The Redhead Series

by Alice Clayton

  “Yes,” I said quietly.

  “Grace,” she sighed.

  My anger bubbled over. “Dammit, Holly, there’s no reason I can’t go for a walk with my boyfriend like anyone else! This isn’t fair!” I yelled, grabbing my laptop. I wanted to see these photos for myself.

  “Hey, don’t yell at me. We discussed this, and for the record, Jack wants you two public. He doesn’t care what the press says. He thinks it’s ‘bollocks’ when I tell him he can’t talk about you. He doesn’t fully understand what that would create for you, though. And if you thought the cougar comment was cruel, they’d go for the jugular with his dating an older woman. If you’ll recall, you didn’t want the press either. You wanted to remain the unidentified redhead.”

  I sighed. “I do.” The pictures came up on my computer then. Luckily, they weren’t as bad as I feared: one of us holding hands, and the other with his hand on my back as I gazed up at him, smiling. They were great shots true, but I had trouble focusing on that since I noticed right away how giant my ass looked. Bad angle? Let’s hope so . . . But I still felt a little sick at the thought of being the unidentified redhead with the large bum.

  The pictures made me happy and sad. I loved seeing the two of us together, and it was oddly reassuring that someone could candidly capture what we were really like—obviously in love and full of schmaltz. But—is that really what I looked like from the rear? I also hated that we were on a website I checked daily to get a celebrity fix . . . and maybe troll a little for flaws. Now someone could be out there trolling for mine. Karma’s a bitch.

  Luckily, there were no snarky captions. Just a mention that Jack Hamilton had been spotted in New York’s Central Park with a redheaded gal pal. I snorted. Why do they always say “gal pal”? Who talks like that?

  “Grace! You still there?” Holly called through the phone.

  “Yes, I’m still here. I’m looking at the pictures. Jesus, Holly. What are we going to do?” I asked, despair creeping into my voice.

  “Does this mean you aren’t mad at me anymore?” she asked.

  “Ah, jeez, fucko, I was never mad at you, just pissed you didn’t tell me. I know you’ve got my back. I just hate being surprised by this stuff. It was really bad when I saw those pictures. Then when he told me you two had discussed it—I don’t know. It felt like I was being handled or something.”

  “I know. Next time I’ll make sure you know as soon as I know. Deal?” she asked.

  “Deal.”

  “As for what we’re going to do. We’re not going to do anything. He’ll continue to deny he has a girlfriend, and if any other pictures of him and Marcia surface, who cares? You know which side his bread is buttered on—and his crumpet, for that matter. It’s probably a good thing you’re not in the same city right now. I’d get a call that you’d been caught going at it under the Hollywood sign.” She laughed dryly.

  I paused a moment. “Holly?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you sure there’s nothing going on between them?”

  “Grace, if I thought for a second there was, he would be short one manager. And two nuts.”

  “No, no, don’t remove the nuts. I’ve grown rather fond of them,” I warned, grateful to be reminded that she would always have my back, first and foremost.

  “Pervert. And, girl, you should see how much his fans are hating on her! They can’t stand Marcia. They’re crucifying her online. Poor thing. I wonder if her management team will re-think this—although more people definitely know who she is now.”

  “Pfft. No more Marcia talk. It’s giving me heartburn.”

  Besides, I had other things to worry about. Like the way my butt looked in those pictures. I shifted in my chair a little. Was I imagining it, or did my pants feel a little snug this morning?

  “Take some Tums and suck it up, ya little fruitcake.”

  And so it went. Holly and I were fine, and she started sending me early press releases and pictures from the photo shoots Jack had been doing for months. As the pre-movie hype machine began to roll, all the photos Holly had been hoarding were slowly released to the press. It had quickly become clear that when Jack was featured in a magazine, sales went up. Simple as that. He was going to be quite a hot commodity, and Holly had her hands full with new press inquiries and requests for additional interviews—not to mention the demand for photos, photos, photos! I was amazed at Holly’s savvy in stockpiling them earlier, since there weren’t enough hours in the day for Jack to pose for all the photos now. Brilliant. And I was lucky: I got a sneak peek at a lot of the images before they were released.

  My goodness, he was pretty.

  I especially liked the ones from a shoot in Santa Barbara. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but I swear I saw something different in those pictures. He always looked perfectly shagable, but in those pictures? Mmm . . . They were taken the day after we had our first boom-boom, and I swear on that he looked . . .

  Pleased.

  Sated.

  Wicked.

  Freshly done.

  In love?

  Sigh. Yes. In love. He looked in love.

  And still impossibly horny . . .

  Holly also sent me the interviews he was doing. Most evenings just before bed, I went through all the new Jack goodies she’d sent me, followed by a check to see what was where on the Internet. Some of his interviews were just priceless; they really captured him. The female reporters often got quite flirty (who could blame them?), and once, when asked whether he preferred blondes or brunettes, Jack replied, “It depends.”

  “Depends on what?” the reporter asked, leaning forward and seeming to forget she was on live TV.

  “Well, are they all lined up and I get to choose, like a buffet? What are my options?” Jack asked seriously.

  She didn’t get the joke, poor thing, but after that, the buffet line was the most-downloaded sound bite on the Internet for three weeks straight.

  See what I mean? Priceless.

  Jack and I had agreed that I was never to take things personally when he said he wasn’t seeing anyone. And, in fact, he was now using the interviews to talk directly to me.

  “Listen up, Nuts Girl. When I say, ‘I don’t have a girlfriend,’ what I want you to hear in that head of yours is, ‘I love you, Grace,’ ” he instructed on the phone late one night. “When you hear me say, ‘No, I’m not seeing anyone right now,’ what you need to hear is, ‘Yes, I am, and she has the best tits in the free world.’ Can you do that, please?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll listen for your secret messages. Jeez, this is so cloak-and-dagger. You’d think you were a spy or something.” I laughed.

  “Maybe we can role-play that scenario next time I see you—although I’m not sure how you’d take to being dipped entirely in gold.”

  This quickly turned into a discussion of whether I would indulge his Bond fantasies in the future, although frankly I think he just enjoyed torturing me with the words Pussy Galore.

  He really got into the girlfriend question now, and he relished finding new ways to make sure I knew he was thinking of me. I found I could tell when he was really missing me, because he’d deny it more forcefully, sometimes adding, “Girls never talk to me.”

  I made sure to give him a little more phone boom-boom on those nights.

  Rehearsals were going really well, and the show was coming together. Michael was finally pleased with the tone of the script, and his rewrites were limited now to simple phrasing changes. It was a real show.

  We worked exclusively in a small black-box theater, using a limited stage since we weren’t putting up a full production. The show relied heavily on its music and the work of the actors to demonstrate what it could be, if it were to receive full backing. The process was thrilling, and as we approached the preview dates, I became more and more nervous.

  I was relying heavily on Michael for guidance, as his vision for my character, Mabel, was absolute. He leaned on me for moral support as well, since this was his firs
t attempt at a musical of any kind. He had a writing partner for the score, but the spoken words, the lyrics, the melodies, were all Michael O’Connell.

  We’d slipped back into our old college ways. The shorthand we used made it infuriating for anyone else to try to get a word in edgewise when we were on one of our tangents, cracking each other up. We argued about music, movies, politics—oh boy, did we argue about politics. This subject almost caused an actual fight one day at lunch, when I threatened to remove his Adam’s apple with my spork if he didn’t agree with what I said about healthcare. Needless to say, people stopped wanting to dine with us.

  I’d forgotten how thoroughly I used to rely on him back then: he was like my own cute little moral compass. He called me on my shit, he extolled my virtues when I needed propping up, and he knocked me down a few pegs when I got too big for my britches. Now that we were adults, we’d both mellowed, and I realized the quirky emo boy I knew in my twenties had evolved into a fully formed, wonderfully smart and funny man in his thirties. Although he’d kept the idiosyncrasies that would forever link him to that boy in the Ministry T-shirt, he was all grown up.

  He was a brilliant businessman who conducted his business in old Timberland boots, faded jeans, and a North Face hoodie—while chewing Fruit Stripe gum. He had investors lining up to consider backing this show, and he did it all with the same charm and subtlety that had won over the girls back in the day. He was incredibly charming, and the years had only intensified his draw on the opposite sex.

  Hot guy? Of course. Funny hot guy? All the more enticing.

  I was his gut check when he needed a reminder that the show was fantastic—and he really had written an amazing show. He was my gut check when I got nervous about all the investors and critics coming to see the show (and me) in mere weeks.

  Christ in a sidecar—critics!

  But he handled me, and I handled him. That’s what friends do. Our friendship was symbiotic, complementary—and, I slowly realized, becoming a wee bit blurry around the edges.

  I knew what had been going on when Jack was in town. It just took Leslie to drag it out of the Drawer and into my face. The fact that I pushed my own shit to the side meant sometimes I pushed other people’s fairly obvious shit off to the side too. Back in the day, Michael had been a little territorial when it came to me, and we’d fallen into our old ways so quickly when I came to New York that it seemed perfectly logical that he would react that way to Jack. But now I was forced to face the fact that there was clearly more going on.

  Michael’s sister, Keili, came to town about a week after Jack’s visit, and I was thrilled to see her. She was a few years older than us, but she had gone to the same college. Holly and I used to spend the night at her apartment freshman year when we needed to get out of the dorm. This usually meant Michael would spend the night too, and since it was college, this meant we all ended up snuggling on Keili’s futon in the living room. We passed the bong, ate ramen, listened to Alanis, and talked about what we wanted to be when we grew up.

  I was running a little late for rehearsal and came dashing in babbling apologies. I saw a pretty brunette talking to Michael at the front of the theater, and when she turned, I saw that it was Keili. She looked the same: sparkling brown eyes, sweet loving face . . . and a giant belly. My eyes flew open in astonishment as I raced down the aisle.

  “Keili!” I exclaimed, hugging her fiercely.

  “Grace, it’s so good to see you,” she said, with an equally forceful hug.

  “Jesus, you’re huge!” I said, taking in her very pregnant state.

  “Ugh, I know. Four more weeks and then he’s out of me.” She grimaced.

  “He? It’s a boy?” I asked, smiling at her glowing-but-frowning face.

  “Oh yeah. Add that to the two kids we already have at home, and you’ll see why I’m never allowing my husband to have S-E-X with me again.” She laughed ruefully.

  “You might want to check with Shane on that one, sis. I don’t know that any man is happy when you take away the S-E-X,” Michael said, and I turned to see him, arms full of toddler.

  “Who is this?” I asked, walking over to see.

  “This little rugrat is my niece Abigail,” he said, turning her upside down as she giggled and squealed.

  “Stop it, Uncle Michael. You stop it!” she said, red-faced.

  He turned her right side up and placed her on the ground. She ran away, spinning slightly as she caught her balance, and then continued on her path, weaving back and forth between the rows.

  “So what is she, like, six?” I asked.

  “She’s three,” Michael chided, looking at me incredulously.

  “Oh, shit, anyone under fourth grade looks the same to me. Can they read at that age?” I frowned, crinkling my nose. I truly was clueless.

  “Shit, shit, shit, shit . . .” I heard Abigail chattering as she ran back and forth.

  Michael raised his eyebrows at me. “Grace, you can’t swear around kids. Either spell it or, better yet, just think before you speak.”

  Keili laughed, watching the exchange.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean it.” I blushed furiously.

  “Don’t let him fool you,” said Keili. “Who do you think taught her the word asshole?” She mouthed the last word.

  Now that I was not the only one blushing, I turned back to Keili. “So you have another at home too?”

  “Yes, Oliver is almost five. He stayed at home with Daddy today. He’s getting over a bad cold,” she explained. Her ears perked up as we all heard a big bang from the end of a row. Seven seconds later, we heard Abigail cry.

  “That’s the I’m-more-scared-than-hurt cry. I’ll get her,” Michael said, walking briskly in the direction of Abigail’s newly red face as it appeared over the back of the last chair.

  We watched him go to her and pick her up. He held her tight against his chest and told the nasty chair that bonked her in the head to leave his Abigail alone.

  I smiled, watching him with her. Keili caught me and smiled her own secret grin. The two of us caught up for a few minutes, and she was very pleased to learn Michael and I had become close again. The whole family was thrilled he was working in New York. They hailed from Connecticut and were glad to have him close to home.

  “And, Grace, he was so totally floored when you turned up for that audition. It worked out perfectly. I always hated how you two ended things,” she said.

  Keili had heard the entire story from both sides. Ultimately, as Michael and I lost touch, she and I had as well. But she was always a fan of the two of us, and one of the few who saw our friendship for what it truly was back then: more than friendship.

  “I hated how we ended things too. But that’s all in the past. I’m just glad we can work together now. It’s been so long since I’ve had a great guy friend, and it’s been wonderful to go through this process with him,” I said, watching as Michael now showed Abigail the lighting above the stage and how to move the follow spot.

  He was so great with her: calm and attentive, relaxed and happy. And she adored her uncle Michael. I found myself watching her as well. She was really funny, curious about everything, asking question after question. Michael was patient, answering every question with the same careful detail he gave everyone else. He caught me watching them and smiled over the top of her head as he carried her across the back of the theater.

  “And now you live here in New York! That’s so great. We’ll get to spend so much more time together. Once I have this baby I’ll be able to come into the city more often,” Keili prattled on.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say I live here. I live in L.A. In fact, I just finished remodeling a house there that I bought last spring, and I can’t wait to get back to it when this is all over. It’s still a work in progress, but I love it.” I sighed, my face breaking into the smile I always got when I thought of my cozy bungalow in the canyon.

  “Oh, I thought you were living here now. At least that’s what Michael said.”


  “Well, that’s mostly true. I mean, I’m here until the show is over, and then we’ll have to wait and see what happens with it. I’m having a blast out here, but I love L.A. It’s my home,” I said.

  She looked at me for a moment, then suddenly grimaced and rolled her eyes. “Jeez, guy, settle down in there,” she warned, taking a sip of her water and patting her stomach.

  “Is he . . . what is it that they do? Kick?” I asked, looking at her stomach nervously.

  “Yeah, you can say that again. He kicks and kicks so much, I must be cooking up a soccer player in here. Oof!” She rubbed her belly.

  I watched her hand curiously, wondering what it felt like to have a baby rolling around inside you, kicking. Weird.

  “Yes, you can.” She smiled.

  “Huh?” I asked, my eyes snapping up to hers.

  “You want to feel, right?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I mean . . . would that be strange?” I asked, backing away a little.

  “Grace, you used to stand guard while I peed on the side of the road. Nothing is strange.” She laughed, grabbing my hand and placing it on her belly.

  “Wait, I don’t know if I should— Whoa. Wait, is that . . . is that a . . . kick?” I asked, eyes wide. It didn’t feel like a kick exactly but more like a flutter. I imagine it would feel like a kick if it were my bladder taking the beating, though. Fascinating.

  This felt strange.

  I’d seen pregnant women walking around every day of my life, and not once did I ever feel the compulsion to put my hand on there and feel. But this felt strangely normal. Stranger than that, it felt . . . nice?

  “Feels cool, doesn’t it?” I heard Michael ask. I looked at him with the deer-in-the-headlights eyes and nodded.

  He stood close to me, Abigail in his arms. He smiled.

  I smiled back.

  “That’s my brother in there,” Abigail explained, looking from my hand to my face.

  “It is? Does that mean you’re going to be a big sister?” I asked her, smiling.