“ARE YOU SURE ABOUT THIS?”
“Of course not,” Max said, leaning over to peer at the nude patent-leather pumps on her feet. “These shoes are like three sizes too big for me. If I wear them tonight I will crack my skull.”
“You know I’m not talking about the shoes,” Molly said, sliding off her luxe king-size bed. It was so tall, she had to hop the last inch or two to the floor. “Are you really okay with working for Brooke? You can be honest, I won’t be offended. I have met her.”
Max had been asking herself the same question. She’d spent the last few years trying to avoid people like Brooke, and now she was supposed to become Brooke. Already their partnership was a roller coaster. When Max finally reached her the other day, Brooke had spent way too many of Max’s precious, limited cell minutes explaining that she’d already interviewed several better candidates who understood the power of a four-inch heel. Max got in only one word before Brooke swerved and announced that having a blogographer she already knew and trusted—or, Brooke then clarified, whom she knew and Molly trusted—would involve a much more gentle learning curve. They hung up, and five minutes later Brooke called back and asked Max if she would consider a “quieter” hair color; ten minutes after that she’d phoned to tell Max her first assignment would be Saturday night, following Brooke through the eighteenth birthday party of a mega-famous tween actress-turned-singer (who, if the press was to be believed, hadn’t ever drunk anything stronger than Gatorade; yawn). So far being a blogographer was like dating, but without any of the good parts—if Brooke had been a boy, Max would’ve broken up with her immediately.
But, the salary.
“I think… it will be okay?” Max attempted, easing herself down into the carpet. “I mean, you shared a room with her without killing her in her sleep. Surely I can hang out with her for a few hours.”
“We survived being roommates, but that doesn’t mean I’m not glad to be back in my own space,” Molly said, relocating to the overstuffed red armchair in the corner of the room.
Max couldn’t blame her. At her own house, noise reigned: If it wasn’t sirens roaring up Highland, it was her father’s power tools or her mother’s loud phone calls with pushy parents and harried teachers. By comparison, Molly’s room—high atop Brick’s giant brick and marble colonial mansion—felt like a spa. It was a third-story sanctuary painted a soothing dusty blue, much more relaxing than Max’s frenetic paisley. The space looked straightforward but was somehow full of comfy nooks to sit and read, or do homework, and there was a towering antique bookshelf crammed with leather-bound tomes that Max could swear were first editions. Brick had obviously tried really hard to make it perfect. It also got fantastic light from several picture windows and a glass slider that led to a giant terrace that stretched the length of the house. Before becoming friends with Molly, Max had never ventured this far though the gates of Bel-Air—or indeed, through them at all—and she couldn’t believe how lush and quiet it was, almost as if they were a hundred miles from a city instead of two minutes from UCLA.
Max kicked off Molly’s insanely high shoes and lay back on the carpet, digging in with her fingers. “I might be a little nervous,” she admitted. “I haven’t written anything for publication before. And Brooke hasn’t told me what she wants me to do yet. She just keeps yammering about absorbing her essence.”
Molly rubbed at the upholstery with her thumbnail. “I am concerned this is going to end with a straitjacket.”
Max spread her hands helplessly. “I need the money,” she said flatly. “I’m never going to make this much cash this fast unless I start working the pole or something. And I think we can all agree that would be way worse for my mental health.”
“Well, it’ll be nice to have you there tonight. I feel so weird at these parties,” Molly said with a wince. “Remember the one Brick threw for me when I moved here?”
“Where you got totally wasted?”
“By accident!”
“And then passed out.”
“A little.”
“And then photos of Brooke beating your comatose body ran on every gossip blog in town.”
“She was more pointing and laughing—”
“Details,” Max said in her best Brooke impression.
Molly laughed. “I see your point. Compared to that, tonight should be a piece of cake.”
“Yeah, just as long as you stay away from the bar,” Max teased.
The intercom on Molly’s landline buzzed angrily.
Molly grinned, punching the button to put the caller on speakerphone. “You rang, milady?”
“Is Max with you?” Brooke barked. “We only have two hours to get ready for this party, and I am very concerned that she’s not treating this with the necessary gravitas.”
Max made a gagging motion. I’m not here, she mouthed.
“She’s sitting right next to me,” Molly chirped. “Do you want to talk to her?”
Max bugged out her eyes and mimed choking herself.
“Or better, why don’t I just send her across the hall,” Molly said, stifling a laugh. “I know she’s really eager to get going.”
“Please do so,” Brooke said superciliously. Then she paused. “Thanks, Mol,” she sang before hanging up.
Max unsheathed an imaginary dagger, reached around herself, and pretended to plunge it into her back.
“And I thought Brooke was the drama queen,” Molly said, kicking at Max’s leg with her Converse. “Go get bloggy.”
“You people and your made-up words,” grumbled Max, reluctantly picking herself up off the carpet and stretching. “Fine, I’ll go, but only because she’s paying me to.”
“You do realize you’re quoting Pretty Woman, which makes you the prostitute.”
Max stopped with her hand on the doorknob. “Unintentional. But appropriate,” she said. Then she faltered. “I won’t make an ass of myself, right?” she said, unconvincingly. “I mean, no one’s going to read this thing.”
“Damned if they do, damned if they don’t, huh?” said Molly perceptively.
Max crossed the hall toward the imposing door with the pink velvet “B” charm hanging from the doorknob. She had never been in Brooke’s room. Actually, she’d never been in most of the other rooms in Molly’s house, because there were about fifty of them, and she was always afraid she’d accidentally walk in on Brick getting his back waxed or something.
She raised her hand to knock. The door burst open before her fist could even make contact.
“Let’s get down to business,” Brooke said.
Brooke’s pink room was as vivid as Molly’s was calming. There was a small sitting area near the TV, a workout station in the area Molly’s stuff once occupied, a king-size bed dressed to coordinate with the walls, and a wing chair by the window. Framed memorabilia dotted the walls: pictures of Brooke as a kid with Brick, a magazine advertorial Molly had said featured Brooke’s mother’s once-famous hands, and a program commemorating Brooke’s star turn in My Fair Lady. It appeared to be autographed by Brooke herself.
“Now,” Brooke said, clapping. “Let’s start with the obvious issue. What are you going to wear tonight?”
Max glanced down at her camouflage cargo pants and an old Cal Tech tee dating from when her father worked there. “This? Does it matter? Nobody will be looking at me.”
Brooke burst into laughter that slowly died once she saw Max wasn’t kidding. “This is exactly what I was afraid of. No one is going to believe you’re just a friend of mine if you’re dressed like a day laborer,” she fretted. “Moxie Stilts might not even let you inside.”
Max deployed her best “What have I done?” face, until she remembered Molly wasn’t there to appreciate it. Sarcasm could be so lonely.
“What does Moxie Stilts have to do with your dad, by the way?” Max asked, running a hand idly over a framed shot of seven-year-old Brooke at a movie premiere. Brick had barely aged. Brooke had no front teeth.
“Daddy wants her to be
in the new ABC Family show he just sold,” Brooke said, bodily relocating Max’s hand to the wall and rubbing the glass frame with a baby wipe. “He’s such a mogul.”
“What’s the show?”
“Kamikaze Dad,” Brooke said. “He left the script in the printer last week. It’s about a man named Stone Stuttgart”—here, Max swore she saw Brooke’s eyes roll—“who inherits a daughter from the middle of nowhere, who constantly goads his other daughter by doing things like refusing to fix her bangs—”
“Some slight editorializing there, maybe…” Max murmured, flopping into Brooke’s pink wing chair.
“—and then he saves the day through unconventional parenting,” Brooke finished. “He said last fall he was going to do it, but I didn’t think he was serious. He also once told me he was going to do a show about a hand model who abandons her family and then loses her arms in a bar fight, and that never happened.”
“Too bad—I would’ve watched that,” Max said. “But your mother probably would have sued. Which one of you does he want Moxie to play?”
“I’m not sure,” Brooke said, scrunching up her face. “She’s a big name, which is perfect for me, but Moxie’s folksy accent thing might be better for someone from the sticks. No offense to Molly,” she added, after a beat.
“She wouldn’t care,” Max said. “West Cairo is the sticks. She told me there is actually a bar there called The Sticks.”
Brooke snickered, then tried to wave it off. “Don’t try to distract me from the problem of… you,” she said. “Can I offer you some shoes? A high heel can fix almost anything.”
Max’s toes obligingly went numb. There was a limit to how literally she was willing to be Brooke Berlin. “No,” she said firmly. “No makeover.”
“No makeover?” Brooke parroted, seeming galled. Then she tapped a finger against her well-glossed lip. “Interesting idea, actually. In those pants, you could very easily go unobserved if you need to crawl through the bushes to get a scoop.”
Max again cursed that Molly hadn’t come into the room, because all her psychic “girl, please” energies were being wasted.
“Maybe we should talk about what you actually expect me to do tonight,” Max said. “I charge extra for shrubberies.”
“Yes, let’s talk plan of attack,” Brooke said, beginning to pace across her room. “I’ve got the blog all ready to go, so all you have to do is e-mail me the first entry and I’ll post it, after a thorough edit and study of your grammar, of course. You should follow me around tonight, but keep a safe distance so people don’t suspect anything. Although if it’s loud in there, it might be hard to hear, so maybe we need some kind of listening device….” She snapped her fingers. “Daddy has a working bug left over from Amendment to Hell. I could borrow it and—”
“Brooke,” Max interrupted. “Are you off your meds? I’m not going to wear a wire to a party.”
Brooke was silent for a second, picking at her bracelet. “Well, it’s just that this is really important to me. It’s…” She let out a long breath. “It has to work, is all.”
“Okay, what’s the deal with this?” Max asked, shifting so she could cross her legs in the chair. “Are you paying back a mafia debt or something?”
Brooke began to flap her hands a little. “I just… I thought being in My Fair Lady would somehow solve everything, but Daddy is still busy and my mother is still gone.”
Oops. Max hadn’t been prepared for an actual confidence. She’d assumed Brooke would confess that she’d never been the same, mentally, since she chipped her last pedicure. What did people say in these situations?
“Um,” she said.
Way to go, wordsmith.
Brooke didn’t seem to notice. “If I can do this, I’m not just some kid in a school play. I’m an Internet sensation. I’m in demand. And I think… I think Daddy would feel like he needed to be part of that.”
Max was surprised to find herself without a glib comeback. She’d heard Molly talk about how hard it was on Brooke to have Brick fly off all the time without her, ostensibly to protect her from the upheaval of his life, but in actuality ensuring he rarely saw her. Most kids probably dreamed of being left to their own devices in the plushest mansion money could build, but clearly it really bugged Brooke. Last fall, a cruel and unexpected public reading of Brooke’s private e-mails had revealed what a crappy absentee mother she had, but obviously her absentee father stung the most. Max tried to imagine how that would feel, and couldn’t: The farthest her father ever got was the garden shed, where he was usually taking apart various household objects and trying to merge them into a megainvention he could sell at Target. But that was just across the yard, and he still popped in to cook dinner (and steal the occasional toaster).
A strange calm settled over Max. “How about this,” she began. “Instead of me transcribing everything you do and say, what about something more observational? About the scene, the people. But truthful, for a change.”
“Like, ragging on them?” Brooke asked, worrying at her thumbnail before smacking it out of her mouth with her other hand.
“No, just… noticing,” Max clarified. “And you wouldn’t be lying, or talking about people who aren’t in the public eye already. But everyone is sick of reading whitewashed BS about how all celebrities love each other. Like how everyone kisses Julia Roberts’s ass anytime she even comes within sneezing distance of a movie set. I’ve eaten toffalo burgers that seem more authentic.”
“So I’d be the honest insider,” Brooke mused.
“Exactly.”
Brooke looked up at Max and gave her a genuine smile, possibly the first real one of their entire shared history. “I like it. Bold and blunt.”
“I’m on it,” Max promised. “So please unclench. It’s cracking your tan.”
Brooke let slip a small snicker, then pushed out a crisp breath. “Great. You can go now. I have to cross-reference tonight’s outfit with everything I’ve worn this past month just to make sure it’s not repetitious.” She shot Max an appraising look. “Your homework is to talk to Molly about the finer points of wearing shirts without writing on them. Rachel Zoe would die. And not in the good way.”
Max watched Brooke disappear into her vast closet. “This ought to be interesting,” she said aloud to no one.
“Are you sure about this?”
Ari had asked Brooke that question earlier, and now—two hours after Max left her room—it rang in Brooke’s head like a cowbell. Of course she wasn’t sure. She’d been formulating this plan so fervently, and privately, for the past few months that it felt weird to be acting on it at long last. And with somebody with whom she’d historically exchanged more glares than words.
“She’s just so low-rent,” Jennifer Parker had said on the phone earlier, when they’d three-way called with Arugula to discuss Brooke’s outfit. “And she’s always up in Jake’s business. Why are you doing this to me?”
“She’s not low-rent. She’s… unvarnished,” Brooke insisted. “I can handle that. And it’s not about you, it’s about my career, so I expect your full support. If you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone, even Jake—especially Jake—I swear to God I will find a way to lock you out of your IMDb page and put every infomercial you’ve ever done on there.” Jen was silent. Brooke soldiered on. “Besides, it’s too late now. I hired her. It’s done.”
“It’s not too late,” Arugula argued. “This is Hollywood, honey. People get terminated midsentence in this town. It’s called a recast.”
“Actually, I welcome the challenge,” Brooke had said airily. “It would be boring if my blogographer were exactly like me.”
She almost believed this. Although Max had been surprisingly comforting and in command earlier—never in a million years would Brooke have imagined she’d bare her soul to a person in cargo pants—now that it was zero hour and Brooke was applying the finishing touches to her makeup, she was still worried Max would turn out to be a surly loose cannon who only wanted to ins
ult her trendy Louboutins, thus ruining Brooke’s dream of having the designer name a pair after her.
On the other hand, hiring someone with a different worldview could be considered savvy, right? Brooke assured herself. How else do you explain that Elisabeth Hasselbeck is still on The View?
The bigger issue was that as much as Brooke felt her master plan was a theoretical stroke of genius, she also had no idea whether it would actually work. Phase One, at least, had gone well: Brick had been blown away by her performance as Eliza Doolittle. His unabashed paternal pride—attention she’d been craving her whole life while he was off shooting movies with other people’s kids—was like a drug. Brooke wanted more. But scoring another hit was taking longer than she would’ve liked. My Fair Lady had been a wild success, but it was still just a school play. She needed a larger platform. A louder one.
And it was that epiphany, which came in part after Brooke realized that Kourtney Kardashian had two million Twitter followers just because she made bad relationship decisions in front of a camera crew, that led her to what she referred to in her head as the Big Idea: a blog. Something good, not just some random site where she uploaded pictures of herself in novelty sunglasses and then wrote about pants, or whatever. No, it had to get people talking. About her.
Brooke studied herself in the mirror. Her sleek navy backless Calvin Klein looked fantastic against her tan. Surely she already had enough going for her to stir up some buzz. Was she crazy to put her public image in the hands of a pale hobbit who probably hated her?
Stop it. This was ridiculous. They weren’t covering the party for E! or Hey! or any of their exclamatory brethren. Max might not even write about any of tonight’s events at all. It was just a test. Nobody at the party would know that her secret—and, she prayed, secretly brilliant—blog was even happening.
“You are going to be amazing,” she told her reflection. “You need Max. And Max needs you. This is going to work.”
It has to work.
six
AS THE CAR TURNED in through the front gate of an immense oceanside mansion, Max found herself wondering if Moxie Stilts had bought her house as a cutesy pun, as it was literally built on them. The Malibu manse was three stories of modern glass and steel, carved into a cliff and kept from tumbling into the waves below by a handful of what looked like Pixy Stix.
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