Auctioned to the A-Lister

by Holloway, Taylor

  Now, again, I was sitting across from Elaine, staring at her like I wished I could kill her with my brain. Meanwhile, she had droned on about all the stuff I had to do. I was feeling empty, lost, and frustrated.

  Paulina had wisely stayed the hell out of my way ever since Napa. She would do better to avoid me permanently. Whatever she had said to Cindy had made her cry. That was an unforgivable crime.

  “Are you even listening to me?” Elaine asked, snapping me out of my anger at Paulina. Her voice was mild, but I could tell she was concerned that I was ignoring her, while simultaneously being very careful not to upset me. “Are you alright?”

  I nodded my head at her curtly. “Go to the dinner,” I repeated mechanically. “Schmooze with the Academy members. Then go to the afterparty and schmooze with the important people there. Blue suit. Brown shoes. Grey tie.”

  Sit. Stay. Be a good little dog and maybe you’ll get a treat.

  When properly motivated, I was an excellent schmoozer. A truly great schmoozer, complete with inoffensive jokes, firm handshakes, and smiles that made the ladies melt and the men want to buy me a beer. I’d had a lot of practice, and a lot of motivation. But at the moment, I was not feeling an evening of being trotted out and smiling.

  I felt empty. I was right on the verge of getting what I thought I’d always wanted. But I was empty, because the thing I really wanted had just walked out on me. And it was all Elaine’s fault.

  “You’ll get over her,” Elaine told me. I could tell she felt torn about what she’d done. I guess it proved that she wasn’t a monster, just practical. But part of me hated her right now. “I know it seems like you won’t right now, you will.”

  I wished she hadn’t brought it up. For a whole week we’d avoided talking about Cindy. Talking about her now felt like ripping off a scab.

  I sighed. “Please don’t give me relationship advice. How many times have you been divorced?”

  She hissed in her breath, visibly offended. “That’s uncalled for.”

  Four times. The answer was that Elaine had been married and divorced four times, all acrimoniously. Elaine was physically incapable of keeping a relationship going for more than two years. She got bored and moved on emotionally. Sometimes the legal part took a while to catch up, but she kept on trying, even though she knew marriage wasn’t for her. So really, she wasn’t in the best position to be advising me. At least I didn’t make the same mistake over and over. I made exciting new mistakes.

  I stared at her incredulously. “Oh really. I guess it is. So, you don’t like me making value judgements about your life? How do you think I feel when you do it?”

  Elaine shook her head. She licked her lips uncertainly. “It’s better this way, Tommy. I was just trying to help--”

  “No offense, Elaine, but I would really prefer if you’d stay out of my personal life from here on out. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to survive more of your help.”

  It was the most direct I’d been since we started the journey back from Napa. I’d absorbed almost all of Elaine’s directives in perfect, stoic silence. She sat back in the driver’s seat, looking worried.

  “I did what I did to protect you.” Her voice was apologetic, but her expression was determined. “And I’m sorry it hurt you. Or her. I really am.”

  I believed her. It didn’t make it any better. If anything, it made it worse. Hating her would have been wonderfully simple.

  “Great. Consider me protected. Apology accepted. Now please, for the love of God, stay out of my private life.” I didn’t think I wanted to drive with her anymore. I got out of the car. “I’m going to walk back,” I told her.

  “It’s at least five miles,” she protested. We weren’t even close to the house.

  I shrugged my shoulders, ready to be anywhere but near Elaine. “That’s fine.”

  “The benefit—” she started to say.

  I waved her off. “I’ll be there. I’ll wear the blue suit. I’ll do all the stuff you want me to do.”

  “Tommy—” she tried.

  I shook my head at her again. I’d listened patiently to her plans all this time. I’d been good, patient, quiet. I was out of patience now and the ticking time bomb in my brain was going to explode. I wanted to be far away from her when it did. “Just leave me alone for a while, okay?” I sighed, stretched, and started walking. “I need to think.”

  * * *

  The walk wasn’t just five miles. It was five miles of uphill walking at an angle that made me pant. The exercise felt good. And it was LA’s pathetic attempt at winter, seventy degrees and sunny. It was perfect for exercising outside, terrible air quality aside. I threw myself into the exertion, grateful for any distraction that wasn’t Elaine droning on about all the stuff I had to do.

  At least when I was focusing on hauling my stupid body up a stupid hill, I wasn’t thinking about Cindy. I wasn’t remembering the sound of her voice, or the smell of her skin, or the way she looked at me when she thought I wasn’t noticing. I wasn’t wallowing. I was walking.

  But then I realized that I could, in fact, wallow and walk simultaneously. How novel. Because I couldn’t stop remembering that she was kind, gentle, and good. Smart. Funny. She was everything I wanted. And I’d let her walk away from me. And what was I getting in return? A fucking statue? Maybe? Was seven pounds of metal really worth losing the woman I loved?

  Was I still trying to win a bet I’d made with my brother when we were eighteen and sneaking beer into our dorm room at Stanford? Was I that shallow? That empty a person? Did I have zero intrinsic motivation at all? What kind of a fucking joke would it be if I’d fashioned myself into the world’s biggest actor over a series of years because I had nothing better to do?

  I felt positively ill. I’d opened up a box in my mind that was full of dark shit, and once the lid was cracked, it all came sliding out. In my current state, I wasn’t able to shove it back in the box. Instead, I just watched it escape with bemused, detached interest. I let it destroy me.

  God, I was such an idiot. As I trudged my angry, resentful way up the hill back to my house, it occurred to me that I deserved this outcome. I’d earned it. I’d made the choices that got me here. Nobody else got me here but me. So, there was really no use in being mad at Elaine.

  She was only doing what I paid her to do, which was to make sure I succeeded against my own best efforts to fail. That was literally her job. To save me from my own mistakes and coerce me into making good decisions. She was damn good at her job. She always had been. So why was I even angry at her?

  If I wanted to be angry, I really ought to be angry at me. I’d hired Elaine. I’d set the goals she was helping me to achieve. Four divorces aside, she was right from her perspective. If the thing I wanted most was to win an Oscar, then Cindy was a liability. But if the thing I wanted most wasn’t to win an Oscar, then what the fuck was I doing with my life?

  It would take me more than five miles of walking uphill to figure that out.

  38

  Cindy

  The apartment looked the same when I pulled up at dusk. It looked the same when I let myself inside. It didn’t look the same when a huge camera crew emerged from the kitchen like a multi-headed monster and aimed their fucking arsenal of recording equipment at me. Marigold was with them. So was the woman I’d seen in front of my van before Tommy and I ran off to Napa. Meg Butler. It wouldn’t be easy to forget her. She was gorgeous. And also, as far as I could tell, totally evil. I’m sure it was a potent combination.

  “Where’s Greenlee?” I asked. “She called me asking for help.”

  “Sign this,” Marigold insisted. “If you want to see her, you have to sign this.”

  “I’m not signing anything,” I told her, taking the papers from her and then dropping them all over the ground dramatically. I bet they wished they’d got that on film. “I don’t want to be on your little show. Now where’s Greenlee?”

  Marigold was looking at me hungrily. It was Meg Butler who answered
the question. “If you want to see your little sister, you have to agree to the cameras.”

  “Are you keeping her against her will?” I asked, horrified. “Who the heck are you, anyway?”

  Meg rolled her eyes. “No one is being kidnapped. I’m Meg Butler, the producer.”

  “I thought you were the trashy gossip lady,” I challenged.

  She liked that and I recoiled.

  “I am. I was.” She grinned. Her teeth were perfect. “Now I’m the trashy reality TV producer. I have many talents, what can I say? Now sign the papers, will you? We’ve got a show to make.”

  “No way. Bite me.”

  She smirked. “If you sign the papers, we can have a fight on camera if you want. I can definitely write that in. If you give me a black eye, it’ll definitely make the cut for next week.”

  Oh gross. No. What was happening? Why was she excited about this? Was she sarcastic or serious?

  I gaped at her, horrified and she giggled. “Oh my God,” she said, shaking her head. “It was just a joke. Sign the papers.” She looked at Marigold. “I thought you said she was on board?”

  Meg Butler didn’t know. I shook my head at her, and she frowned. But I wasn’t sure if she was messing with me. I didn’t trust that woman as far as I could throw her.

  Marigold decided to try again. “Sign the papers and you can find out exactly what’s going on with Greenlee. She wants to see you. She misses you.”

  Yeah. No. I wouldn’t be signing shit. This was an ambush. A setup. I wasn’t that dumb. But I did need to confirm that Greenlee was okay before I peace-d out of this nightmare forever.

  “Greenlee?!” I yelled, stomping around the living room. “Are you in here? Are you okay?”

  The apartment wasn’t that big. If she was in here, she’d hear me. No one replied. I had the sinking suspicion that I’d just walked into an ambush. But I was still worried about her. She was still my little sister. Stepsister. Whatever.

  I brushed past Marigold, heading for Greenlee’s room. The tiny apartment didn’t leave a lot of room with fifteen people in it, but I was determined.

  “Get that camera out of my face,” I told one of the guys who got too close. He obeyed, looking scared. The camera crew let me go. They all looked vaguely exhausted. I could only imagine the hell they were living in, slaves to the egos of my stepfamily. Actually, I didn’t have to imagine it. I’d lived it for years. But that didn’t mean I’d wish it on my worst enemies, which was conveniently what they were at the moment.

  “Listen to me—” Marigold snapped, trying to stop me, but it was no use. Unless she wanted to slap me on television, which would probably not look great, she couldn’t stop me. I opened the door to find Greenlee and Quincy together.

  When they saw the cameras, they both snapped to attention. It was like watching someone shoot heroin. This was their drug, and it was obvious that they craved it just as desperately as one. It made me sad for them.

  “What the hell is wrong with you!” Quincy screeched, turning on her ‘acting’ like it came out of a tap. “I was in love with him! You stole Tommy from me!”

  I rolled my eyes furiously. “I didn’t sign the papers, so you can quit your little act.”

  They both froze. They stared at the producer, Meg, who shrugged.

  “If she doesn’t sign, we can’t shoot,” she confirmed. “It’s the law.”

  I winked at her and she scowled. My stepsisters dropped their act.

  “You have to sign the papers,” Greenlee whined at me. “Why do you have to be such a pain in the ass! This is our business now. We need you to do your part.”

  “I have no part in this. I’m never going on your stupid show. You lied to me, Greenlee,” I said, shaking my head. “You made me think you were in trouble. I was worried about you.”

  She huffed and crossed her arms across her chest. Her hair was different than the last time I’d seen her. She’d bleached it lighter. It was almost white now. If I had to hazard a guess, I would bet that she wanted to look different than Quincy, who’s hair was dark blonde. “That’s my subplot this week, duh!”

  I wanted to vomit. Coming here had been such a mistake. Greenlee wasn’t just okay; she was doing great. This was her dream come true: cameras in her bedroom and attention on her at all times.

  “Okay, this has been fun, but I’m leaving now,” I mumbled.

  “You can’t take the van!” Marigold snapped.

  “It’s my van,” I told her. “You can’t stop me.”

  Marigold stared at Meg who stared impassively back at her. “Stop her!”

  “Let her go,” Meg said, shrugging her shoulders. “If she doesn’t want to be on camera, there’s nothing we can do. She’s not a public figure and we’re in a private place.”

  I never in a billion years would have thought that Meg Butler would help me. But she shooed the camera crew back and let me pass. Quincy, Greenlee, and Marigold were all whining and/or screaming at me, but that was nothing new. I shook my head and let myself out, relieved that I’d made it through that nightmare unharmed.

  At least now I knew never to fall for their shit, any of their shit, ever again. Even Greenlee couldn’t be trusted. I used to think that Marigold was the reason that Greenlee and Quincy were the way they were. I thought that they were good people underneath all the shit that Marigold projected onto them. And maybe, at some point, that had been true.

  But over time, they’d absorbed too much of Marigold. They’d internalized what they’d been coated in all this time. Whatever they could have developed in terms of interests, personalities, and ambitions of their own had been permanently smothered. They were just like Marigold now. If I was toxic by association, they were toxic by choice. At least I wasn’t a willing participant in the contagion I carried. It was a cold comfort, but it was better than nothing.

  I stomped down the stairs to my van, feeling a bizarre mixture of relief and disgust. I was unlocking my van when Connie appeared out of nowhere.

  “Hey,” she said, jumping back when I gasped in shock. “Hey! It’s just me.”

  I exhaled in relief. “Oh my God, Connie,” I managed. I hugged her. “It’s good to see you.”

  We’d exchanged a few texts over the past week, but I hadn’t realized until right now how much I missed her. Until very recently, we’d spent forty hours a week, side by side, for a year. She was pretty much my best friend, as different as we were from one another.

  “I was just leaving. I thought I saw the van and came over,” she told me, pointing at the dry cleaners down the street. “I was working late.”

  “I bet they have you working overtime,” I said. “I’m sorry if me quitting has made your life harder.”

  She shrugged her shoulders, seemingly happy for me. “Hey, it’s easy overtime for me.” Then she grinned. “They were eating you from the inside. I’m glad you got out.”

  I looked back over my shoulder at the apartment. “Me too, Connie. Me too.”

  “Do you want to go over to Sebastian’s?” Connie asked me. “For old time’s sake?”

  I exhaled in relief. The world might be full of terrible people, but not everyone was like that. Connie wasn’t.

  “Sure,” I told her. “That sounds great.”

  39

  Cindy

  Sebastian’s was a lot busier on a random weeknight than usual. Connie and I claimed the only available table near the back. I ordered myself a beer from a waiter I didn’t recognize and tried to put the horrible exchange at the apartment from my mind.

  “I wonder what’s going on here?” I asked Connie, looking around at the crowd. “I’ve never seen it this busy.”

  Her gaze drifted around as if surprised by my comment. “I guess so. Maybe everybody else needed a drink too.” She seemed tense.

  I smirked. “Probably because they’ve been watching too much of that show and it’s brain-meltingly bad.”

  Connie giggled at me. She seemed weirdly on edge tonight, but I didn’t ho
ld it against her. She’d probably seen some shit lately. I could only imagine that prolonged contact with a reality TV show might cause PTSD. That is, if what she was already used to witnessing out of Marigold and company hadn’t already done the trick.

  The whole experience with Marigold had been eye-opening for me. This was what she really was. I’d only had to see the reality show drama for five minutes and it had been perfectly awful.

  “You ought to see the dry cleaners these days,” Connie was telling me. “It’s a madhouse. There are so many people holding cameras and microphones we can barely actually clean the clothes. I’ve been doing most of the real work at night.”

  “I can only imagine it’s totally insane.”

  I’d been avoiding watching the show. Right now, only the pilot had aired on TV, but apparently the show was so cheap to produce that they’d ordered an entire twenty-four-episode season. I was not looking forward to enduring all twenty-four episodes but knew that I’d eventually have to watch them. My curiosity would win out; it was inevitable.

  “Oh,” Connie said, as if remembering something. “I grabbed your stuff out of the safe, figuring you wouldn’t want to go back for it.”

  She produced my missing social security card and birth certificate from her purse. I gasped.

  “Thank you!” I exclaimed, grateful beyond belief. I hadn’t been relishing the prospect of visiting the dry cleaners ever again. Even though I’d go late at night, that place was haunted for me now. I couldn’t think of anywhere, except maybe the apartment, that I wanted to avoid more than the dry cleaners. Connie had just spared me a painful visit, although I hadn’t known she could get into the safe.

  “Don’t mention it,” Connie told me. Her expression shifted. “Actually, the renewal on the registration for your van came, too. I put it all together. All you have to do is sign.”