Life in High Def

by Kimberly Cooper Griffin

  “Al, I’m happy for you.”

  “I’ve been worried about how you would feel about this. My gut has been a mess. I was gonna tell you after—“

  “Al, it’s okay. Really. You’re in love. That’s more important than… all that other shit.”

  “I can’t wait for you to meet her,” said Alison. The tension that had built in the car dispersed. “I know you technically already met her… I mean…”

  “I know what you meant, Al,” said Reilly, rubbing Alison’s shoulder. The touching thing was coming back faster than she expected. “I don’t really remember much of what went on that night anyway.”

  Reilly didn’t know why she denied her memories. Although there was a big blank between Cray’s party and the moment the police officer had woken her on the beach, she remembered more than she wanted to about that night. The sheet. The blood. The shoe. How she acted. How she felt. The way the officer and some of the others around her had treated her like a scumbag—a celebrity scumbag, once they realized who she was—but a scumbag just the same. She’d deserved it, though. But sometimes, in her darkest moments, she also remembered the one and only kindness.

  She could still feel the pressure of the paramedic’s hand on her belly, helping her to focus on her breathing. In fact, she had gone back to that memory over and over since then, anytime she needed help controlling her anxiety, especially when she woke up in the middle of the night, the image of an abandoned running shoe fading from her mind, a cold sweat coating her body. It had been the one thing that had kept her from screaming out when the nightmares would rip the gauze of numbing sleep from her eyes, and she’d find herself sitting up in her dark cell, unable to catch her breath.

  Reilly shook her head to clear her thoughts.

  She needed to lighten her own mood.

  “Too bad I didn’t know about your thing for women in uniform, Al. There’s a guard at the prison who I think might give Lisa a run for her money.”

  “I’m sure there are several,” scoffed Hank, holding up a pair of stenciled khaki capri pants.

  Reilly slapped his arm and then grabbed the pants.

  “Are these yours, Hanky?”

  “Yes, they’re—”

  “Dressing a bit femme these days, aren’t we? Even for you.”

  Hank contemplated her for a moment before he answered, and Reilly knew that she had crossed a line with him. It had always been that way. He could dish it out, but he couldn’t take it.

  “As I was about to say, yes, they are mine. I designed them. They are part of the women’s board apparel line coming out this month,” he said as he pulled more clothing from the bag.

  “I was just kidding, Hank. I think being away from normal people—I have to learn how to talk to people again. I’m sorry.”

  Hank’s haughty attitude disappeared with her words and he leaned over to hug her.

  “Oh, my poor Rye. I was just messing with you. That’s what we do. Remember?” asked Hank.

  The hug was off-balance and pinned Reilly’s arms to her sides. Awkward as it was, Reilly absorbed it. She missed touching people. In prison, every touch came with questionable intention, every glance held a warning message. Reilly had learned self-preservation, though. Especially after the encounters with Twist. After that she had managed to keep to herself and avoid confrontation.

  Reilly clung to Hank and willed the awful memories away. She never had any problems with the three women who had attacked her after that night. No one had, at least not in the wing they lived in, because soon after, Twist and her two thugs had vanished. It was weeks before word got back to Reilly that the trio had been transferred to the other wing of the prison. Since the two sides of the facility didn’t interact, Reilly never saw them again.

  “Hey, hey. They’re just capris.”

  Reilly wiped her eyes. She had no idea when she had started crying.

  “Huh?”

  “Try them on, Rye. I made them for you.”

  “What?” asked Reilly, leaning out of the tight embrace. She pulled herself back into the present.

  “The capris, Rye. Quit your blubbering and try them on. I designed them for you.”

  Reilly, who had been Hank’s model in countless private fashion shows, and often the guinea pig for his design ideas, changed into the capris. They were a little too big, but since they were meant to be baggy, it didn’t matter. The hand-painted long-sleeved tee shirt that Hank held up next fit her perfectly.

  “I love them, Hank,” she said, running her hands over the fabric on her thighs.

  “Now for the pièce de résistance,” he said, reaching into the bag again. “Voilà!”

  He produced a pair of stenciled Converse to complete the outfit.

  “Oh, Hank! What would I do without you?”

  “You’d do other women, love. Just like you always have,” laughed Hank. A snort from the front seat told Reilly that she was on her way home.

  Think They Missed You?

  THE CAR ROUNDED THE LAST bend before Reilly’s property, which was situated high in the Hollywood Hills. All she could think about was her own bed and a long hot bath, although it kind of felt like she was coming home to a hotel. Her house had never felt like a home, even before she had left for prison. She was glad that her mother had kept Camille, her housekeeper, so at least she wouldn’t be coming home to a closed up mausoleum.

  Still lost in daydreams about the softness of her bed, she wasn’t prepared for the scene when the car pulled up to the gate at the entry to her driveway and they were met by a mob of reporters and fans. Alison inched the car forward as the gates swung inward, forcing the crowd to part. Metallic raps echoed through the car, as hands pounded on the car as it passed. Faces pressed against the windows trying to see in. It had been three years since she had vanished from the public eye, after she’d locked herself away immediately following the accident. Part of Reilly wished they had forgotten her. Another part of her was glad that they hadn’t. All of her was scared either way. She slouched low in the seat even though she knew that they couldn’t see through the tinted windows.

  “Holy shit, Rye,” said Hank. “Think they missed you? This is why I left acting, you know. Too many people want a piece of you. Literally.”

  “Liar,” she said. She knew Hank had left acting because he hated having to be on all the time for his fans. He hadn’t had the energy to live up to the hyper—but cute—kid brother that he’d played on the show, when, in reality, he’d been a sulky—but still, cute—kid with a secret. “You always liked the guys who wanted a piece of you,” said Reilly, trying to remain calm, although she’d broken out in an anxious sweat. She hadn’t expected a crowd. She hadn’t thought beyond the daydreams of her own bed. Out of respect for the life that she’d taken, she’d tried so hard not to focus on her own ruined life. She told herself that it was because of that, and not the prospect of a shattered future, that she hadn’t put any planning into what she would face when she left the prison. Her only plan was to live life one day at a time, and to atone for her past mistakes. Regardless of why, she hadn’t anticipated facing a crowd of fans and reporters.

  A face appeared on the other side of the window next to her, and Reilly recoiled. She had to remind herself that they couldn’t see her. “I should have taken your lead and ditched acting to go into the career that I dreamed about when I was thirteen, too,” said Reilly sarcastically, feeling claustrophobic and nauseous.

  “I thought that you always wanted to be an actress, chica,” Hank replied, pretending to poke a nose pressed to the window next to him. Reilly laughed, and some of her panic eased. She was happy that he was there with her.

  “Pretty much,” she admitted. “But for a minute, I wanted to be a cowgirl. Maybe I should reconsider.”

  “I can see you rocking a pair of chaps,” agreed Hank.

  They laughed until they drove through the gate that opened with infuriating slowness. A loud thump sounded on the back of the car, making Reilly jump. Ali
son slammed on the brakes and yanked open her door. She stood up right outside of the open car door and uncoiled to her full height of six-foot-three.

  “Back the fuck up!” she shouted. Gone was her normal soft voice. Her growl echoed against the eleven foot, vine-encrusted wall that surrounded Reilly’s house and yard. “That means you, asshole! You’re trespassing now. Don’t make me get all Make My Day on your asses!”

  Reilly imagined Alison’s face as it appeared to the mob over the roof of the car and laughed at the threat. She knew full well that Alison didn’t carry a gun. She was her driver, not her bodyguard.

  Sirens sounded close by. Alison pounded the metal top of the car.

  “That’s right! The police are here now. Get the fuck back and leave the premises! We will press charges on anyone caught on the property!”

  Alison got back in the car and pulled up to the house.

  “The police have it all under control, Rye. No worries,” said Alison, glancing at them in the rear view mirror.

  “Thanks, Al.”

  “I wonder what would have been waiting for you if your mother hadn’t done the bait and switch,” said Hank, gathering his bags.

  “What?”

  “She put out a press release saying that you were getting out next week. Otherwise, there probably would have been a mob a hundred times bigger out here today.”

  “She did?” asked Reilly.

  “Yeah. She’s been working the rags, keeping your name in the papers.”

  Alison parked the car and Reilly sat in the back seat, not wanting to leave the safety of the car. With the police there, no one would have followed them onto her property, but the experience had shaken her. She had spent the last year and a half deliberately not thinking about her life when she got out of prison. Had she really thought that she’d just go home and live a life of reclusive regret?

  Business Brunch 3

  “HONESTLY, REILLY, YOU NEED TO get out of this house.”

  Reilly and her mother were on the pool deck at Reilly’s house, where Reilly had insisted on meeting. For once, her mother had relented when she’d said that she didn’t want to meet at a restaurant or café. How could she not? The brunch meeting they’d had just the week before—the first since Reilly’s release from prison a month and half earlier—had been a circus. They’d had to sneak out of Café Ova through the kitchen, and even then, two cars had still followed them all the way back to Reilly’s house, where the guards that she’d had to hire to keep people from camping at her front gate had to warn them away. Her mother had no choice. It was either meet at Reilly’s, or don’t meet at all. Reilly had a twinge of guilt over taking one of her mother’s pleasures away, but she just couldn’t face being in public yet.

  “I get out,” said Reilly as she watched her mother brush non-existent dust from the cushion on a wicker chaise lounge before she sat down. Melissa was dressed too formally for the poolside meeting, wearing slacks, a tailored blouse, and perilously high-heeled sling-back sandals. She shed her designer jacket, draped it across her lap, and dropped the leather messenger bag she’d been carrying next to the chair. Reilly, on the other hand, was dressed in hemp lounge pants and a tank top. Her freshly pedicured bare feet—some things had come back to her easily enough—were propped casually on the low, glass-topped wicker table that sat between their chairs. Reilly placed her coffee cup on the table, wrapped her arms around her bent legs and rested her chin on her knees. Camille topped off Reilly’s coffee with more steaming liquid and placed a plate of croissants on the table. Reilly thanked the quiet woman who had done such a wonderful job of maintaining Reilly’s home while she was away, and who had, on her own accord, placed fresh flowers in every room so Reilly would have something nice to come home to. Reilly’s eyes filled with tears as she thought about it, and she thanked her again, knowing her sudden newfound appreciation of the woman embarrassed her. She watched the woman blush as she poured Melissa a mimosa, and then retreated into the house, leaving the women alone.

  It was 11:00 am and Reilly had been up since 6:00 am. She had already worked out in her home gym, had gone through her correspondence, and had read through most of a script that she was considering. The jasmine was in full bloom and the breeze up the canyon was cool and filled with the briny smell of the ocean mixed with the green smells of new growth. Everything around her was vibrant and soft. She was relaxed and happy. It was even nice to see her mother.

  “Work and appointments. I wouldn’t call that getting out.”

  “Mom, I get out. I just don’t party anymore.”

  “I’m not saying you have to party. But you do need to socialize. It’s part of the job. It’s what the image consultant said.”

  Reilly sighed at the thought of the high-strung consultant that her mother had hired.

  “I fired Antoine, Mom.”

  “So I heard.”

  “He was full of shit,” said Reilly, trying to hold on to her feeling of ease, even as she remembered the condescending prick that had tried to tell her how to live her life in the days just after her release from prison. At first she had accepted it. She had needed the help. Not only had she lost the art of how to act in public, she was forced to change the entire way she coped with having to do it. It was disconcerting how hard it was to socialize without the courage of drugs or alcohol. It wasn’t just the anesthetic quality that she missed, the crutch she’d leaned on to help ease the mood, which had always seemed necessary, but she missed the use of them as a prop or a distraction most of all. Reilly hadn’t realized how often she had relied on the excuse of finding another drink to ease her out of an unwanted conversation until she wasn’t able to.

  “He called me himself to tell me all about it. He was in quite a state.”

  “He was always in some sort of state. That was another thing I couldn’t stand. Everything was always so dramatic with him. It was exhausting.”

  “People pay a lot of money to work with Antoine.”

  “I don’t know why. He’s full of shit.”

  “Reilly! He is one of Hollywood’s—“

  “Overpaid bags of wind,” Reilly finished her mother’s sentence with a laugh. “You don’t tell someone who’s in the program to go out and yust hold a dweenk. Pweetand to seep eet,” said Reilly, in Antoine’s over-the-top French accent. For someone who had lived in California for the last twenty years—if she could believe his resume—the guy was still almost impossible to understand. “Antoine is most definitely full of shit.”

  “You aren’t in the program,” said Melissa, shaking her head in frustration.

  Reilly paused a moment. She was still in a good mood but knew that would change if they moved into an argument about Reilly’s lifestyle, so she refrained from reminding her mother that part of her sentencing had mandated that she attend Alcoholics Anonymous every day of her prison sentence, or until a counselor said she didn’t need to attend any longer. The counselor provided clearance well before her term was up, but Reilly had attended meetings until the day she was released from prison. She had gone for the interaction. It was the only place she had felt connected. It was the only place she ever talked.

  “You’re right, Mom, I’m not. I’m lucky. I don’t have a problem with drugs and alcohol. It turns out that I can stay away from them if I try. But I’m grateful for what the program taught me. For all that clueless consultant knew, I do have a problem, though. And he still suggested that I go to parties and just hold a drink to fit in. He was a jerk.”

  “He’s the best in the business, Reilly.”

  “And that’s scary.”

  “You can’t stop socializing, Reilly. You have to be seen. You have to—”

  Her mother had hit the trigger. The mood Reilly had been holding onto dropped immediately.

  “That’s the thing, Mom. I don’t have to do any of that. I was away for almost two years, three if you count the time during the trial—”

  Reilly’s mother gestured for Reilly to stop, but Reilly wa
sn’t about to let her mother keep avoiding the event that had changed her life.

  “Mom, just because you don’t like to hear it doesn’t make it any less true. I was in prison for almost two years, and no one has forgotten about me. I have more offers for work than ever before. The press still stalks me. You can’t say that my lack of being seen has affected me in a negative way.”

  “I guess that me busting my backside to keep your name in the papers all of this time had nothing to do with it.”

  “That’s my point, Mom. There are other ways to keep my name out there rather than me having to go to parties and playing the social diva thing. I can’t do that anymore.”

  “It’s part of the job—“

  “Not anymore. You already proved that my career could survive my physical absence.”

  “You can thank the second Academy Award for that. And that ridiculous dance movie that came out after you… went away. Who knew that tripe would turn out to be a summer blockbuster? For once, I’m grateful you didn’t listen to me. There. I’ll give you that. But you got lucky. You can’t rely on those things holding you in the spotlight forever. They won’t keep you on the lists. You need to get out there.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to say, Mom. I don’t need that stupid image you think works for me. It doesn’t anymore.”

  “Luck doesn’t last. That award will only carry you for so long—”

  “Mom. Stop.”

  “—and then one day you’ll wake up and no one remembers who you are—”

  “Stop.”

  “—and what will you have then?”

  “Stop!” screamed Reilly, balling her hands into fists on her knees. She was so frustrated that she wanted to throw her coffee.

  “What?” asked Melissa, feigning innocence and inflaming Reilly’s anger even further.

  “I can’t have this conversation with you anymore! If you can’t hear that, well, maybe we need to consider adjusting our arrangement.”