Starstruck Page 13

  Madison yawned. Was it possible that time moved slower inside a government building?

  “Oh, so is what I have to say that boring?” Connie said, an edge coming into her voice. “Let me tell you something. I know your kind and I don’t think too highly of them. But, as a decent human being, I feel it’s my duty to try to impart a little bit of the wisdom I’ve gathered in my fifty-three years.”

  “Funny, you don’t look a day over fifty-two.” Madison smirked.

  Connie ignored this. “Point number one: The rules always apply. You may get special attention at ‘the clubs,’ but the law gives preferential treatment to no one.”

  “I think there are quite a few people who would disagree with you on that,” Madison noted.

  Connie held up a hand. “Listen! Don’t talk. Point number two: Everything comes to an end. Beauty. Fame. All good things do, it’s like the saying goes. Point number three: Be prepared. That comes from the Boy Scout handbook, but people ought to tattoo it on their foreheads. Especially people like you. What I’m saying, Miss Parker, is that you better get your shit together. Find a skill. Do something with yourself. You’ve been on three reality shows. Is that what you’re planning on doing with your life? Are you aiming for The Real Housewives of Reality TV? Then maybe Plastic Surgery Nightmare? Don’t be one of those women, Madison. You’re smart—I can see that.” She held up the manila folder. “Even your supervisor has a note in here about you being more on-the-ball than he’d expected. Do something worthwhile with that brain of yours. It’s probably the one thing that’s real about you, the one thing that hasn’t been enhanced or altered to fit some Hollywood ideal.”

  Still processing the fact that Ryan had written something almost-nice about her—a backhanded compliment was still a compliment—Madison looked at Connie with a mixture of anger and grudging respect. It wasn’t any of Connie’s business what she did with her life. But the woman was voicing some of the very thoughts she’d been trying to ignore the past few days.

  It made her wonder what it’d be like to have a mother who actually gave her advice. Well, advice that she could listen to.

  Connie was on a roll. “Do you know who Marlise Simone is?” she asked. “No? Well, that just goes to show you. She was huge five years ago—she was on one of those MTV shows. And then she got into drugs, and then she got into shoplifting. And then she got caught. And now she’s back at home, living in her parents’ basement. In Wyoming.” Connie looked at Madison intently. “That’s cautionary tale number one, and I have a whole book of them. Care to hear more?”

  Madison shook her head. “No thank you,” she said.

  “What about Iris Williams? She didn’t get in trouble with the law, so I haven’t met her personally, but I read the magazines. Anyone can see that she had an unfortunate run-in with her plastic surgeon. She’s got a pair of lips like a duck bill and I’m sure it’s because she thought her mouth looked small on television. Now nobody will hire her.” Connie reached out and poked Madison’s hand. “This stuff warps you,” she said.

  Madison offered Connie a small, tight smile. “I’m not going to be like those girls,” she said. “Some of us escape unscathed.”

  Connie looked doubtful. “I’m gonna say you’re already scathed. What with this criminal record and all.”

  Madison stood. “Listen, I do appreciate your taking the time to lecture me. But can we be done now? Consider me duly warned. I’ll be back at Lost Paws on Monday, ready to work.”

  “Good,” Connie said. “Because I don’t want to see you again.”

  “Believe me, the feeling is mutual,” Madison said.

  Madison sat curled on her couch, paging through one of the old photo albums that Sophie had brought with her from Armpit Falls. Only weeks ago, Madison had regarded the album as a prop—just some old thing for her, Sophie, and Charlie to gather around while the PopTV cameras filmed them trying (and mostly failing) to recall some shared happy memory. But now she looked through the pictures more carefully, and more sadly.

  There she was, age six, perched on top of a slide at the park behind the supermarket; there she was at seven, proudly holding up a ribbon she’d won at her school’s Field Day; and there she was at eight, fixing a dinner of Hamburger Helper while her mom was out of frame, smoking in her La-Z-Boy. (Sophie, age five, had taken the picture; the focus was terrible.)

  If Madison had stayed—if she’d never run away, never renamed and remade herself, never set her eyes on fame and fortune—she’d probably still be in that trailer park; if not living with her mom, then living a few doors down. If she thought her life sucked now, she should think about that for a moment.

  But this exercise in comparison didn’t make her feel better for long. Madison had begun facing an ugly truth. She left her home because she wanted to be somebody. But what, exactly, had she made of herself? She was fake: all surgery, fillers, and extensions. She was silicone and acrylic and paint and dye.

  She set her jaw defiantly. Frankly, she could deal with that stuff. She’d chosen it, and she wasn’t sorry. A girl did what a girl had to do to get ahead.

  But she didn’t like being a criminal in the eyes of the world. She hated the position that Charlie had put her in. That she’d let him put her in.

  And she felt utterly alone. In the past, she could have given one single come-hither look to a rich man, and within the hour she’d have companionship, gifts, whatever she wanted. But she didn’t know any guys who wanted a convict for a girlfriend.

  She put her head in her hands. Alone, she repeated. Alone. She wished she had someone to call. But that was just one of the prices she paid to be Madison Parker: She didn’t let people get close, and if she did, she didn’t let them stay for long.

  She was gazing at a picture of herself and Sophie standing on a tall snowdrift beneath a clear blue sky. They were waving at the camera, Madison wearing only a sweater because she’d outgrown her coat and Sue Beth hadn’t managed to get her a new one. Madison remembered the cold brightness of that day—how they had come into the trailer, noses red with cold, and Sue Beth, in a moment of rare maternal concern, gave them a hot chocolate and ran a warm bath.

  “Oh, look at you! That picture is so cute!”

  Madison started: She hadn’t heard Gaby come in. She closed the album. “Yeah, well,” she said, “it was a long time ago.”

  “I can’t believe you grew up with snow,” Gaby said, giggling. “That’s so … freaky.” Gaby had never been east of Las Vegas or north of Big Sur.

  Madison noticed that her roommate’s eyes were oddly glassy. “Gaby, are you on something?”

  “Oh, yeah, maybe something,” Gaby said, weaving a little. “I forget. It’s a blue pill. Jay gave it to me.”

  Madison frowned. “Why?”

  “He said I was being uppity and I needed to take a chill pill.” She flopped down onto the couch and closed her eyes.

  “He did not say that.” Madison didn’t think it was possible to dislike Jay any more, but here she was, wrong about something else.

  “His exact words,” Gaby said with a little laugh, letting her head fall back against the cushions. “He went out, though. So now I’m nice and chilled and he’s not even here.”

  She gave an exaggerated pout and slowly slid down until she was lying on the couch. In another moment, she was asleep, with her shoes still on. Madison looked at her frail roommate and remembered when they first met. Gaby had been a girl-next-door type herself, with a healthy figure and a closet full of button-downs. Now she lay with her thin arms crossed and goose-bumped, a shadow of her former self. What had happened to the sweet, not-too-bright girl who just wanted to have a good time and gossip about boys?

  Madison stood up, pulled a cream-colored chenille throw from the couch, and placed it over Gaby. Then she picked up Gaby’s Balenciaga off the ground and fished out several prescription bottles. She made her way into her bathroom and opened her medicine cabinet to survey her various supplements. After a moment, she
carefully selected a few. Then she emptied each of the bottles she’d taken from Gaby’s purse and replaced them with the supplements she thought most resembled the pills: some vitamin C, a little vitamin D, and some baby aspirin. She secured the tops back onto each bottle, walked back into the living room, and slipped them back into Gaby’s purse.

  She knew this was only a gesture—like placing a Band-Aid on a bullet wound. But maybe it would slow Gaby down a little. (This little trick had worked sometimes on Sue Beth Wardell once she developed her taste for Vicodin.)

  Madison gave the covers over Gaby one more little tug so that she’d stay warm, and then, after watching her sleep for a moment, she slipped on a pair of sandals and left the apartment.

  She didn’t know where she was going; she just walked. A moment later, she found herself inside the wrought-iron gates of the Park Towers pool. It was late, and no one else was around. The deck chairs were empty, the umbrellas closed for the night. The still water was glowing turquoise. It looked beautiful. Clean.

  Madison never swam in pools. Chlorine was bad for the skin, and water messed up the hair and makeup. But almost before she knew what she was doing, she had stripped down to her underwear (a lacy black La Perla set). She stood for a moment on the pool’s tiled edge—then she dove in.

  The water was a delicious shock to her skin; it felt somehow both warm and cool at the same time. She swam almost the whole length of the pool before surfacing, gasping and shaking water droplets from her hair. It was amazing—why had she never been in it before? She ducked under again, swimming down until she touched the bottom, and then rocketing back up. The night was silent except for the sound of the splashing water and the song of one lone cricket. For an hour, Madison swam from one end of the pool to the other, feeling almost as if the water was washing her clean of sadness.

  17

  PLAYING TO THE CAMERAS

  It was one of Carmen’s rare days off from The End of Love, but instead of spending it in bed, or on a hammock by a pool, or anywhere else she could be idle and horizontal, she was hurrying to meet her mom for lunch at Saburo’s in WeHo. And PopTV would be there to capture this loving family moment.... Ugh. She still couldn’t believe that after everything her dad had said about the show, and all the objections he’d raised to it, that her mother was going to be on it. When she’d tried to talk to her mom, Cassandra had acted like she was doing Carmen a huge favor by deigning to be on the show, and that, like their legendary shopping sprees, it was one more thing they had together that Philip would never understand. Carmen hadn’t known how to tell her that wasn’t exactly how she saw the situation, but now definitely wasn’t the time to bring it up again.

  First, though, she would be getting a phone call from Fawn. Laurel hadn’t told her what it was about, just that it was part of the day’s filming.

  She was walking toward the restaurant entrance when Fawn called. “Hey, Fawn,” Carmen said. “I’m just heading to lunch. What’s up?”

  “You’ve got to check out D-Lish,” Fawn said, sounding even more excited than usual. “There’s a bunch of pictures from that party in the Hills we went to.”

  “Really? Pictures from the party?” Carmen asked, dropping her car keys into her purse. She knew to repeat what Fawn said, since Fawn’s side of the conversation wasn’t being filmed. “On D-Lish?” She was interested, of course, but it wasn’t like she’d never been in party pictures before.

  “Yeah, check ’em out now,” Fawn said. “Love you! Bye!”

  Carmen pulled up the website on her iPhone. The pictures were right at the top of the page—and they were horrible. Carmen gasped. Who in the world had taken these pictures, and how the hell had they managed to make her look so awful?

  She stared at the picture of the girl with the shiny nose and the double chin, with the cocktail in her freakishly overlarge hand. It wasn’t just the unflattering angles and unfortunate lighting, either. One photo showed her with her arm draped around Reeve Wilson, and in another she’d been caught midblink and looked wasted. If the girl in the photos hadn’t been wearing her new Kimberly Ovitz dress, Carmen never would have recognized herself.

  Below the photos was a rude blurb about her looking like a hot mess, and below that were dozens of comments: Gross! No wonder Luke dumped her, someone wrote. He could do so much better. Someone else called her a cow; still another accused her of being a bloated celebutard.

  Carmen felt her throat constricting. Why would Fawn tell her about this on-camera as if it were some fun thing? Why would Laurel have her do it? One of them should’ve warned her! These photos felt like an attack. Sort of the way that the “anonymous sources claim Carmen not happy with Colum” tidbits had felt like an attack. Or the way the “was the break-up really mutual?” items had. Now her bad press was part of the show?

  Carmen shook her head as she hurried toward Saburo’s. She couldn’t think about this now—she had to keep filming. When she entered the restaurant, frazzled and late, she gave her lipstick a quick touch-up and fixed a smile on her face. “Reservation for Curtis?” she said to the hostess.

  The woman nodded, her face a mask of lovely blankness. “Right this way, miss.”

  Carmen followed the hostess (and the PopTV camera followed Carmen) past a living wall of water bamboo and into the restaurant’s quiet side room, which overlooked a courtyard full of fountains and cherry trees. There was a glare from the windows, so her mother, already seated at their table, appeared only in silhouette. Her head was turned away and Carmen saw her fingers drumming lightly on the tablecloth.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Carmen said, approaching, trying not to look at the other camera that was protruding from the tree next to their table. Should she say why? Give the cameras what they wanted? Even though every lens in the world seemed to love Cassandra Curtis—for real, she’d never taken a bad photo in her life—she had, occasionally, been the subject of rude internet commentary. Maybe she’d offer some good advice. “I was looking at awful pictures of myself online,” Carmen added.

  “Oh, darling,” Cassandra said, smiling up at her. “Tell me all about it. Sit, sit!” She waved for the waiter and mouthed the word “tea.”

  Carmen immediately collapsed into the chair. “Someone sent in really ugly pictures of me to D-Lish, and they got posted.”

  “Darling, you could never take an ugly picture,” her mom said, beaming at her. Cassandra was in her late forties, but she didn’t look a day over thirty-five. People who didn’t know the Curtises—people who apparently lived under rocks or in caves, with no access to a radio or television—often thought the two were sisters.

  “Um, unfortunately that’s not true,” Carmen said.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, a small man clutching an iPhone appeared at the edge of their table. The camera flashed in Cassandra’s face, and then he dashed away, pursued by a waiter.

  Smooth, thought Carmen, shooting eye-daggers at the man’s retreating back. But of course even that photo of her mother would be beautiful.

  Cassandra shook her head and tsk-tsked. “Always with the flash. Don’t they know how annoying it is? Here, have some tea.”

  Carmen took a sip of the warm liquid and tried to smile. Despite the timing of Fawn’s call, her job now was not to complain. She’d been given her assignment, and it was to ask her mother about her work. Plus, she didn’t really want to talk about the awful pictures. Or the fact that D-Lish suggested she’d hooked up with Reeve Wilson at that party, “only moments after being dumped by Luke Kelly.” Ugh!

  “So how’s your new single coming?” she asked.

  Cassandra flashed her trademark megawatt smile. “It’s going to be incredible,” she said. “I can’t wait for you to hear it.”

  “Do I get to before it’s out and on endless repeat on Kiss FM?” Carmen teased.

  Cassandra laughed. “You’re the one who never has time to talk to your old mom.”

  “Sorry,” Carmen said, meaning it. “I’ve been so crazy busy.” She had a h
ard time not reacting to Cassandra referring to herself as her “old mom,” though. She was definitely playing to the cameras with that one.

  Her mother patted her hand. “Of course you have. You’ve got a lot on your plate. And it’s all so exciting.” She leaned in close and spoke low and conspiratorially. “Speaking of exciting, let’s talk about your love life,” she said, winking.

  This, clearly, was a Trevor Lord talking point. Carmen would have known it even if her mother hadn’t given such an obvious lead-in.

  “I don’t know that ‘exciting’ is the right word.” Carmen, who didn’t particularly want to go down this conversational road, tried to steer the subject back. “I mean, it’s certainly not as exciting as a future number-one single.”

  Her mother waved a hand dismissively. “Oh please.”

  “Right—you’ve had so many of those. What’s one more?”

  “That’s not what I meant, darling. I meant let’s talk about you. How are things, really? How is it working with Luke now that you guys have split? I’m sure you saw the magazines. There were so many awful puns about ‘the end of love.’ …”

  Carmen had to fight the urge to roll her eyes, since Cassandra knew perfectly well that she and Luke were never actually together. But apparently Cassandra was a bit of an actress herself. This lunch/scene was starting to feel like one of those exercises in Carmen’s acting class, where two people get thrown together and each has been given a direction that conflicts with the other person’s. “Actually, I haven’t seen much of him lately. I’ve been filming scenes he’s not in, so he’s had a few days off.”

  “And you’re sure you’re okay?”

  Her mother looked so sincere: Was it possible it wasn’t an act? Had Cassandra (who, admittedly, could be sort of self-centered) somehow forgotten that Carmen’s relationship with Luke was fake? Had she disregarded her own rule of not believing what she read in Life & Style? Maybe she was suffering from early-onset Alzheimer’s or some other form of dementia.