The Prada Paradox (5 page)

“So you can’t?” I am crushed. I’m suffering from severe Prada withdrawal, but shopping by yourself when you’re depressed is just pathetic. Shopping with a friend, however, is therapeutic.

“What time?”

“I can be there in thirty.”

“Make it an hour. And meet me at the bar.”

She means the bar in the Regent Beverly Wilshire, of course. Just a stone’s throw from Prada. And because she’s my best friend, she also knows thathas to be my intended destination. “Will do.”

“And I need to get some stuff for Lucy. So let’s hit the children’s boutiques, too.”

“Retail therapy is an adult shopping experience,” I say, but just for form.

“Hey,” she says. “It’s for me. Those little baby capris really show off my calf muscles.”

I tell her she’s a loon, then sign off. As I slip my phone back into my bag, I realize I’m somewhat happy. It feels nice, too. Considering that my morning started off with terror (albeit fake), then moved to frustration, anger, and complete bafflement, a little bit of friendship is just the ticket. And friendship with a martini or a Cosmopolitan would be even better. And, yes, I gave up alcohol when I gave up the pills, but I’m still going strong with the virgin variety. Fortunately, the bartenders at the Beverly Wilshire make one mean nonalcoholic Cosmopolitan.

“Devi! Wait up!”

I turn and see Andrew Garrison hurrying toward me. I like Andy, but I wish he hadn’t called out to me. Because when I turn, I get a full view of Blake strolling down New York Street. He sees me, too, and holds up a hand in a tentative wave. My chest tightens, and I fight the urge to go toward him.

Then I see that he’s with Elliot, and I no longer have to fight—I’m staying way the hell away from that one.

Not that I have much choice. Elliot shoots me a fierce look, takes Blake’s elbow, and starts walking with him in the opposite direction. As I watch, I see Blake jerk away. Then he turns and points to me. He puts his fingers to his ear in the universal symbol for “Call me.”

No way, Jose.

I turn away, unnerved, baffled, and thinking the kind of lusty thoughts that I really didn’t want to think about Blake. Not anymore.

I shake off the thoughts and try to focus on Andy, who is now breathless beside me, a book of Sudoku puzzles tucked under his arm as usual.

No luck; I’m still thinking about Blake. And Lindy’s right, of course: I still love him. But like I already said, love really isn’t our problem. Trust and commitment, however…

I sigh. Damn Lindy for putting the thoughts in my head. And damn me for falling for him in the first place.

“Heading out?” Andy asks, obviously completely uninterested in either Blake or my lust.

“Meeting a friend for shopping,” I say, my voice as reverential as if I were talking about a religious experience.

“You must be heading toward Prada.”

“Yeah,” I say. “How did you know?”

He just laughs and shakes his head. “Devi, your fascination with Prada isn’t exactly breaking news.”

Okay. He has a point. And I would blush, except that I’m not in the least bit embarrassed by my Prada-lust. Prada, I figure, is totally worthy.

“You did great today,” he says. “Your performance was dead-on.”

“Thanks. That means a lot.” I’m not lying when I say that. Andy is the one person on the set who has personal experience with Play.Survive.Win. Not only was Andy forced to play the game—and almost died doing it—but he’s been working with Mel for a few years now, trying to locate other game survivors. Apparently he was some kind of tech-head before he got sucked into the game. In other words, he’s a total computer geek, and I know he’s been a lot of help to Mel, investigating Web sites and stuff that have been used as clues in the real-life version of the game. More important for my purposes, though, he’s the movie’s story consultant. And that means he’s been working closely with Tobias, the screenwriters, and the producers for months.

“When I first suggested to Mel that we turn her story into a movie, I told her you’d be perfect for the role,” he says. “And then when we started negotiating with the studio and Tobias, I kept pushing. I mean, I’ve seen all of your movies, so I knew you could nail the part. I’m really pleased to see that I was right.”

Okay,now I’m going to blush. “That’s really sweet, Andy.” I’m not sure what else to say. I mean, I’m glad that he thinks I’m good in the role.That part is flattering. But I can also tell that Andy has a little bit of that fan-boy thing going on.

Normally, that would give me pause. Clingy obnoxious fans freak me out (for obvious reasons). But Andy is of the polite breed. He’s also part of the production team, which makes him safe. All of which means that his fan status is charming rather than creepy.

Even so, I can’t help but feel a little bit self-conscious. Which is yet another downside of the whole celebrity thing. People know all about your life even without you ever telling them one single thing. It takes some getting used to. Trust me on that.

“So, I was wondering if you wanted to go get a coffee,” he says, a little bit hesitantly. “Tomorrow’s scenes are intense. And I, well, I thought you might want someone to talk through them with.”

“That’s sweet,” I say, wondering if he’s just doing his job, or if he knows how awkward the whole me-Blake thing is. Or if, like Mackenzie, he’s worried about my emotional well-being. Whatever the reason, it’s a nice gesture. “Normally I’d take you up on it, but I’ve got these plans…”

“Shopping. Right.”

Suddenly my need for retail therapy sounds so trivial. This is a career-making movie for me. But am I running lines before a major emotional scene? No, I’m planning to drown my sorrows in a flurry of Prada paraphernalia.

I debate whether I should call Lindy and cancel. Except if I do, then I’ll feel guilty, since I’m the one who begged her to take off early from work. Besides, I really want to shop.

I’m weighing my options when Susie trots up, breathless, a small package in her hand. “Hey! This just came for you!”

I hold out my hand to receive the package, and Susie shoves a festive green gift bag stuffed with pink tissue paper into my hand. Inside, I see an envelope peeking out, as well as a silver foil box. I pull out the envelope first. It’s on T-H Productions stationery, and the return address of Tobias’s office bungalow on the studio lot is embossed in the upper left corner. Inside, I know I’ll find a single sheet of paper with Tobias’s neat handwriting. At the top, he’ll compliment me on one aspect of my performance. And then he’ll fill up the rest of the sheet—front and back—with both criticisms and suggestions for nailing tomorrow’s scenes.

I barely glance at it—I’mso not reading notes in front of Susie and Andy—then slide it back into the bag and pull out the small foil box. It’s a little bit wider than a ring box and significantly taller. Inside, I find a very plump strawberry covered in white and black chocolate, designed to look like the strawberry is wearing a little tuxedo.

“Awww,” says Susie. “It’s so cute.”

“Darling,” I say. Then I put the lid back on and slide the box back into the bag.

“Aren’t you going to eat it?” Andy asks.

Susie rolls her eyes. “Teeth.”

“Excuse me?” Andy shoots her a baffled look.

Susie points to me, giving me the floor. “She means my teeth,” I say, aiming a solid glare in her direction. “I never eat unless I can brush my teeth.”

Andy looks taken aback. “Really? I never heard that.”

“That’s because I’m careful to keep my personal quirks out of the tabloids,” I say, directing the comment to Susie, who at least has the grace to blush.

“I gotta get back,” she says, probably afraid I’m going to chew her out. And then she scurries away.

I stifle the urge to roll my eyes and turn back to Andy. “It’s an old habit,” I say, by way of explanation. “If I ate full meals on the set when I was a kid, I’d be too sleepy to get through all the takes. So they let me snack pretty much all day. But I had to brush my teeth after everything. It wasn’t that anyone cared so much about the health of my teeth. But if they had to redo a scene because I had chocolate on my front tooth…well, then that would be an expensive chocolate bar, you know?”

“I had no idea,” Andy says.

I shrug. “No one does.”

For that matter, no one knows I hate chocolate. That’s another one of my little quirks that I’ve never revealed to the public. It’s stupid, but I just want to keep some personal details secret. If anyone asks in an interview, I always say that I love chocolate just like every other girl on the planet. Just recently, in fact, I’d claimed that chocolate-covered strawberries gave me more of a rush than sex. (Not that this is a red-hot interview subject, but you’d be surprised at the mundane stuff that some of these reporters want to know.)

Although…

I frown a little. Because Tobiasdoes know about my chocolate issues. But he probably just forgot. Or, more likely, didn’t tell his assistant when he asked her to buy me a trinket to go with the note. She’d probably read theVanity Fair article and decided that a chocolate-covered strawberry was just the ticket.

Tobias wouldn’t care what she bought. From his point of view, the only purpose of the package was to deliver the note and pump up my ego after my first critical scene and before the next one tomorrow.

There it is again: another reminder that tomorrow’s scenes are critical. I can practically feel my credit cards crying, knowing that they’re not going to get a promised workout.

“Listen,” I say to Andy. “Maybe it would be a good idea to run lines after all.”

“I thought you were meeting someone.”

“I was. I am. I mean, there’s no reason why I can’t do both,” I say, even as the idea enters my head. “Do you mind meeting up later?” It’s still early. I can shop for a few hours with Lindy, and easily be finished in time to get in a few hours of rehearsal.

“Sure,” he says. “Do you want me to come over to your house?”

I hesitate, because for years, my number-one rule has been to not get too close to fans. Fans, after all, can be scary.

But this is different. This is Andy, our official story consultant. He’s not only on the payroll, he’s a genuinely nice guy.

Plus, he’s been a victim, too. So we already have that much in common.

“Sure,” I say, coming to a decision. I pull a notepad out of my purse and scribble my address, directions, and my phone number. “How does eight sound?”

“Perfect,” he says with a glance at the note. “I think this will be really productive.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Me, too.” But I can’t quite conjure a matching smile. I’ve just broken my own hard-and-fast rule. And I can only hope that I don’t live to regret it.

Chapter6

>>http://www.playsurvivewin.com<<<

PLAY.SURVIVE.WIN

WELCOME TO REPORTING CENTER

PLAYER REPORT:

REPORT NO. A-0001

Filed by: Janus

Subject: Status update.

Report:

• Toxin delivered as per instructions. Awaiting confirmation of infection.

• Delivery of additional systems established and scheduled as per introductory instructions.

• Game currently proceeding on schedule.

>>>End Report<<

Send Report to Opponent? >>Yes<< >>No<<

Block Sender Identity >>Yes<< >>No<<

Chapter7

Blake clenched his hands into fists at his sides, trying to keep quiet as his manager went off on his latest tirade.

“Are youtrying to fuck up your career?” Elliot howled. “That’s what I want to know. Because if you’re trying, then I owe you a congratulations. You’re doing one hell of a good job.”

Blake stiffened, reminding himself that he’d known this was coming. For that matter, considering the strings Elliot had pulled to arrange the satellite feed, the man had every right to be pissed. Except for the tiny little detail about Blake not wanting the interview in the first place, and Elliot damn well knowing it. “Last I looked, this was stillmy career,” he said. “Or did I miss a memo?”

“Dammit, Blake, you just don’t get it.”

“No,you don’t get it,” he spat, trying to keep his temper in check. Now wasn’t the time or the place for a knock-down, drag-out. Not with the press on the set and the crew still wandering around. In this day of camera phones, anyone could snap a picture, and three hours later it would be all over the Internet. He could see the headline now: “Fresh from Breakup with Darling Devi, Bad Boy Blake Breaks Down on the Set.”

“Well all right, then,” Elliot said, his Brooklyn accent sneaking in around the edges. “You tell me what I don’t get.” He aimed a fat finger at Blake’s face. “You tell me why I’ve managed to keep every one of my clients at the top of his game, but for you, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. You wanna tell me that?”

“Honestly, no,” Blake said. “I don’t want to talk about it. I made a decision. It’s done. End of story.” He knew why Elliot was pissed, but the decision was a good one. He hadn’t meant to, but he’d hurt Devi in that last interview. He’d been unprepared to talk about his personal life, and when Letterman had asked him if wedding bells were in the future, he’d shot off an answer without thinking. Because at the time, hehadn’t been thinking about marriage. Why would he be? Sure they were serious, but marriage? Not on his radar.