Your Perfect Life (21 page)

More than twenty years later, I didn’t expect us to still get butterflies when we saw each other, but when exactly did the light in his eyes go out? The one that used to burn bright when
he’d first see me after a long day at the office. The one I’d see when he gave me a foot rub as we watched TV, his hand working up my leg, his eyes eventually inviting me to the bedroom. Is that why I didn’t chase Brian? Because there’s someone in my life now who has that light in his eyes when he sees me?

Destiny intercepts me as I arrive at the studio. “Change of plans for today,” she says, squinting as she scrolls through her iPad. “The Santa Barbara shoot has been moved up. We need to head up there this afternoon . . .”

I toss my bag into one of the rigid white wing chairs on the opposite side of my desk and turn on my computer. “What happened?” I ask, releasing my feet from my four-inch heels, my toes thanking me.

“Melissa McCarthy has to be on the red-eye to New York tonight. So you’ll only have about thirty minutes with her before she needs to leave for LAX. Her publicist was adamant that she has a hard out at 4:30 p.m. Oh, and she reminded us again, no questions about her weight. She wants to keep the focus on her career.” Destiny rolls her eyes.

Already used to these standard requests from publicists, I don’t respond. Plus, as a woman who has her own body issues, I don’t care what Melissa McCarthy eats for dinner and I don’t think any other women watching will care either. “Did her publicist send a rider?” I ask, referring to the list of a celebrity’s requests for his or her dressing room, which can be everything from “needing” the room to be at a certain temperature, only bottled water with electrolytes, to red roses—not yellow, not white, not any other color.

“Nope. Says Melissa doesn’t care what’s in there.”

“I had a feeling she wouldn’t.” I smile, thinking about her well-deserved Oscar nomination. It’s nice to see a woman who
doesn’t have supermodel looks and a size negative zero body get some credit for her talent. “Is it still at the Four Seasons?” I click through my emails and notice one from Ava marked urgent, the subject line:
still waiting
. I don’t have to open it to know what it says; she wants to know if I’m moving to New York.

It’s only been a few days. You told me I had two weeks.

“Another message from Ava?” Destiny asks, noticing my strained expression as I stare at the email, neither opening it nor deleting it, like the others.

I nod, then start my normal routine of checking the gossip sites.

“What’s up with that anyway—why haven’t you answered her?” Destiny closes her iPad, signaling me that she needs my attention. Even in just a few weeks, Destiny and I have developed our own shorthand.

Nothing new on Perez Hilton, nothing on D-lister. TMZ has the first mug shot of Lacey Lane, the CW actress who was arrested yesterday for shoplifting.

“Hmm?” I look up.

“You heard me.”

“Can we talk about this later? I need to prep for this Melissa McCarthy interview and then we have the sit-down with Beyoncé later this week. I wonder if she’ll bring Blue Ivy? Hey, we’ll have to get a picture of the two of you together since you’re practically identical twins.”

“Don’t change the subject. I want to know why you’re not jumping at this New York thing. Is there a chance we’re not going?”

“Destiny, I promise, we’ll talk later, okay? When does our car leave?”

Destiny relents and reopens her iPad.

I grab the latest issue of
Us Weekly
from the corner of my desk and start casually flipping through it as I think about what I want to ask Melissa during the interview. There’s a spread about the outfits Julia Roberts’ niece, Emma, wore while promoting her latest movie; an article about Giuliana Rancic’s baby news; and a
Who Wore It Best?
that I almost bypass until I see that the woman being compared to Blake Lively is
Casey
. It’s the cranberry minidress she wore to the high school reunion. Seeing twenty-something Blake Lively wearing it makes me cringe for Casey. She looks great, but the dress is clearly meant for someone younger. I think of Fiona clawing for her job and can’t blame Casey for trying to compete with women almost half her age.

Charlie appears in the doorway and gives me an easy smile. “You ready for me to brief you?” He holds up a stack of blue cards and a binder of research and I notice he’s let his stubble return.
Yes, you can brief me. You can brief me right on this desk.

Destiny gives me a pointed look, not missing Charlie’s flirtatious tone. “We’ll need to leave by noon to get up there and have enough time to get you into hair and makeup before we roll tape at four.”

I look at Charlie. “Is the crew already up there setting up?”

He nods. “They just arrived. It’s going to be a multicamera shoot and I told them I’m tired of the interviews we do in hotel rooms looking like interviews in hotel rooms, so we’re going to do this one out by the pool.”

“That’ll be tricky with audio, won’t it?” One of the many things I’ve learned in the past few weeks is that shooting outside is easily complicated by unpredictable things like planes flying overhead and cars driving by; things I wouldn’t have ever
noticed until I tried to interviewing Mariska Hargitay after she got her star on Hollywood’s Walk of Fame.

“The pool area is quiet and removed from the street—you know that. We interviewed Rob Lowe there, remember?”

“Oh yeah, of course. Ready to go over the questions for Melissa?” I change the subject quickly.

• • •

“At the end of the day, I’m just a mom who likes to enjoy a cheeseburger and a beer. I’ll never get used to all this Hollywood stuff,” Melissa McCarthy says with a laugh a few hours later.

I know exactly what you mean.

Melissa’s publicist hovers nearby and whispers something to Destiny. The camera is recording the time so I can see that it’s 4:29. I know I need to wrap this up.

“Thanks so much, Melissa, for taking the time to talk with me. And congratulations again on your Oscar nomination,” I say with a smile before reaching out to shake her hand.

“You did it again,” Charlie says as the crew packs up the equipment.

“Thanks. I’m glad you’re happy with it.”

“You were great. That cheeseburger and beer line is golden. You really have a knack for getting celebrities to talk to you like they’re everyday people.”

Because
I’m
an everyday person.

“Hey, so can I talk to you for a sec?” Charlie lowers his voice.

“Of course. Everything okay?”

Charlie motions for me to follow him into the suite Melissa McCarthy and her entourage abandoned twenty minutes ago.

We walk in and I smile as I look around the room. No bowls
full of all-green M&M’s, no vases filled with only white tulips, no humidifier that blows only cold air. Charlie sits on the arm of the couch. “So, I know it might be a risk asking you this because we haven’t been back here since right before . . .”

Before what?

Charlie takes off his baseball cap and runs his fingers through his hair before continuing. “I was wondering if you’ll let me take you to dinner at our place up here?”

“Of course!” I answer brightly.

“Great,” he says, looking both shocked and relieved as he inhales deeply.

What happened between them that night?

Charlie walks over to me and grabs my hand. “Because I think we need to talk about everything. And this time, I’m not going to let you dodge me.”

CHAPTER 27

casey

“Rachel, wake up.” John is beside me, his hand gently shaking me awake. I glance at the clock. It’s 3 a.m. “What is it?” I ask, alarmed. “Is it the kids?”

“No, they’re fine. I think you were having a bad dream. You were whimpering.”

“Oh,” I say, as the dream comes flooding back to me. I was chasing Brian up the stairs at the hotel again, but this time, my feet felt like cement blocks, each step a monumental effort. I kept calling out for Rachel to help me, but she was nowhere to be found. I finally just gave up and lay down on the cold, unyielding floor.

“It was odd, you kept calling your own name,” John says before getting up and heading to the bathroom. I reach over and grab a glass of water off the dresser, still trying to understand what happened at the hotel yesterday. Why Rachel chose to take a call from Charlie instead of chasing down the one person who could help us get our respective lives back. Why she’s
barely been over here to see the kids. Rachel is the last person I would have pegged to get caught up in the celebrity lifestyle I lead. In fact, she has always been the one person who saved me from completely succumbing to it, her house always feeling like a sanctuary from the craziness of it all. But what bothers me most is that she’s obviously falling for Charlie.

Charlie, always hoping he’d see that softer side of me again, and Rachel, feeling unappreciated by her own husband and family, being totally vulnerable to someone as caring as him. It’s the perfect storm. It’s ironic how it wasn’t until I found myself neck-deep in Rachel’s life that I could finally see my own clearly. I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling despondent that I might never get the chance to tell Charlie how wrong I was the night we broke up. That it’s taken going to hell and back in my best friend’s body to realize that I haven’t really been living at all.

I feel the mattress rise and fall as John turns over. I begin to move over to make room but feel his strong arms circle around my waist and pull me against the fold of his body. I lean my head down but don’t pull away, craving the comfort. “You okay?” he whispers, his breath tickling my ear and giving me goose bumps.

“Yes,” I answer quietly and rub my arm to make them disappear, as if they’re betraying me, betraying Rachel. Whatever’s going on with her and Charlie, I still have no business getting goose bumps from her husband, even if I can’t remember the last time I’ve let someone hold me like this. Either way, I let the rhythm of his warm breath on the back of my neck coax me into a dreamless sleep.

• • •

“Is that Tori Spelling?” Audrey cranes her neck to get a better view of the lithe blonde standing at the valet stand, wearing
a beautiful canary maxidress, holding a baby in one arm and grasping a small child’s hand in the other.

“No,” I lie.

“Are you sure, Mom?” She narrows her eyes and pulls out her phone to take a picture. “I think that’s her.”

“It’s not,” I say as I put my hand over the phone, thinking about how Tori Spelling deserves her privacy. In this moment she’s just a mother trying to balance her purchases, a cup of coffee, and four small children all at once. Even though I’ve made a living exposing these little nuances in order to prove celebrities are human, just like us, it made me uneasy. “Don’t.”

“Fine,” she relents before glancing around the room again. “Do you see anyone else? I thought you said we’d definitely see some celebrities here.”

I look around the Joan’s on Third dining room, recognizing a few industry faces, but no one that a sixteen-year-old would get excited about. “Sorry.”

“I wish Aunt Casey were here. She would know who everyone is!”

“Well, she couldn’t make it. I’ll have to do,” I snip, but quickly force a smile when I see Audrey’s confused expression as if asking,
Why would Mom be upset that Aunt Casey couldn’t make it?
“Something very important came up at work.”

When Rachel called a few hours ago to cancel, I was livid. Something about Melissa McCarthy and being in Santa Barbara. Charlie and I had some of the best moments of our short relationship there, and the thought of him being there with Rachel breaks my heart. “Audrey’s counting on you,” I told her as I paced the living room, trying to console a teething Charlotte, whose normal easygoing, cheerful disposition had been replaced by a
tantrum-throwing, drooling devil baby for the past forty-eight hours.

“I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do,” she answered plainly, closing the door on any further discussion. I could hear her fingers typing on her keyboard in the background, and I wondered if she was even listening.

I was counting on you too,
I thought as I hung up the phone and grabbed another teether from the freezer.

Our apathetic server, most likely killing time in between auditions, slaps the bill down on the table and I hand her two twenties before she can escape again. “Ready?” I ask Audrey as I stand up and begin digging through my purse for my valet ticket.

“Need some help?” I hear a familiar voice and look up. “Destiny!” I’m so happy to see her that I throw my arms around her, getting her long curls caught in the strap of my canvas tote bag.

“Nice to see you too, Rachel,” she says, laughing as she detangles herself from my bag. She turns to Audrey. “And you must be the lovely Audrey. I’ve heard so much about you from your aunt.”

“Nice to meet you.” Audrey blushes and looks around Destiny. “Is Aunt Casey here too?”

“No,” she says quickly. “But I’ve been given strict instructions to make sure you find the most fabulous dress ever.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out my American Express Black Card. “It’s all on your Aunt Casey.”

Audrey jumps up and down, squealing. I put my arm around her shoulder and lead her toward the door. I look back at Destiny. “Where to?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Where else? Saks!”

• • •

Once the personal shopper has been given explicit instructions on what Audrey’s allowed to wear (no plunging neckline or superminis), Destiny and I settle in and wait for Audrey to model her favorites. “So how’s Casey doing?” I try to sound breezy. Destiny was always too intuitive for her own good.

“Good,” she says casually and I realize I’m going to have to do better than that.

“She’s been talking about a guy at work a lot lately, what’s his name again? Chuck?” I ask innocently, trying to play it cool. I had never mentioned Charlie to Rachel when I was dating him and Destiny only knew because, well, it was almost impossible to hide things from the person who practically ran your life. In fact, I went out of my way to act like it was business as usual for me, murmuring my agreement when Rachel would make a joke about the latest twenty-something I had probably hooked up with. My relationship with Charlie both intrigued and terrified me, and I had been determined to handle it as if it were a fragile, irreplaceable keepsake, until I freaked out that night, throwing it on the ground and stomping it into a million pieces.