by Lizzie Shane
Six-four in flats, Mel—never to be called Melanie by anyone except Maggie—could have been a dead ringer for Jane Lynch if not for the vivid red color of the spiky haircut that gave her an extra two inches of height. She lived in tailored pant suits—in a variety of colors, today’s was a deep navy blue—and always seemed to be suppressing a sort of superior amusement at the world around her.
“Hello, darling,” she said as Bree reached the top of the steps, and as always the simple greeting held something else, an echo of droll amusement at the ridiculous wonderland where they found themselves.
“I hear there’s an emergency,” Bree said, going up on her toes to air-kiss beside Mel’s cheek in greeting. It was an affectation of Maggie’s, but one that had become second nature to Bree.
“There’s something,” Mel replied, dry as dust. “Come on. Maggie will want to tell you herself.”
They wended through the French countryside of Maggie’s foyer, living room and den—a familiar path that Bree knew would lead through the kitchen, breakfast nook and out onto the side patio with its outdoor seating area and cascading ponds. It was one of Maggie’s favorite spots on the property—and Bree’s as well. There was something almost magical about the little oasis, where the only sound was that of water trickling between the ponds—
And the yapping of the most obnoxious dog on the planet.
Cecil B. DeMille, Maggie’s Cavalier King Charles spaniel, was in rare form this morning. She could hear him yelping before she even got to the kitchen—but then, even on his calm days, Cecil had a bark that could pierce soundproof glass. And Cecil was not known for his calm days. Especially not around Bree.
She’d never had a problem with dogs before, but that animal hated her.
There was some kind of echo effect going on, making Cecil’s cries reverberate even more. His standard bark sounded half pained yelp and half panicked yip—like he was being stepped on by an elephant—but this morning it sounded like more than one dog was being tortured by pachyderms.
Mel glanced at her as she opened the patio door, a terrifyingly knowing smile quirking her lips, and then they stepped outside—and two Cecil B. DeMilles suddenly stopped yelping and tore across the pavers to yap and nip at Bree’s ankles.
“Bree!” Maggie Tate, darling of the silver screen, leapt up from her lounge chair and threw open her arms like Bree was her BFF and not her employee. “I’m getting married! And I got you a dog!”
To her left, Mel snickered softly as Bree’s jaw fell. “Oh.”
CHAPTER TWO
Maggie Tate was eccentric. It had always been one of Bree’s favorite things about her.
Bree couldn’t be sure whether Maggie had always been a little odd or if it was a side effect of the fame and outrageous wealth since Maggie had already been terrifyingly famous and disgustingly rich when she’d first hired Bree. The sheer all-consuming scope of her celebrity was what had made Bree’s job necessary.
She was the decoy. The lookalike. The one who played Maggie for the paparazzi when the real deal wanted them off her back.
There were differences in their appearances—Maggie was an inch taller and her breasts were two cup sizes bigger, but heels and padded bras could work wonders. One of Hollywood’s leading blonde bombshells, Maggie was actually a natural brunette—which had always amused Bree since she was a natural blonde, whose hair had been dyed hot pink when they met. Now Maggie paid to have her ridiculously overpriced stylist give Bree darker roots so they would match.
Their mouths were a little different, Bree’s upper lip not quite so full, but make-up helped there. Bree’s unremarkable hazel eyes had nothing on Maggie’s naturally turquoise ones, but colored contact lenses made up the difference.
The things they could change to make them more similar, they did—but the things that were harder to change? Those nature had already taken care of. The long thin nose. The slant of her jaw. The high cheekbones.
They were both photogenic, but learning to be Maggie—how to work the angles of her face, how to smile and frown just the way she did, how to be aware of the shape of her body at all times—had been surprisingly challenging. The phrase beauty is as beauty does had taken on whole new layers of meaning when she realized exactly how much Maggie did every day to be “naturally” beautiful in every photo taken of her.
And now the effervescent beauty was bounding over to her, beaming like the sun.
“Isn’t he the cutest? You would not believe how hard it was to find Cecil B. DeMille’s twin. Harder than finding you!” Maggie giggled, scooping up one of the dogs—though Bree couldn’t have said whether it was Cecil B. DeMille or his doppelgänger.
The one left on the ground continued to yap shrilly at her ankles, darting forward as if to bite her before stopping just short and retreating to begin another attack run—which was a very Cecil thing to do, but maybe his twin was like him in that way as well.
“Here. This is Cecil Two.”
Maggie dumped the dog she was holding against Bree’s chest and Bree’s arms closed automatically around him. The animal, which had been lying docile against Maggie’s chest and gazing adoringly up at her, began to whimper and squirm as soon as he landed in Bree’s arms, his sharp little nails scraping the skin on her arms as he tried to wiggle away from her. Oh joy, he really is just like Cecil.
Also like Cecil he was heavy for a pocket pooch and his continuous wriggling had her grappling to support his butt so she wouldn’t drop Maggie Tate’s precious dog. Or—dear God—her dog. “Why are you giving me…?”
“The paparazzi would never believe that I would go away for three weeks without Cecil—and I couldn’t bear the idea of being parted from my baby for three whole weeks. Could I, baby? No, I couldn’t.” Maggie bent gracefully, scooping Cecil up easily and tucking him against her side as she baby-talked into his worshipful furry face. “It was just unthinkable, wasn’t it, baby, yes it was—so we found Cecil Two! Isn’t he perfect?”
Maggie reached to scratch him behind the ear and as soon as she extended her hand, the dog in Bree’s arms stopped struggling and went limp with adoration, black eyes liquid as he gazed at his goddess. “Aren’t you just the sweetest?” Maggie cooed at him. “Yes, you are. I just want to keep you myself. Yes, I do.”
By all means, keep him. Bree somehow resisted the urge to shove the dog back at Maggie, adjusting his weight in her arms—which started up the whimpering struggles again. “Three weeks?”
“I’m getting married!” Maggie squealed again, waving a blinding diamond while Cecil B. DeMille punctuated the announcement with a series of high-pitched snarling barks in Bree’s direction, as if the marriage were her fault.
“Cecil, shush,” Maggie scolded. “We like Bree, remember?”
Do we? Do we really? Somehow she doubted Cecil shared Maggie’s affection. “Who are you marrying?”
Maggie’s name was linked to so many men in the tabloids it was impossible to keep up with the carousel of famous hunks, but last Bree had known Maggie had been claiming repeatedly in interviews that she was focusing on her career and taking time for herself.
“Demarco Whitten!”
Bree frowned, trying to place the name—and keep from dropping the dog in her arms as he made a break for freedom over her shoulder, his tiny claws scrabbling up her chest. “The basketball player?”
“I know it’s fast,” Maggie gushed, as if Bree already knew all the details. “But he just gets me. You have no idea how refreshing that is. He really knows, you know?”
“That’s great,” she said, feeling like she was still three steps behind—and somewhat distracted by being mauled by a freaking mini-Spaniel. “So when are you…?”
“Next week! His team just got knocked out of the playoffs—which is awful and all, but it means we don’t have to wait until the finals are over to tie the knot and we’ll still have two weeks for a honeymoon before I have to be in Hungary to shoot the next Alien Adventuress movie. I know it’s like no notice, b
ut you can do it, can’t you?”
“Do it?” Was Maggie Tate inviting her to her wedding? They didn’t really have what could actually be termed a friendship since their entire relationship hinged on the two of them never being seen together in public, but Maggie wouldn’t need someone to pretend to be her at her own wedding, would she?
At the look on her face, Maggie laughed the bright, sunny sound that made audiences the world over fall at her feet. “Listen to me! I’m getting it all backwards. I’m hiring you!”
Maggie danced over to the seating area, still carrying Cecil, and Bree followed, trying to keep a firm grip on Cecil Two. As soon as she sat down on the chaise, she released the kraken and the furball escaped her lap in an explosion of yips, darting over to fling himself worshipfully at Maggie’s feet, making high pitched noises of distress until his personal deity reached for him.
“My wedding is going to be a media feeding frenzy as soon as word gets out—especially my wedding to Demarco Whitten.” Maggie bent to boost the fretful Cecil Two onto her chair and he instantly settled against her. She smiled with a Cecil cuddled against each hip, the patron goddess of annoying yappy dogs. “We both want something really intimate and romantic—which is why I need you to throw the press off the scent. We’re going to leak my plans to get married on a private island in the Caribbean. You’ll fly down there with Melanie and plan every little detail of the wedding—and while the press are watching you, Demarco and I will be at an undisclosed location, getting married and spending two blissful weeks as husband and wife without the world looking for us. It’s brilliant, isn’t it?”
Bree frowned, trying to catch up. “Does Demarco have a double?”
“No—but you won’t be faking the wedding, just the wedding planning, and what groom wants to be part of that, right? Melanie will be there with you, along with security. You remember Cross?” She turned to Mel. “Is he still here?”
Bree looked up to see that Mel had been joined by her assistant, a petite dark-haired woman Bree had never heard speak. The girl shook her head now and Mel verbalized for her, “He had to see to preparations.”
“Oh well.” Maggie shrugged. “You’ll see him tomorrow. You know Cross, don’t you? I’ve had him accompany you on some of my appearances. Since he’s sort of semi-famous in his own right, he’s recognizable and the media love the idea of him as my favorite bodyguard so his presence will help sell that you’re really me.”
Maggie said it all as if it was already a done deal—and maybe it was.
If she sounded like no one ever said no to her that was because no one ever did. Maggie Tate was a force of nature even when she wasn’t giddy and in love—and if she barely knew her groom-to-be who was Bree to question the foibles of true love? She couldn’t exactly argue against impulse decisions. She’d once dropped out of school and moved halfway across the country for a guy. Of course, that hadn’t really worked out the way she might have wished and she’d more or less sworn off men in the last decade, but that didn’t mean she had any right to judge Maggie’s turbo-engagement. Sometimes life came at you fast.
“We’ll pay you, of course,” Maggie went on when she didn’t speak right away—Bree had a tendency to zone out in conversations, falling into her own thoughts—but Maggie rarely noticed since she loved to fill silences. “And Mel will take care of everything for you at the resort. You just have to be me. Is sixty thousand all right? I know three weeks is a long time.”
Bree nearly choked on her tongue. Sixty thousand. It was more than she made in a year. Hell, it was more than she made in two years.
Sixty thousand for going to a fancy resort and pretending to be Maggie Tate for three weeks.
Admittedly, it was longer than she’d ever tried to be Maggie before. Most of her “appearances” were only a few hours long—highly public shopping trips on Rodeo Drive when Maggie was having a little “procedure” done with her nip-tuck specialist or a night dancing at a premiere night club when Maggie didn’t want anyone to know she was at home with Ben & Jerry’s sulking after Alien Adventuress 2 got seventeen percent on Rotten Tomatoes.
Usually the appearances involved as little speaking as possible, since Bree hadn’t quite managed to master Maggie’s verbal mannerisms as well as she had her physical ones. But in three weeks she’d have to talk. Though the wedding planner was unlikely to know Maggie well enough to know what she sounded like.
Sixty thousand dollars.
“You’ll do it, won’t you?” Maggie said, as if the question was a formality. “You’d leave tomorrow. We’d need you here bright and early to get on your Maggie face. Cecil One and I will sneak out tonight, so I’ll be gone when you arrive. Cross will collect you and Melanie from here and take you to my plane. You didn’t have plans, did you?”
Nothing beyond burning all my photographs because it turns out I’m a talentless hack with nothing to say.
She needed to get away. Needed to run. Three weeks on a private island avoiding the disheartening truth of her real life? It sounded too good to be true.
Bree met Maggie’s stunning turquoise eyes, filled with hope and bright with love. “No plans. Of course I’ll do it.”
“Perfect! Oh, thank you!” Maggie squealed, clapping her hands like a child and sending both of the dogs into a yapping frenzy. “And just think! The next time you see me, I’ll be a married woman!”
*
“Well? How did it go? I’m dying here! Are you about to be wildly famous?”
Bree’s thoughts were so filled with Maggie’s news that it took her a moment to realize that wasn’t what Andi was asking about. Her former roommate had called her as she was walking back out to her car. The Lexus was gone, leaving the Honda and its cargo of rejected art as a lonely reminder of her morning.
She opened her mouth to tell Andi that there would be no catapult to famous artist status, that her work was apparently pedestrian and had nothing to say, but the words caught in her throat.
She’d known Andi since Clement. They’d grown up together—or close to it, only a year apart in school. Andi had gone back to Clement after college and married her high school sweetheart while Bree moved to Venice Beach and tried to figure out how to make a living as an artist. The two of them hadn’t really kept in touch, but a few years back when Andi’s perfect husband had handed her divorce papers, Bree had perfectly understood the need to run away from all the expectant eyes of Clement, Minnesota. Her last roommate had recently moved out and Bree had been happy to have her friend—and someone to split the rent with.
She’d helped get Andi a job as a production assistant—which had led to a gig as personal assistant to TV heartthrob Ty Walker. Andi had barely tolerated the man with a reputation as one of the most shameless playboys in Hollywood until last Christmas when his daughter had arrived on the scene and everything had changed. Andi had fallen head over heels for her boss—and his little girl—and now the three of them were living a life of domestic bliss.
Which left Bree without a roommate.
It wasn’t easy to find someone who didn’t mind darkroom chemicals in the bathroom.
Of course, if she made a cool sixty grand in the next three weeks, she wouldn’t need to worry about a roommate for a while. She wouldn’t have to consider moving back to Clement and selling her pictures on stock photo websites for pennies a piece. She wouldn’t have to graphic design headers for websites and pretend it was fulfilling her artistic hunger. She could keep the dream going for a little while longer, buy herself a little more time to be herself and try to make something happen before she was forced to admit that not everyone could be an artist.
“It went great,” she heard her tongue lying without any direction from her brain.
“I knew it!” Andi whooped in the phone. “I knew she would love you. How could she not? What happens next? Is she going to give you a show?”
“Uh, no, that’s, uh, still a long way off. She wants me to…refine my concept for the show. Figure out what the ove
rall message will be.” Which wasn’t a total lie. Olivia had told her to come back if she found her voice. Now all she had to do was find it.
“Bree, that’s awesome,” Andi enthused. She knew next to nothing about the art world, but she’d been Bree’s roommate long enough to have picked up some information around the edges. “I’m so happy for you.”
Bree climbed into her car and tried to avoid looking at the massive rolled collage poking between the front two seats. Why was she lying? Andi had held her hand through dozens of rejections. She would understand.
“I knew this would be it,” Andi gushed. “It feels like everything we’ve worked for, everything we’ve dreamed of is happening all at once.”
And there it was. The reason she’d lied.
Andi’s life hadn’t been perfect or easy, but she was so happy right now and something about that happiness made it impossible for Bree to admit that she’d failed again. That she wasn’t finally getting her own happily-ever-after.
“Are you excited?” Andi asked, accustomed to Bree’s long silences.
“It doesn’t feel real,” she admitted. Because it wasn’t real. Because she was lying to her best friend. But the happier Andi was for her, the harder it was to admit the truth.
“I can’t wait to say I knew you when. I expect a Bree Davies original for my birthday.”
Her birthday. Bree cringed. “Crud, I forgot. I’m sorry, Andi. I just took a job for Maggie. I’m going to miss your birthday.” Andi was the only person in her life who knew about her gig with Maggie, who’d been with her when Mel first approached her about the job.
“You’re still working for Maggie? I thought you’d be focused on your show.”
“The show’s still a long way off—” Second Tuesday after never. “—and I’ve still gotta pay rent. This way I can afford to use your bedroom as a studio instead of taking another roommate.”
“Well then I’m glad you’re going,” Andi said firmly, endlessly supportive, “even if you are going to miss the ridiculous party Ty is insisting on throwing me. What does she have you doing this time?”