Reilly pushed aside the pillows, clawed away the tangle of hair that was strewn across her face, and glanced at the sheet-covered form beside her. Then she turned to Sylvie.
“What the…? Who is…?” she said, struggling to sit up to gape at the stranger with Sylvie’s hair lying next to her. It wasn’t the one from the door line. The hair was all wrong.
“It’s Parker, you goof,” laughed Sylvie, tugging on a corner of the sheet, and in an instant Reilly was untangled. Sylvie sat down on the bed next to Reilly, who struggled to sit up. Sylvie took a sip of her coffee. The aroma made Reilly’s stomach churn, and she clutched a pillow to her chest.
“Parker, as in Parker Stevens?” asked Reilly, knowing that there was no way that it was Parker lying in the bed next to her. No fucking way. They hated each other. Had always hated each other.
The feud had started over a decade earlier as a publicity campaign dreamed up by the studio that they had both worked for, though they had been starring in different shows. The campaign had placed the new child stars in a trumped up competitive spat for ratings sweeps. Reilly’s show had catapulted her to stardom, while Parker’s show had tanked. Since then, Reilly’s star had kept rising and Parker had starred in a couple of forgettable movies and landed spots in a number of TV shows, most of which had silently sank after the pilot aired. Now, Parker, who had grown into a beautiful and charismatic woman, kept her career afloat by moving from one reality show to another.
No one had thought to make sure that the impressionable young women knew that the publicity spat was just that—publicity—and the feelings that had been manufactured for entertainment value somehow became part of their reality. Ten years later, the animosity was as much a part of Reilly as her ability to smile through an event that she’d rather skip.
Though Parker’s star wasn’t near as bright at Reilly’s, she had managed to remain a part of the Hollywood scene and had built up a large, almost cultish following, and while Los Angeles was a large city, the entertainment industry was small enough that Reilly managed to run into her around town far more often than she would have liked. Having been the lucky one, and the one in a position of comfort, Reilly would have been happy to ignore her, but Parker couldn’t seem to. She never let it drop. Any chance she had, she went out of her way to let everyone around them know about the bad blood between them. As a result, when Parker showed up somewhere, Reilly usually just left.
Apparently not last night, though. The hazy memory tried to elude her, but Reilly remembered running into Parker near the open bar at the dinner. They hadn’t talked, but they had stood a foot apart, facing away from one another. Reilly had felt Parker’s darkness behind her and she’d waited for the comments, the long glowering stares. But they never came. Parker had ignored her as Reilly waited for Sylvie to get her drink. That was all Reilly remembered. Even without Parker’s usual antagonistic commentary, however, it was almost inconceivable that they would have interacted enough to have resulted in Parker sharing their bed.
Reilly shook her head, ignoring the way the motion made her brain feel like a sodden sponge that had been placed by mistake inside of a snow globe.
“No way.”
“Yeah. Way. You two were like long lost best friends last night,” said Sylvie with a mischievous expression on her face, reaching over Reilly to run her fingers down the side of the sleeping woman. The motion slid the sheet down, exposing more of Parker’s bare skin. Parker arched into the touch and pulled the pillow off her head, but continued to sleep. All Reilly could see was a bare back and mussed up blond hair.
“No way,” repeated Reilly in a whisper. She pushed her bed-mussed hair away from her face. The trapped feeling was back. Sylvie sat on one side of her, and their unexpected bed guest was pressed against the other.
“Way,” repeated Sylvie with a sly smile and a slap on Reilly’s foot.
“Did we…?”
“Kiss and make up?” asked Sylvie. Her eyes sparkled with suppressed entertainment over the rim of her raised coffee cup. Reilly wanted to punch her.
“Sylvie…” she said. She had to know.
“Yes. And then some.”
Bile burned Reilly’s throat.
“Did you initiate it, or…?” asked Reilly, unable to finish her question. Her eyes slid down the bare back and over the curve of naked hip that disappeared beneath the sheets. She thought of her own hands traveling those lines and dread spidered through her.
She imagined Sylvie casting her net over Parker in a dark corner of some club out of sheer mischief and wondered how Parker had fallen for it. Shit, she wondered, how she had fallen for it.
“Oh. That was all you, lover,” said Sylvie with a wink, and Reilly’s stomach turned over.
“Hank would have never let me—“
“Hanky took off right after midnight like his coach was about to turn back into a pumpkin,” scoffed Sylvie, who had never even tried to hide her dislike of Hank. The feeling went both ways, but Hank was better at hiding it. Reilly had a hazy memory of trying to talk him into staying, but she didn’t remember how it played out.
“Shit. That’s it. I think I’m going to throw up,” said Reilly, clawing at the sheets, kicking at Sylvie to move. She scrambled to get out of the bed.
“You seemed pretty into it last night,” said Sylvie, standing up quickly, trying to keep her coffee from spilling.
“No, seriously,” said Reilly kicking her legs. “I think I’m going to throw up. Help get these fucking sheets off of my legs!”
Reilly barely made it to the toilet before she expelled whatever was left in her stomach from the night before, which wasn’t much. Actors never ate anything substantial in public. It was an unwritten rule. She heard voices in the other room. Great. Parker was awake and here she was puking up her guts like a teenager that couldn’t hold her drink. At least she’d have an excuse for how the night had ended. Reilly spit the last of the bitter remnants into the bowl and shuffled to the shower.
Business Brunch 1
IT WAS BEFORE NOON, AND Reilly trailed her mother into Dwight’s Deli, rubbing her temples and cursing the noise around her. The restaurant was a long-time local favorite for Reilly and, due to her frequent patronage, was now one of the current obsessions of the expanding group of trend-setting Hollywood foodies. All the publicity had even landed the chef her own show on the Food Network as well as the lead judge position on a reality show, where non-professional cooks vied over the course of a season for a chance at winning his or her own restaurant. Reservations at Dwight’s were booked for months in advance. But there was always a table open for Reilly, and she and her mother were seated as soon as they arrived.
Reilly navigated the circuitous route behind the host toward their table, paying no mind to the curious eyes that watched her pass. She held onto a sigh and continued on when her mother stopped to say hello to a man with an impeccable beard and meticulous clothing that was chosen to convey a casual appearance. Hipsters repulsed her, and feeling the residual effects from the hangover that had kept her on her knees for much of the day before—not to mention the shock over whom she had found snoring beside her—she just didn’t have it in her to engage in vapid small talk.
She took her seat and accepted the menu that the host offered her, wishing that she were still home in bed. Alone. As much as Reilly loved Dwight’s, she resented her mother’s insistence on meeting there. When Reilly had suggested meeting at one of their houses, her mother, who was also her manager, had reminded her that they weren’t going out for a casual mother-daughter brunch. It was their weekly business meeting. And as usual, her mother had her promotional hat on. Reilly was out to be seen.
Reilly hadn’t been able to summon the energy to protest.
She slumped low in her chair and opened the menu. Her mother, a moment behind, sat down across from Reilly, and shot her a look that Reilly felt rather than saw. Reilly sat up, just managing to not roll her eyes. She pushed her tousled hair away from her face and
tucked it behind her ears.
“Really, Reilly. You could at least try to be friendlier—and a little more careful with your appearance. Someday a role might depend on Ron’s input, and it wouldn’t do for him to remember the day that you walked right by him without stopping to say hello. At sixteen you can get away with it. At twenty-three you don’t get many do-overs, even if you do have an Academy Award and another on the way.”
“You’re going to jinx me if you keep talking that way.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. The law of positive attraction works. Think it, and it shall become,” said her mother with a sage lift of her eyebrow.
Reilly just nodded and studied her menu. She wanted to believe her mother, but she wasn’t in any mood to acknowledge it.
Although they sat in the shade of an awning, Reilly was grateful that she had remembered her sunglasses. The sun was bright and high. A gentle breeze kept her cool, and the scent of honeysuckle arrangements on the surrounding tables masked the smell of baking cement. It was another gorgeous Southern California day. Even through her annoyance at having to be there, Reilly could take pleasure in the dependable beauty of the region found all around her. It was something that she kept to herself. She didn’t want to give her mother the satisfaction of knowing that the meeting wasn’t a complete inconvenience to her.
The erratic SoCal topography contributed to the non-linear road layout of towns located in the hillier regions and often resulted in an eclectic display of architecture. Dwight’s Deli was one of the more prominent examples of that brand of unique design. Located on the corner of two streets that come together at the base of a hill to form a raised pie-wedge lot in downtown Hollywood, the small restaurant featured a glassed-in, wrap-around dining deck, much of which could be seen from the street below. With interesting walls and the strategic placement of potted plants, each table provided the impression of seclusion; celebrities could be seen but were well out of the reach of over-eager fans.
Reilly and her mother sat and studied the menu without talking. It didn’t matter that they always ordered the same thing. It was part of their routine, and it eased them into talk of business.
They were a striking set. Reilly’s appearance had been inherited mostly from her mother, and side-by-side, to any casual observer, they resembled the before and after picture of a beautiful woman in an age-defying makeup advertisement. It was in the unconscious grace of her gestures that Reilly took after her father, whereas Melissa planned every one of her movements.
“The pomegranate mimosas sound good,” said Melissa, dropping her menu to respond to a text message on her phone. She gave the impression that she was the wired-in celebrity manager that she was.
Reilly studied her mother and wished, not for the first time, that Melissa were just her mother. She wanted to throw the phone over the edge of the deck.
“I’ll just stick with water,” said Reilly, subduing the urge to fling the phone. She dropped her head and rubbed her temples. She debated whether she should forgo her usual egg white omelet for plain toast. She desperately needed the protein, but her stomach was protesting the mere thought of anything but water.
“Nonsense, Rye. Brunch isn’t the same without a mimosa or a Bloody Mary,” laughed Melissa, putting her phone down after keying in a short reply to the text. She cast a meaningful glance at Reilly’s hand on her head. “Feeling a little green today, are you? Did you go out last night?”
“No. We stayed in. At least I did. I’m still feeling the effects of the press party dinner from Friday night,” admitted Reilly, brushing her fingers through her hair.
“You don’t get hangovers, darling. Are you sure you aren’t coming down with something?”
“Yeah. I’m sure,” said Reilly. She raised her head and smiled at the trace of concern in her mother’s voice. It was something that she hadn’t heard in a very long time.
Her smile faded when her mother started in on business.
“Good, because you need to be in top form and stay visible until after the awards. A nomination is money in the bank and sets you up for the best projects. A win is that, times ten. So you have to stay out there and keep your name on everyone’s lists. We can’t have you holing up in your house, or letting your appearance go. Let’s schedule a cleanse with that spa up on La Brea. You need to stay healthy for at least the next six weeks. And I’ll line up some handsome men to escort you to some of the events. In fact,” said Melissa, picking up her phone again and swiping to reveal a page on her calendar app, “I have your schedule lined up for the next few weeks. We need to get a hold of Cray or Zac’s people. Hank, if neither of them is available, though he’s a very last choice since no one remembers him anymore. He is a pretty face, though. I really want Cray, since everyone thinks you two are an item.”
Reilly slid down in her chair and watched the cars drive up the hill, away from the restaurant, zoning out as her mom continued to discuss her suffocating schedule. When the waiter arrived, she didn’t say anything as her mother ordered for both of them, including the mimosas. Reilly felt acid fill her stomach just thinking about it. Between her nervousness about the award and her partying, her stomach was a mess.
Her mother recited appointment after appointment as the waiter brought their drinks. Reilly wanted to ask for coffee, but her mother waved him away before she had a chance to ask.
“You know what they say, a little of the hair of the dog,” said Melissa with a smile, as she exchanged her phone for a glass and tapped her champagne flute to the rim of Reilly’s. Melissa’s eyes scanned the area around them to see who was watching.
Reilly raised her glass in a dutiful toast but put it back down without taking a drink. The moment reminded her of too many times when her mother had made them mimosas the morning after a night of partying. It had been a while since Melissa had gone out with Reilly, though. She had stopped accompanying Reilly to clubs after a series of tabloid headlines declared Melissa Ransome the Worst Mother of the Year, in response to a picture of a then sixteen-year-old Reilly passed out against her mother’s shoulder. The photo was just a terrible picture taken out of context. Reilly had been mid-laugh, and the shot had just caught her with her eyes closed. But the truth was that they had both been drunk, and with the bright light of judgment shined square in her face, Melissa had decided that her participation in Reilly’s life had to appear more responsible—at least to the public. Since then, Melissa had worked hard to regain a more appropriate reputation, and Reilly had been subjected to her mother’s constant criticism. In some ways, she missed those old days.
Melissa had never explicitly explained it to Reilly, but Reilly knew that a big part of the image that her mother tried to promote was one of Reilly as the consummate party-girl. It was that image that kept Reilly in the spotlight, even when she was between films, like she was now. As long as it didn’t impact the quality of her work, affect her appearance, or lower her box-office standings, Mellissa encouraged the behavior and was gratified when it made headlines. And because it gave her freedom, Reilly exploited her mother’s business strategy.
So when Reilly had snuck away to go to nightclubs with her older, more famous friends when she was just sixteen, it had surprised her that her mother hadn’t confronted her when the pictures appeared in the papers. Her mother reacted with appropriate motherly concern when asked about her daughter’s behavior by the press, but in private, she had ignored it. Her father had had some things to say about it at first. But even he stopped when her mother continued with a nonchalant attitude. At first it vexed Reilly. Part of her still wanted her parents to set the boundaries. But when her mother had flipped her lid over a picture that had shown Reilly with a cigarette dangling from her mouth, she finally realized that there were boundaries—inconsistent and quite often arbitrary—but boundaries, nonetheless. Drinking and partying were okay with her mother, but the smoking wasn’t. It took a while for Reilly to realize the method to her mother’s madness. The party girl reputation was
news worthy and her mother turned a blind eye to certain behaviors in order to get the free publicity. Drinking was scandalous, but newsworthy, smoking was ugly and not newsworthy. It would have been easier for Reilly if her mother had spelled it all out for her. It was several years later that it dawned on Reilly, that talking about it would have underscored the hypocrisy.
Then there was the lesbian thing.
“Is Cray excited about going with you to the awards ceremony, darling?” asked Melissa. She sipped her mimosa as she asked the not-so-innocent question. Her eyes made another sweep of the area around them.
Melissa never could turn a blind eye to Reilly’s romantic life. Although Melissa refused to acknowledge it in public, many a private battle had been fought over that subject. Even when the conjecture over Reilly’s sex life became a huge magazine seller, Melissa hadn’t let up. So, Reilly had learned not to bring it up and not to respond when her mother did. And while the struggle over it had subsided a little over the years, as long as Reilly made occasional public appearances with a handsome man by her side, Melissa kept her displeasure with her daughter’s lifestyle at a low simmer. When Reilly had agreed to go to the awards ceremony with Cray, who also needed a cover, the nagging over Reilly’s relationship with Sylvie had stopped—until the incident at The Morning Show.
Reilly sighed and spun her spoon on the tabletop a few times before she responded.
“Mom,” she warned, knowing exactly why her mother was bringing it up. Her mother’s passive aggressive game playing never ceased to push her buttons.
“Don’t get upset at me, darling. You know that I’m just thinking about your career. Somebody needs to think about it. After that stunt you played on The Morning Show with Melinda Powers…”
And there it was. Reilly knew that she’d never hear the end of the kiss, and she hadn’t. Her mother brought it up every time they met.
Life in High Def Page 4