Yacht Girl

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Yacht Girl Page 8

by Alison Claire Grey


  But there was no such thing as a perfect place, Dee reasoned. And as much as she missed Florida, she was still excited to be where she was.

  Life might have been easier back home, but easy wouldn’t get Dee Beckett to where she knew she was destined to be.

  Twenty-One

  Meg had to admit, she’d never really believed Dee would actually leave the panhandle.

  Sure, she’d been talking about it for their entire young lives, but Dee did that a lot. Her sister loved to make grand plans, but never followed through. For every big dream, there was always a big excuse for why it hadn’t happened yet, or at all.

  For instance, Dee had once attempted to write a novel for about two weeks after watching the movie Wonder Boys. Then she signed up to take real estate classes— that experiment lasted almost a month. Then she’d had an affair with an older man who lived in Lynn Haven who was a dentist, and so she’d announced she was going to become a dental hygienist. None of it ever panned out. Dee had done bartending school, scuba-diving classes, she’d even sold bad, overpriced make-up as part of some nightmare pyramid scheme, convinced her riches were forthcoming because some woman she met at Publix told her so.

  But this time, Dee had gone through with what she said she’d do. Meg wasn’t sure how to handle this. Their relationship was defined by their roles, and Meg hadn’t realized how much she’d relished being the sensible one who did the things she said she’d do until Dee left. Why had she been so proud of that? Now Meg felt like it just meant she was boring.

  Dee had never been that, of course.

  Dee had always told Meg she should join her on Dee’s Hollywood adventures.

  They’d watched a movie called American Sweethearts together a half dozen times. It was the one where Julia Roberts plays a sister and personal assistant to the movie star sister played by Catherine Zeta Jones.

  “See! That could be you and me!” Dee declared, pointing at their television as the credits rolled. “I’m the talent and you’re the brains behind the talent.”

  “I don’t think this is a very good example,” Meg pointed out. “The movie ends with them having a huge falling out. And Catherine Zeta Jones is so cruel to her. Do you think I’d put up with that?”

  “Of course not,” Dee sat back. “I’d never treat you badly. We’d be a team.”

  Yet they both knew Meg would never leave the panhandle and their dad. Dee might have been fickle, but Meg was steadfast to a fault.

  She was the sister who would always stay.

  Meg had tried to keep busy those first couple of weeks without Dee. Her father had made her manager of The Siesta, an enormous role and responsibility. He was hoping to spend less time working and more time pursuing the passion of his life— harvesting tupelo honey.

  “I know I can count on you,” he’d told Meg the night before Dee left for California. “And this way, you have something of your own. A distraction.”

  “I don’t need a distraction,” Meg had insisted, annoyed that he knew her so well.

  “Sure, you do. We both do,” her father admitted. “I mean, what is life without our Dee?”

  Meg was less than three months away from turning twenty-four years old. She’d gone to community college and toyed with transferring to Florida State University to finish, but she hadn’t pursued anything beyond that. The motel had just always required so much of her time, time she was happy to give. Unlike Dee, Meg was happy with this life of theirs. She loved driving down Front Beach Road every morning, past the low dunes of powdery white sand, loved the calmness of the Gulf in the early hours, how it looked like glass, not a ripple disturbing it.

  Meg’s favorite view was the one from The Siesta pool deck around noon on a busy summer day. Blue beach chairs dotted the shoreline. The gulf water was aquamarine and just as clear and beautiful as anything you could see in the Caribbean. People would smile and greet her, and she got a lot of satisfaction from knowing her family’s business brought those smiles and memories to people— good people who worked hard all year for their one week of vacation that they chose to spend at her family’s motel. The beach and the gulf were always the same, but the faces changed every week. There was something comforting in that familiar rhythm. Checking in, checking out, pale skinned Midwesterners inevitably turning lobster red after long days at the beach.

  It had always been enough for Meg. She wished it had been enough for her sister too.

  Twenty-Two

  Dee finally found a job, but it had been difficult, and it wasn’t what she’d had in mind. Still, it was something.

  Dee counted on her experience working at The Siesta impressing the hotels hiring in LA. She’d applied at all the fancy ones she’d read about in US Weekly— The Chateau Marmont, The Beverly Hills Hotel, The Hollywood Roosevelt. These were all the places famous starlets were photographed leaving, after all. She wanted to work where things happened, where people went to be seen. Maybe she could meet someone that would help her get the big break famous people always talked about in their autobiographies.

  Anyway, wasn’t that what everyone always said about Hollywood? It was all about who you knew, and Dee knew no one.

  Obviously, she needed to change that.

  Unfortunately, most of the hotels claimed they weren’t hiring, despite having ads online stating they were, and they’d made Dee feel ridiculous for assuming she was qualified.

  “What hospitality experience do you have?” one woman asked, holding Dee’s resume out in front of her by the corner, like it was used toilet paper.

  “Like it says on my cover letter, I’ve been helping with my family’s motel since I was in high school.” Dee had put on her best interview outfit— black slacks from the Old Navy outlet in Destin and a crisp white button-down shirt with a red fitted blazer from TJ Maxx.

  “Motel?” the woman had said it like it was a dirty word, over-pronouncing the M. “A motel in Florida is not equivalent to working in a luxury resort in Southern California, especially without any sort of degree in hotel management.” She’d handed back the resume, not even bothering to pretend she’d consider her. “Maybe start by applying at one of the weekly motels near the airport. Try us again in a few years.”

  As Dee walked away, she could hear the woman say to the colleague next to her, both of them giggling: “She’s dressed like she’s one of the valets!”

  Dee had refused to let it get her down. She hadn’t moved to Los Angeles to work for a hotel anyway. She’d come here to be a star; a day job was just a means to that end.

  It hadn’t been easy, and it had required a lot of walking, talking, and driving in heavy traffic that almost made her go insane, but she’d finally convinced an Italian restaurant off Hillhurst and Los Feliz Boulevard to hire her as a hostess. The pay would barely cover her rent, but she’d get a small comped meal each shift, and she would make a little bit in tips which hopefully would cover groceries, gas, and random expenses. Even so, if she just got that one small meal from work each day, it wouldn’t be the worst thing. It would keep her slim. It was also within walking distance, a rare thing in LA.

  Dee refused to be anything but aggressively positive, even in the face of what seemed like insurmountable odds.

  Since Rachel didn’t work, she was almost always home, something Dee hadn’t considered when she decided to move in with her. And Rachel wasn’t someone who left people alone. Dee had to close the door to her room to have a chance at privacy, and even then, there was little guarantee. Rachel had a gift for taking what a normal person could say in thirty seconds and turning it into a forty-five-minute monologue, chock full of fake laughter, the word “like” at least once every three sentences and sneaking in breaths so quickly that it was impossible to get a word in edgewise. Having a conversation with Rachel inevitably and quickly turned into being her verbal prisoner. Dee loved to talk, but she’d more than met her match in Rachel.

  Despite Dee paying rent, Rachel made it very clear that the apartment was her domain,
even Dee’s bedroom and bathroom. Dee was constantly finding her toiletries and hair ties in Rachel’s room, which frustrated her greatly, but it was also something that she had no idea how to deal with. Rachel came off as someone who would kick her out if she dared to make her feel uncomfortable or accuse her of anything, and Dee hadn’t signed a lease.

  Dee would come home from work after ten most nights, exhausted, her feet throbbing from standing in her cheap heels from Payless, for hours on end.

  Rachel was always up when Dee got home, usually getting ready to go out to places Dee had only heard about on the E! network or MTV, places that served fifteen-dollar cocktails that you had to hold onto so no one could slip drugs into them.

  Clubs and lounges like Beauty Bar, Goldfinger’s, The Parlour, and Lava Lounge were the places Rachel tended to frequent, the hot spots of the moment, places crawling with strivers and wannabes, the men’s hair tips frosted, the women’s Bebe bandage dresses so tight it was a wonder they could breathe, much less talk, to the men who surrounded them, men who referred to themselves as “producers.”

  Dee had learned quickly the “producers” who approached beautiful women were real producers alright— of porn. She steered clear of them as much as she could. Especially if they mentioned filming in the Valley.

  Rachel was happy to be the center of attention among these people, swiping her father’s American Express card like it was monopoly money. Sometimes Rachel brought people home with her— mostly smarmy looking guys— something that made Dee nervous for both of them.

  For someone with big dreams, Rachel didn’t seem to be doing much to make them come true. She was out partying four to five nights of the week, and sleeping all the next day, waking up mid-afternoon only to call the takeout place down the road to request her usual Pad Thai delivery. She’d eat half of it and immediately purge it. Dee would hear Rachel retching through the thin walls that separated their bathrooms.

  Meanwhile, Dee was busting her ass to figure out how to make her new life work. She admittedly resented Rachel’s situation and couldn’t imagine how much she’d be able to accomplish if she didn’t have to worry about paying bills.

  Not that her father wouldn’t help her if he could. But the motel barely broke even most of the time and the Becketts were a paycheck to paycheck family. They worked for every dollar they made and most of it went back into the business, or into the small, humble, concrete flat-roofed house they lived in together on the west side of the beach.

  Dee hadn’t realized what it would take to even begin to make a small step in the entertainment business. She had to be careful, always watching for people who were looking to take advantage of her hopes and dreams. Separating naïve aspiring actresses from their money was an industry in itself. Scammers and con men were everywhere.

  She’d contact agents who advertised in the paper, not realizing that’s not what reputable talent agents would ever do. They’d promise Dee the world if only she’d hand over just $1000 for headshots that could only be taken by their photographers, headshots that would certainly be the first step in Dee’s journey to stardom.

  Even after being savvy enough to avoid that scam, there were other things she hadn’t known about breaking into the industry. Like having to somehow obtain a SAG card. People didn’t hire actors that weren’t with the union, and it was hard to get into the union without having done work on a union production.

  It seemed almost impossible.

  But Dee never even thought about giving up. For once in her life, she knew that if she did give up this time— like how she’d given up on everything else she’d tried— it would never happen for her. This was her one chance. She’d do whatever it took to make it happen.

  If only she’d known, then just what that would mean.

  Twenty-Three

  Dee had survived for over six months in Los Angeles. It was summer now, which was a slow time in the city. Productions tended to shut down, especially television shows, and anyone who was anyone left town in August.

  But not Dee and not Rachel. Rachel had gone home for two weeks in June for her brother’s wedding, which Dee had enjoyed. It had been wonderful to have the apartment to herself.

  When Rachel came back though, there was a change in her demeanor.

  “You have to start helping with utilities,” Rachel said one afternoon. Dee was getting dressed for work when she said it.

  “I thought they were included with the rent?” Dee asked, and Rachel rolled her eyes.

  “Well, they’re not now. My dad is getting on me about my spending and he says there’s no reason you shouldn’t be paying half the bills. And rent is going up next month when my lease renews. So, you’ll be paying $900 a month, plus half utilities.”

  There was no way Dee could afford that. She was barely making it as it was. And she’d been saving up to take an acting class at the Stella Adler school. It was $800, and she was halfway there, but she’d never be able to do it if she had to pay that much in rent. Also, being that she was rarely home, she didn’t think it was fair to have to pay half of cable, so Rachel could watch reruns of Friends every afternoon.

  “Okay, I have to go to work, but we can talk about it later,” Dee responded, but Rachel slammed her palm on the table.

  “There’s nothing to talk about!” she yelled, making Dee jump. “You either do it, or I find somebody else. We don’t have a contract, you know.”

  Dee definitely knew. Rachel reminded her of that fact all the time.

  As she walked to work, Dee’s heart pounded. Nothing stressed her out like money. That was the toughest lesson LA had taught her so far— everything depended on it. It wasn’t fair, but it was what it was. She’d long since gotten used to being hungry and she knew exactly how far she could drive after the “E” lit up on her dashboard, reminding her she needed to fill up.

  She dialed Meg’s number as she walked. Her father had bought her a Motorola Razr flip phone a couple of months ago as a gift, so she could stay in contact with them more easily.

  At least it was one less thing she’d have to pay for.

  “Hey!” Hearing Meg’s voice on the other end made Dee want to cry. Sometimes her homesickness overwhelmed her. Dee fantasized about leaving LA all the time and going back home to an easier life.

  On days like this she wondered why she even bothered. She was no closer to her dreams than she’d been the day she’d arrived at the Motel 6 off Hollywood Boulevard.

  “Hey, you,” Dee replied, trying to hide the quiver in her voice. “How are things?”

  “They’re okay. It’s starting to slow down here a little, kids go back to school soon. Dad hired these terrible women to run the front desk in the morning. Do you remember Marion Cooke? She’s Mack Gentry’s sister. I think that’s why he hired her, otherwise I have no idea. I can’t stand her, all she does is whine, whine, whine about everything.”

  Meg kept talking, but Dee had zoned out. As she approached the restaurant, she noticed there was a CLOSED sign on the front door.

  That didn’t make any sense. Dom’s opened at eleven every day and it was already three in the afternoon.

  “Meg, I’m so sorry, I have to go. Tell Dad I love him, I’ll call you back.”

  She flipped her phone shut and walked closer to the glass door, sure that it must be some mistake:

  CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. APOLOGIES. -DOM

  She could see her reflection in the glass staring back at her, mouth agape. What the hell?

  Dee flipped open her phone and quickly dialed the only number she had for the manager. It went straight to a voicemail that was full.

  Dee looked around, hopeful someone else would approach and explain what was going on. Maybe they were just opening late today. She texted a couple of the waitresses she’d gotten to know, but no one responded.

  “Shit!” Dee yelled at no one. This was her only job other than the random background extra work she did in the hopes of getting even the smallest speaking part, so she could
apply for her SAG card. Without this job, she had nothing.

  At that moment she had $67 in her checking account. She had about $300 in savings for the class, but even that wouldn’t help with the amount rent would be now.

  She looked at her phone again. Maybe she could call Meg back, tell her this wasn’t working out, that she was coming home. Dad would send her enough money to get back. She’d have a job, a place to live. So much of her stress would be gone.

  Dee shook her head. She couldn’t go back. It would be shameful to have not even made it a year. No, going back wasn’t the answer.

  What she didn’t want to do was go back to the apartment and deal with Rachel. God, this couldn’t have come at a worse time.

  Dee waited around for an hour for someone to show up, but no one did. Inside, the restaurant was dark. They hadn’t even bothered to call her and tell her not to show up.

  People in LA sucked.

  She walked back to the apartment and got in her car. The LeBaron had been the one thing that hadn’t let her down so far. She’d just filled it with gas the day before. She could go anywhere she wanted to.

  After all, she was “all dolled up” as her grandma used to say. The restaurant required her to wear a sexy black dress, hose, and stilettos. Her hair was down and freshly curled, the chestnut waves falling over her shoulders. Make up was on point. Dee looked good. She just needed someone to see her, to notice her.

  Why not tonight?

  She turned over the ignition and was on her way. She didn’t know where yet, but she’d figure it out. She always did.

 

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