And speaking of STK . . . Trevor scrolled around on his laptop until he found the pictures of Gaby and her date leaving the popular restaurant. His assistant had a Google alert on anything
L.A. Candy.
All of his girls—and anyone who was associated with his girls—were being watched. They were always on his radar, and the second they made their way onto the websites and blogs, he was notified.

So. Gaby wasn’t the only
L.A. Candy
girl to dine at STK that night. There were pictures of Jane and Scarlett as well, leaving the restaurant—and five feet behind them were two young, good-looking guys.

When it came to paparazzi, there was a system. Trevor was a man of details, so he always picked up on the nonverbal clues. A picture of two people with zero feet between them and with their arms around each other probably meant it was just for show or to counteract a breakup rumor. One foot between two people meant they were together and were neither hiding it nor flaunting it. Two feet between the couple, or if the guy was walking directly behind the girl, no hand-holding or interaction, likely meant that it was a new, undefined relationship or simply a friendship. (If there was enough room between the two, the guy could be cropped out and the girl’s image could be used for a fashion shot.)

The five-foot buffer between Trevor’s two girls and the two young, good-looking guys (who were shadowed in the background) meant that they were together. Trevor had done some digging and found out that one of them was Jane’s old boyfriend from high school and the other was his best friend and a premed student at UCLA. A rekindled romance between Jane and her ex would make a great story line for Season 2. And judging from the photo, it appeared to be a double date? A romance between Scarlett and the premed would make an equally great story line. Yes, Scarlett already had a boyfriend, but since he absolutely could not be on the show, he was nonexistent to Trevor. Scarlett didn’t seem like the type to cheat, but Trevor was good at what he did. He knew it would only take a couple of stolen glances on the show (not necessarily at each other) and the right pop song in the background to fabricate a new relationship.

There was a knock on the door. It was Jane. “Hey, Trevor? Are you busy?” she asked.

“Not at all. Come on in.”

Jane closed the door and sat down across the conference table from him. There were dark circles under her eyes, as though she’d been up all night. It wasn’t like her to party until dawn; that was more Madison’s or Gaby’s style. “What’s up? You look like you could use a pick-me-up. You want me to send a PA out for coffee or a Red Bull?” he offered.

“No, thanks. Listen, Trevor. I know you said it had to be this way, but . . . Madison. She’s just not working out.”

Of course.
“What do you mean, ‘she’s not working out’?” he said patiently. Since Jane’s meltdown in this very same conference room last Wednesday, he’d gotten multiple calls from both her agent and her publicist, screaming bloody murder about their client having to film with Madison. What was wrong with these people? Sure, it was their job to represent their client’s best interests. But in this case, Jane’s “best interests” were high ratings, and her daily fireworks with Madison provided that.

“I mean, she’s not letting me do my job here,” Jane complained. “She’s supposed to be helping me with Aja’s engagement party and some other parties, too. But she doesn’t know anything about event planning, and all she does is criticize my ideas for stupid, random reasons. On camera. Maybe that’s good for the show or whatever, but it’s not good for me, you know, professionally. We’re already behind schedule on Aja’s party because of Madison’s drama.”

Trevor steepled his hands under his chin and smiled sympathetically. “I hear you, Jane. But that’s something you should take up with Fiona. I’m just the producer, and my only role in all of this is to make sure my crew films your life—”

“But this isn’t my life!” Jane cut in.

“Actually, it is,” Trevor pointed out. “Like it or not, your fight with Madison is a
big
part of your life these days. The press is all over it, and I would look like an idiot if I didn’t include that story line in the show.” He added, “Need I remind you that you get paid a lot of money to do this? You can’t just pick and choose which parts of your life you want to have on the show. This is reality TV . . . not some feel-good sitcom where everyone always gets along.”

Jane stared at him, her blue eyes wide with hurt. Okay, so maybe he’d been too tough on her.

“Look. Jane. Just stick it out a little longer. Once these episodes start airing, the public is going to see Madison’s true colors. Everyone’s going to know that
she’s
the bad guy. Not you.”

“Yeah, well, maybe. I don’t know.”

Trevor studied her as she turned away from him and began twisting a lock of her hair around her index finger. She had been through a lot these past few months.

Trevor hated to admit it, but he felt somewhat guilty about encouraging Jane to stay with Jesse, especially after things got so ugly between them. Sure, the ratings had been amazing for a while, after Jane and Jesse became America’s favorite reality TV couple. But he could see the toll their breakup (and makeup and breakup) had taken on her emotionally. He hadn’t known how bad it really was until after they had split up.

He also felt somewhat guilty about Jesse’s downward spiral. Of course Jesse was responsible for being an addict—no one else. But it wasn’t pretty to watch anyone hit rock bottom the way Jesse had. Trevor had heard through the grapevine that even Jesse’s drinking buddies had pleaded for him to go to rehab. And that he had refused.

Jane glanced at her watch and rose to her feet. “I’ve got to go. I have a meeting with Fiona at eleven, and I need to prepare.”

“Wait, Jane. Have you talked to Jesse lately?”

“Um, no? Why are you asking me that?”

“Because I’ve heard he’s in bad shape. People have been trying to persuade him to go into rehab, but he’s not listening. I was just thinking, maybe he’d listen to you?”

“You want me to get Jesse to go into rehab?” Jane said incredulously. “I know you want reality for the show, Trevor. But this isn’t—”

Trevor held up his hands. “No, no. This isn’t for the show. I’m just suggesting that you have a private discussion with him, see if you can persuade him to get some help.” He added, “Jane, you used to be in love with the guy. Why not just talk to him?”

“Why do
you
care about Jesse? He was always about the ratings for you.”

“Fair enough. But I care about
you
,” he said. “I dragged you into this whole crazy Hollywood scene the night I discovered you at Les Deux. And I know what it would do to you if Jesse ended up . . . well, if something happened to him.”

Jane was quiet for a moment. “I’ll . . . think about it,” she said.

“Okay, good. And if you do talk to him, well . . . I have one piece of advice. Jesse’s not in a good place right now, inside. And when it comes to addicts, you have to tell them whatever they want to hear. Sometimes you have to make promises even if you have no intention of keeping them.”

“What are you saying?”

“What I’m saying is, sometimes, you have to lie to people if it’s for their own good.”

Jane’s jaw dropped. Trevor wasn’t sure if she was more shocked by his advice or by the fact that he really meant it. Frankly, it was probably the closest thing he would ever have to a personal philosophy.

Chapter 9
Armpit Falls

Madison leaned forward in the worn leather chair, her face half-hidden behind the latest issue of
Cosmopolitan
as the parade of tourists passed by. She felt like a stupid cliché from a stupid mystery thriller, hanging out in disguise in a sketchy hotel lobby. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, and her eyes were obscured by a pair of last year’s Ray-Bans.

Chris the detective had called her two days ago (during an on-camera work meeting with Jane and Hannah—bad timing), saying that her blackmailer had been living in this particular hotel since Tuesday and was hanging out with a touring rock band with the extremely lame name of Dead White Boyz. According to a bellhop Chris had spoken to, she was in the habit of drinking in the hotel bar this time of day, alone.

Madison checked her watch. Three p.m. Hmm, great time of day to be boozing it up. Not that she was averse to an occasional afternoon cocktail, but still.

Luckily, Madison’s new faux boss didn’t seem to care about her comings and goings, which gave her the freedom to skip out of work early and engage in these tedious stakeouts. And also to squeeze in interviews at
Us
and
People
and a photo shoot to benefit a trendy animal-rights group that was whining about fur. Yesterday, unfortunately, the blackmailer had never turned up—plunging Madison into a deep funk relieved only by her boyfriend Derek’s surprise visit later that night. (His wife had her book club, and the brat was with the nanny.)

Madison set down her magazine, adjusted her shades, and stirred restlessly. A group of Japanese conventioneers walked by, followed by a harried-looking woman with a little girl and a screaming toddler. The girl reached over and offered her baby sister a bite of her ice cream cone, obviously trying to placate her. In response, the toddler took the ice cream cone and threw it on the ground. Nice. Madison reminded herself never to have children.

The revolving doors spun around noisily, and a girl, late teens, sauntered in. She was in full black goth uniform: mesh top, lace choker, jeans with metal rings, and platform boots. Her hair hung unevenly to her shoulders, as though hacked by a meat cleaver.

She looked crazier than she had in her mug shot.

The girl headed for the bar, just off the lobby. Madison got up and followed her, observing from a distance as she sat down on a barstool and ordered a shot of vodka from the bartender. The guy barely glanced at her, even though she was clearly not twenty-one, and reached for a bottle of Smirnoff from the shelf.

Madison, grateful that the place was so deserted at this hour, sidled up to the bar. “Hey, Soph. Didn’t know you were in town. You really should have called,” she said sweetly.

Sophie whirled around and stared at Madison in shock. Up close, her little sister looked even more freakish, with her bruise-colored eye shadow and plum lipstick. Still, underneath the getup, she was the same, infuriatingly beautiful Sophie from five years ago. (She had always been partial to fads, even as a kid; obviously, she was going through her goth fad now.)

Without a word, Sophie turned away from Madison and tipped back her drink, which the bartender had set down in front of her. “Another one,” she told him gruffly.

“What’s the matter, Soph? You’ve never been the quiet type before,” Madison said.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to find out why you’ve been trying to make my life miserable these last few months.”

“
I’ve
been trying to make
your
life miserable? You’re the one who left me alone in Armpit Falls, bitch.”

Madison sat down next to her and waved away the bartender. “What do you mean, alone? What about Mom?”

Sophie snorted. “Yeah, that’s hilarious.”

“How is she?”

“She’s awesome, thanks for asking. I can’t wait to get home so I can go back to picking her off the floor every night and cleaning up her vomit. And lying to those bill collectors on the phone because she’s too wasted to keep a fucking job.”

Madison winced. She remembered their mother’s drinking binges all too well. And she felt a stab of sympathy for Sophie, dealing with it all by herself. But the feeling vanished as soon as she remembered why she was here. “Yeah, so your solution was to blackmail me?” she said.

Sophie narrowed her eyes. “You left us. You disappeared, and the next thing I know you’re on TV making millions. Yeah, I recognized you. Maybe nobody else did, but I did. And you never even called.” She added, “You walk around in your Gucci shoes acting so much better than everyone . . . that’s two months’ rent, Maddy. You’re walking around on two months’ rent.”

“I’m making millions?” Madison laughed bitterly. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Every cent I’ve made from filming has gone to pay off my credit card debt. The debt I built up trying to keep up this . . .
image.
I’m basically broke.”

“Don’t lie to me. I want my quarter million, and I want it now. Or I’m telling the entire world the truth. You’re not Madison Parker—you’re Madelyn Wardell.”

Madison bristled. “Do . . . not . . . call . . . me . . . that.”

“Why not? That’s your real name.”

“Not anymore.”

Sophie smiled meanly. “Yeah, well, I don’t think your fans are going to be too stoked when they find out you’re a total fraud. I’ve read the magazines and I’ve watched you on the talk shows. You’re running around pretending you’re some high-society heiress who went to boarding schools in Europe or whatever. Wait’ll they find out you’re a nobody who grew up in a trailer park in Armor Falls, New York . . . who ran away from home when she was fifteen and got a ton of plastic surgery so nobody would know how fat and ugly she was.”

“Don’t talk to me like that!”

Madison clenched her fists to keep herself from slapping Sophie. How dare she. How
dare
she! Sophie had no idea what she had been through all these years. Growing up in that depressing little town with a chronically drunk mom had been bad enough. On top of which she had been cursed with a weight problem, bad skin, mousy hair, and a big nose. Unlike Sophie, who had been born practically perfect, with her slim figure, massive boobs, gorgeous cheekbones, and naturally plump lips—not to mention her pale blond hair and luminous violet-blue eyes. It was so unfair.

Madison always knew that she was meant for a better life. She may have been plain on the outside; but inside, she felt like a glamorous actress or model or pop star, just waiting to emerge from her shell. And so she had made plans, carefully squirreling away her babysitting money and her measly paychecks from Wendy’s. By her fifteenth birthday, she had saved enough for a one-way bus ticket to Los Angeles, plus a little extra to live on. When she left, she didn’t tell a soul.

Once in L.A., Madison lied about her age and managed to get an under-the-table job sweeping hair and making coffee at a modest salon. The owner liked her and gave Madison her first decent haircut, highlights, and spray-tanning for free.

By her sixteenth birthday, Madison was a full-fledged platinum blond; she was also thirty pounds thinner, mostly because she could barely afford groceries. At which point Sugar Daddy #1 came along—being forty-something and married, he was willing to overlook the fact that Madison wasn’t a perfect California beauty (yet)—and introduced her to the world of cosmetic surgery. It was his idea, paying for those initial treatments: lip-plumping, breast enhancement, nose reduction, cheeks. Seemingly overnight (although the recovery actually took days, weeks, even months), Madison was transformed from an ugly-ish duckling into a glorious swan—the swan she always knew she was, inside. It was the way it was supposed to be.

And so began the upward climb—more (and better) sugar daddies, more (and better) procedures, more (and better) . . .
everything.
For her eighteenth birthday, she gave herself a new name: Madison Parker, after Madison Avenue and Park Avenue in New York City, where the rich and powerful people lived. It was a classy name, befitting her new image. She’d made it legal and everything.

It had taken Madison years to get from there to here, from her miserable existence in Armor Falls to her fabulous new life in Hollywood. And now her psychotic little sister was threatening to take it all away? Madison
had
to bring her around, and fast.

“Sophie, listen—” Madison began.

Sophie swiped at her mouth with the back of her hand and rose to her feet. “Forget it. I’m outta here. You’ve got twenty-four hours to give me the money or I’m calling your favorite magazine.
Gossip
, right? Meet me here tomorrow, same time, with the cash.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Madison snapped. “I told you before. I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Not my problem. Later, bitch.”

Madison took a deep breath. “Wait. I have another idea.”

“Sorry, not interested.”

“No,
listen
!” Madison knew she was probably about to make a huge mistake, suggesting this. But what choice did she have? She couldn’t let Sophie go to the media. “You could be on the show with me,” she blurted out. “I could talk to Trevor. He’s the producer, the head guy. You could be my little sister, except we’ll get you a makeover so you don’t look like . . .
that.
Or like Sophilyn Wardell, either. You can have just enough work done so no one back home will recognize you.”

Sophie crossed her arms over her chest. “Why would I want to be on your stupid TV show with you?” she said.

“Because then you’ll have what I have. You’ll matter! And every guy on the planet will want to date you! And okay, so maybe I’m not a millionaire. Yet. But I will be, someday, if things keep going the way they’re going. You could have that, too!”

Sophie seemed to consider this.

“Well?” Madison said.

“Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

“Great! Come on, let me buy you another drink.”

“Fine.”

Sophie sat back down and signaled to the bartender, who was across the room wiping down some tables. Madison dug into her purse for some cash, wondering why her hand was shaking. She told herself to take some more deep breaths and chill, already. She had come up with the perfect plan to keep Sophie from spilling her secret to the entire world. Now all she had to do was persuade Sophie to agree; then she would finally—
finally
—be safe.

So why did she have a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach?