by Abby Stern
“Sorry about all this,” she says as we try to part the sea of paparazzi with our Cadillac Escalade. The photographers continue flashing as we move at about two miles per hour even though the only shots they are getting are of the driver and me. Their tenacious nature won’t allow them to let up and they stay in front of our vehicle until they are mere centimeters from being hit.
We arrive at Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star’s gated community trailed by at least fifteen cars of paparazzi. Once we are behind the gates she finally sits up.
“It must be exhausting being you,” I tell her.
“You have no idea,” she tells me. “I have a great life, though, even with cancer. It would just be nice to have a little more privacy and not have to orchestrate these theatrics. I mean, the media has their story about me. It’s just not the real story. It’s the story we fed them.” We pull up to her gorgeous Mediterranean mansion. “This is me,” she says before opening her door. “It was really nice meeting you ladies. I kinda felt like you let me be a part of your family for a few hours.”
“You’re welcome to join us anytime,” my mother offers. “We can be chemo companions if you like.”
Not–So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star nods her head. “I’d like that. Have your doctor call my doctor.” She winks and closes the door and we’re en route to Robin’s.
I kept my phone in my purse the entire treatment and car ride so Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star didn’t have any reason to be suspicious of me texting even as a fangirl to her friends. I wait until we arrived at home just to be extra safe and I see another alert from The Life.
The Life: Sexy Indie Film Actor Dropped From 2 Upcoming Movies
My stomach churns and I check my e-mail. Something from Victoria marked Urgent. I’ve already given her everything I have on Sexy Indie Film Actor so I don’t know why she’s pestering me. Once I open the e-mail, I wish that’s who she was bothering me about.
Ella,
I was looking through the hourly batch of paparazzi photos of Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star at the hospital and noticed you getting into a car with her! GOOD JOB! Tell me everything. I don’t know how you managed to pull this off but I must say, I’m impressed. Remember, no detail is too small but with her I want to hear it even if it’s microscopic. Was she lucid? Did she smell hygienic? What did you discuss? This is a fantastic get. I’d like you to work for The Life full-time and be a part of our staff, effectively immediately. E-mail my assistant to set a meeting so we can discuss all of the particulars. Again, GREAT job.
Victoria
Oh. My. God! She knows. Of course she knows. Victoria scours every celeb photo that’s taken daily and has sources everywhere. I feel like I’m holding the detonator to a bomb in my hands. I am. I know what happens if I reply to this e-mail. Hell, in a half hour the world will know. I also know what happens if I don’t.
Jess, can you come to Robin’s ASAP? It’s an emergency.
Jessica knows that despite my flair for the dramatic, I wouldn’t use the word emergency unless I meant it. She replies in under five seconds.
Leaving in 5 xo.
I gently place my phone on the kitchen island and slowly take a few steps back, with my hands extended in front of my chest, as if not to rock my world’s equilibrium with any sudden movements. I retreat to the couch and stare at the TV, which is off. I want to shut my mind down until Jessica can help me figure this out. Thirty-five minutes of quietude later, and with my mind in a vegetative state, the doorbell rings. I open the door to find my friend flustered and out of breath. She stretches her arms out to their full span before squeezing me with them before I can close the front door.
“Is everything okay?” she inquires. “What’s wrong?”
I break free from her arms and lead her into the kitchen without saying anything. I can tell that she’s biting the inside of her bottom lip, waiting in anguish to hear my latest dilemma. I show her the e-mail on my phone.
“Holy shit,” she concludes when she finishes.
“I know. That’s why I asked you to come over,” I agree.
“Before we get to Victoria we need to back it up for a sec. You and your mom got a ride with Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star?” I nod. “Totally inappropriate but I’m so jealous. How many Thursday nights did we get sloshed and sing her songs at Mulligan’s karaoke night in college?”
“You don’t even understand,” I explain. “You would’ve died. You’re even less starstruck than I am and I had to resist every natural urge to ask her to break down all of her choreography for me.” We giggle at our brief moment of levity. “But she has some serious shit going down.”
“Uh, yeah. I live on this planet. I’ve seen and read the news. How did you end up with her?”
I want to tell Jess that Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star isn’t having a battle with psychosis but with cancer but I can’t. It’s not my secret to tell and I refuse to make the same mistake twice. I gloss over her question and reintroduce the issue at hand. “I can’t say anything to Victoria,” I tell her. “She is so nice and has so little interaction with people in the regular world. I can’t betray her like that and say a word to Victoria. She doesn’t deserve it.” She needs someone to protect her who doesn’t have anything to financially gain from doing so.
“I agree,” Jess replies. “But you know you’ll be fired if you don’t tell her,” she postulates. “Are you okay with that?” She quickly continues, “I think this is the right decision. But I want you to be prepared for what happens. When you reply to this e-mail, whichever way you choose to reply, you can’t take it back. Remember, once is a mistake, twice is a choice. This is where you need to decide who you are going to be for the rest of your life.”
I never would’ve believed that Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star would be tied to my existential crisis, but she is. “I know what I need to do. I just didn’t want to do it alone,” I mutter.
Jess nods, proud of me, and I open my left palm, requesting she hand me the device. After all of the actual hard work I did trying to keep my job at The Life and impress Victoria, I finally have her approval. I respond to her e-mail.
Hi, Victoria,
Thank you so much for the offer but I quit.
Ella
Twenty-five
“Thanks for driving me,” I tell my sister.
“I figured you could use some moral support.”
I lean my head against the car window. “Well, you should buy stock in Uber because with my license suspended the value of the company is going to double.”
“Jeff and I will help drive you as much as we can.” She’s trying to help but she’s only making me feel worse.
“What a mess.” I wish I could bang my head through the window.
“It sucks but this is what happens when you get a DUI. Court-ordered AA, alcohol education classes, fines…”
“Keep going, twist that knife a little deeper,” I beg sarcastically.
“Sorry. I am proud of you for pleading guilty and accepting the responsibility. I need a coffee,” she says as she pulls into The Coffee Bean in her neighborhood.
“Me, too.” I follow her inside dressed in my conservative secretarial black pencil skirt and white button-down shirt. The line of customers in front of us has every archetype of person you find in an LA coffee shop midday and it hasn’t changed since I used to work here. Each customer has a very specific and complicated coffee order. The Real Estate Mogul who doesn’t look up from his iPhone while he orders would like an Americano that is exactly 160 degrees. The Twentysomething Trophy Wife whose breasts are on full display and is carrying her dog as an accessory would like an iced blended with half no-sugar-added powder and half regular powder so the calorie count doesn’t exceed 120. Normally I’d mock her but right now I wish I could Freaky Friday with her … or even the dog.
“Hello, welcome to The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, what can I get for you today?” The barista in his late thir
ties has long curly hair cascading over his black plastic-rim hipster glasses.
“I’ll have a large Americano,” Robin answers.
“And for you, miss?” he asks me. Something comes over me.
“I’d like to speak to the manager.”
He rolls his eyes and intentionally lets out an audible sigh before disappearing through the swinging doors.
“Ella, what are you doing?” Robin has no idea what’s going on and I didn’t either until I asked for the manager.
“I’m going to work here again,” I tell her. “You said it yourself. I have fines, I have to pay for alcohol education classes, I want to try to pay you back for my lawyer, living expenses while I’m at your house—”
“You have good intentions but you don’t have to do this. What you’d make here wouldn’t make a dent and you’ve been such a big help with Mom and Marianna. It’s been really nice all being under one roof again. And you need to figure out what you want to do with the rest of your life.”
“I haven’t worked since I quit The Life. Being unemployed for thirty-plus days is getting to me and hasn’t given me any clarity, and I can walk here. I want to work here,” I reaffirm.
The barista returns with the manager, who is introduced as Spike. Spike, I would come to find out, is in no uncertain terms the last person you’d ever want to be able to exert any ounce of authority over you. He’s the living, breathing definition of a pretentious man-child. Though in his twenties he claims to have an old soul (he does not). He’s a little chubby, has a bad haircut for his sandy-brown locks, and is still sporting a soul patch, even though that trend went out in the 1990s. Spike is obviously in a “band” and thinks he’s far more attractive (and probably far more talented) than he actually is. Regardless of my immediate disdain for Spike, I implore him to return me to my barista status.
“Please. I really need this job. And you won’t have to train me. I remember all of the recipes.” Believe me, I’ve tried to forget them.
“I actually do need another barista. Are you okay working nights?” The Coffee Bean doesn’t stay open anywhere near as late as Ambiance. Those “nights” will feel like afternoons for me.
“Yes. Absolutely! Nights, mornings, weekends, holidays. I can be available whenever.” It’s not like I have a social life anyway … that is, unless you count my ill mother, workaholic sister, four-year-old niece, and occasional night with Jessica.
“Welcome back to The Bean, Ella. You’re hired.” I’m so overjoyed that I hug Spike before I realize I’m doing it and can tell from the look on his face that he’s slightly turned on, and even though I’m grossed out, I don’t care.
* * *
“Thanks for coming over,” I tell Jess when she arrives at Robin’s.
“Are you kidding? I wanted to see how court went this morning. I was going to bring a bottle of wine but I wasn’t sure if that was inappropriate, since you’re telling me about your DUI sentence.”
“As long as I’m not operating a motor vehicle, it’s okay,” I say. “Come on, I have champagne in the kitchen.”
“Are we celebrating?” she wonders.
“Sort of. Champagne is always the perfect way to start a new beginning.” I pour us each a glass. “To probation, fines, alcohol education classes, and AA,” I toast. Jess laughs.
“It could have been a lot worse. You’re lucky,” she reminds me.
“I know. I know. It’s just that it would be nice if I were still toasting to glamour and love. Come on, let’s sit in the living room.” She follows me and I plop down on the couch and turn the TV on but keep it on mute.
“So what’s your new plan?” she asks.
“I don’t have one.”
“Oh my God, are you okay? Ella Warren without a plan?” she says, sarcastically.
“My plans haven’t exactly worked out for me recently. I think I might be better off with spontaneity for now. Keep things simple and—” Out of the corner of my eye I notice Holiday on TV. I shift my attention away from Jessica and turn up the volume.
“Holiday Hall’s man Tristan Bailey stood by his woman through her cheating scandal but will he stay when he learns that the coffee company she posts ads for on her verified Instagram was just linked to a dangerous cartel? More on that after the break.” I mute the TV again in disbelief.
“She’s been crucified everywhere lately,” Jess remarks. “It’s unbelievable.”
“I know. I just wish there was something I could do.”
Twenty-six
“Look at it as free therapy,” Robin advises when she drops me off at my first court-ordered AA meeting. “Even if you’re not an alcoholic I’m sure you can learn and get something out of it. I’ll see you later,” she says, driving off.
Ironically, I’m assigned to the AA meeting on Robertson Boulevard, because Holiday’s house was my registered address when I was arrested. This AA meeting happens to be informally known as celebrity AA. It’s the only building on that block the paparazzi don’t stalk—we all have a line somewhere and that’s theirs. Because of that, I’m not exactly sure who comes to this meeting, but I’ve long heard girls joking that they would attend meetings or “happen to be walking by when a meeting let out” to try and score dates with celebrities.
The only thing running through my mind is that I hope I don’t have to speak. I walk in and I realize that it’s one of the only settings that seems to be accurately portrayed in the movies. The foldout metal chairs are banged up. People are huddled around the coffee, and it’s the one public place I’ve actually witnessed people eating doughnuts in LA. As I pour my not-so-latte, a tall bearded man in a flannel shirt who looks like he’s come straight from a catalogue shoot approaches the podium.
“If we can all settle in and take our seats, please. I’d like to begin,” he announces. All of the women immediately adhere to his request and the seats on either side of him are taken faster than H&M’s designer collaborations are scooped off the shelves. It’s as if he was the celeb in the group. Once I see the faces taking their seats I realize this is very much not the case.
It wasn’t just a joke that this is the celebrity AA. Maybe if I had come here before I wouldn’t have had to blurt out my secret about Holiday. I would’ve been the worst person ever, though, so I suppose I dodged that land mine. The group is comprised of the usual suspects, aka famous people who have openly admitted that they are addicts, but there are quite a few (that shall still remain nameless—hence the anonymous) that I’m shocked to see. I take the seat closest to me and put my phone on silent and cross my arms.
“Welcome, everyone,” says Flannel Shirt Man. “For those of you who are returning I applaud you on your efforts to maintain your sobriety and for those of you who are new, I want to tell you how proud of you everyone in this room is for focusing on your sobriety. Meetings are a critical step to recovery and we all know that beginning is the most difficult part. This is a safe space for you to share and heal.
“My name is Wade Abrams. If any of you would like to speak to me privately after the meeting I’ll be hanging around for an hour or so after we finish. Let’s start today, as we always do, with our serenity prayer.” When I hear his name I realize this is the It AA not so much because of the Robertson Boulevard location. It’s the AA everyone wants to come to because of Wade. He’s like the sobriety guru. Celebrities with substance-abuse issues have long tried to hire him as their sober companions but he’s not tempted by the money. He’s about service. It’s ironic that he’s a celebrity himself in this microcosm. It seems almost impossible to escape fame anywhere in this town.
I look around the room as everyone recites the mantra and as I’m taking in my new surroundings I catch eyes with none other than Sexy Indie Film Actor, who must’ve slipped in. He mouths “hi” to me and I lightly nod back at him. Here they say that secrets keep you sick and almost everything about my life was a secret. I was always trying to lie to someone.
As I listen to people tell their stori
es, I find myself closing my eyes. Not because I’m tired or bored but because it’s hard to look at people as they share. I’m paying attention while they speak but find myself wandering into my own head. Tuning in to their voices and catching snippets of each of their stories is making me immensely grateful. The mistakes I’ve made in my life have all been mine and thank God they haven’t done much other than superficial damage to others. I’m heartbroken hearing how addiction has torn apart the lives of these people, who aside from this are no different from me. This is not scripted. It’s real life. These people are open and honest and, most of all, accountable. My life is a mess, but after listening to these stories about how people with a lot less support were able to turn their lives around, I know that I have the power to change mine, too.
When the meeting ends, I make a beeline for Wade as the crowd disperses.
“Excuse me, Wade?” I tap his shoulder.
“Yes?”
“Hi, I’m Ella Warren.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Ella.” Wade is warm. “What can I do for you?”
“Can you sign my form for court to prove to the judge I was here?”
“Sure.”
I pull the form out of my purse and don’t need to give Wade any further instructions. It’s clear he’s done this more than a few times.
“Next time I hope you will share with us.”
I’d like to, but since I’ve probably screwed over a quarter of the people in this room I’m scared that this recovery meeting might turn into a lynch mob. I feel a tap on my shoulder.
“Bella. Hi.” It’s Sexy Indie Film Actor. My heart jumps. This is my chance. He’s right in front of me. It’s time for me to be accountable and take responsibility for my actions.