Total Trainwreck

by Evie Claire

  The paper bag is expensively stiff with purple velvet ribbon looped through it for handles. Gold tissue paper covers an equally luxurious purple velvet jewel box. This looks familiar. My heartbeat picks up, thumping so loudly in my chest I’m certain Angela and Ellie hear it. They’re trying to act professional, like they don’t even see the box in my hand. It’s long and slender. A perfect rectangle pillow-top box. I snap the lid up and gasp. It’s my necklace! Our necklace. The pearl that almost killed me on his island refashioned into the first gift he ever gave me. The necklace I threw at him the night I was dumb enough to think I could ever live without him.

  Joy drowns my nerves. I take it from the box and hold it up in the light. Something’s different. Instead of gold filigree, the chain and cage surrounding the pearl are heavy platinum. Diamonds interrupt the chain every few inches, laced into the precious metal like loose beads. Etched platinum bars form a cage around the pearl. Holding it in my left hand I notice how perfectly it matches the diamond cuff that keeps our secret.

  You’re a pearl of a girl, Carly Klein. Break a leg tonight.

  —DH

  We haven’t seen each other in days. It’s been too risky. The paps follow me everywhere. They fly drones outside Devon’s hotel windows. Miserable doesn’t even begin to describe it. I’ve packed my aching heart on ice, because being away from him is like living in a black hole under a glacier at the bottom of the Arctic Ocean. No one should ever have to feel like this. His simple gift, sentimental as it is, is like manna from the heavens for my love-starved ass. It is everything.

  I don’t even think about the hair and makeup team working away. There’s no time. To the dismay of Ellie and Angela, I leap from the chair. My feet are already running when I hit the floor.

  “Sabine!” I yell halfway to the sitting room door. “Sabine, are you still here?”

  “What is it, my darling?” She meets me at the door, alarmed by my yelling. Her hands are full of thread spools and pins.

  “I need this with me tonight.” I hold out the necklace I’ve had clutched to my bosom. She takes it and turns it over in the light.

  “Lovely, but not for this dress.” Of course she’s right. The necklace is too simple for a ball gown. Cartier’s armed guard will deliver a necklace and earrings later today. They’re thrilled that I refuse to remove my cuff even for the red carpets. But holding my necklace—holding our necklace and remembering its history—I can’t let it go ever again.

  “Please. Sew it into the bodice. Somewhere close to my heart.” I pat my chest and Sabine seems to understand the importance of my prized jewel. The French always do.

  “Oui. I know just the thing! You leave it to me.” She drops the locket into her breast pocket with a wink and pats the outside for safekeeping.

  “Thanks,” I whisper, blinking back tears. My jaw trembles so badly it may vibrate off my head. Not today, Carly! I’ve got to hold it together a couple more hours. Then I can shave my head while whacking paps with an umbrella and it won’t matter.

  “Cheers,” Maria says, handing me a glass of champagne. God, it is all I want. I’ve been so good. But every passing second brings me one second closer to showtime. Nerves are for pussies, but thinking about my reality makes me want to puke. I swallow hard against the lump in my throat and push the glass away, shaking my head.

  “Jane, when can I have my Xanax?” My look is on the edge of delirium. Jane frowns and quickly checks her watch.

  “Can you make it another hour?”

  Like I have a choice.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Jane finally gave me my allotted Xanax, and damn if that little miracle pill isn’t already working its ass off. Not a nerve in sight. Not a quiver of the hand. No noxious feeling somersaulting in my belly. Nope. I’m just feeling all right, all right, all right. Tonight, drugs are good.

  The dress fits. Every inch of me is fucking flawless. Sabine stitched a red heart pocket over Devon’s gift. Our necklace snuggles so closely to my breast it scratches me every time I move. It’s the best feeling in the world.

  Tonight’s the night. The final step in rebranding Carly Klein from a spoiled little brat into an A-list actress with enough aplomb to capture her Hollywood hero. If tonight goes well, I’ll join the ranks of Julia, Reese and Jennifer. You don’t get any more America’s Sweetheart than that. You don’t get any more match-made-in-tabloid-heaven for a man like Devon Hayes. I fucking hate India Blume, but she’s a damned genius.

  “I’m coming for you, betches,” I giggle to myself as I zoom down the road, standing in the back of a Mercedes Sprinter van. Jane and Maria look horrified. Shit, I actually said that out loud. Damn Xanax. I bite my lip and smile like I meant to do it. “Practicing my speech.” Jane nods. Maria giggles. “Can I get a smoke?”

  Everybody cringes at the thought of my smoking in the back of a car in a million dollar dress. The Dior stylist looks like she just had a coronary. My Cartier-provided bodyguard up-downs me like I’m insane. They know what they should say, but they’re terrified of disappointing me.

  “I’ve got an idea!” Maria jumps up. She’s wearing the black Dior gown I took for an after party. I’m pretty sure it’s the one Anne wanted. Whoops. She cracks a window that won’t blow on me and fires one up. She takes a big drag, hands the cigarette to Jane and balances herself on the seats to walk to me. She leans in and brings her lips to mine. In what looks like a kiss, she shotguns the smoke into my mouth. I inhale deeply, hold it and exhale.

  This is why I love the girl. Fuck Iliad and that horrid PR tyrant. Maria is family. Period. And tonight, she’s my plus one.

  India stands like a militant sentinel waiting to help me out of the door. Ear mike in place, she opens the door and offers me a hand when our van arrives at the staging area.

  “Where’s Devon?” I ask. She pretends she doesn’t hear. India and I tolerate each other. We’re too smart to piss the other one off, but it will be a cold day in hell before we actually like each other. “Where is he?” I ask, jerking my arm away when she tries to move me on. I plant my feet and refuse to move until she answers.

  “He’s coming later. You’re sitting at the same table. Don’t worry.” Her voice is low and clipped.

  “How much later?” I can be demanding now that I’m a somebody.

  She checks her watch. “Like ten minutes.”

  I nod and allow myself to be ushered forward. Maria still holds my hand. It is possible she is the only person India hates more than me. Maria isn’t good for my rebranding. But I refuse to let her go.

  “You look gorgeous, girls,” she says, and waves my stylist forward to fix us. The stylist reapplies lip gloss and gives us Altoids. We share another giggle. She combs some loose hairs into place, smoothing them with hair spray—dampened fingers, and spritzes us with rose water so we don’t reek of cigarettes. “You couldn’t wait until after the carpet?” India frowns when she smells us. I shrug.

  “Miss Klein.” Just like every time before, my name is called and I step forward. The stylist arranges the skirt of my gown so Banksy’s work is more prominently displayed.

  From the backstage sidelines people stare at us with one of two reactions. Appreciative smiles and nods of encouragement greet us from those who are happy to see two former gutter dogs make a comeback. The haters of the world look at us like they just swallowed a fart, so sickened to see themselves outshined they don’t know what to do. I ignore the latter because they simply don’t matter. Not after tonight.

  The curtain sucks back. We step onto a garnet carpet and into hurricane-force flashbulbs. They hit me like a steel hammer, but I can’t blink, I can’t shrink. I have to stand here and smile. For months an A-Team of style experts have manicured every minute detail of my look. Despite all their efforts, it all comes down to what I do with the next ten minutes of my life. Covered in millions o
f dollars of gowns and jewels, it’s the most naked I’ve ever felt. Because the preparation doesn’t matter. All that matters is what the cameras see. Please, God, let them be kind.

  Bone-shaking nerves whoosh through me popping sweat along the back of my neck. Fuck. This isn’t good. I breathe as deep as I can through my smile and force my nerves to settle the fuck down. It works. The shakes cease. A switch flips. I slip into the character I play for tabloid cameras. I’m fabulous but down to earth. They love me as much as I love them. Let’s do the damn thing.

  And I do it. Smiling, posing and waving like I was born to be bathed in incandescent paparazzi light. Maria releases my hand because it’s me they want. She waits patiently in the shadows of flashing camera bulbs.

  God, I wish he were with me. That’s a hand I wouldn’t have to let go. Once everyone knows we are together, I’ll never have to face this circus by my lonesome again. I find strength in knowing my solo days are almost over. Next award season, I’ll be on his arm. We’ll be the toast of Tinseltown. My grin widens. I throw my shoulders confidently back. Oh, yes! Next year!

  The questions are total softballs. The red carpet reporters want to know more about what I’m wearing than my movie. Apparently having a vagina disqualifies me from having anything intelligent to say—about anything other than fashion, that is. With a dress like this, the interview is pretty much the same. Everyone wants a gander at the Dior-Banksy collaboration gown. All I really have to do is pose and admit that “Yes, it feels amazing to wear this dress. But it’s going to feel even better knowing that the proceeds of tomorrow’s auction will benefit so many children fighting cancer.” I could do it blindfolded. India watches me carefully and I realize what she’s done. She’s used this dress to create a red carpet situation even I can’t fuck up. My boiling hatred of her mellows to a rolling simmer. The two of us are going to have to find an accord at some point.

  Maria hangs back, following my slow progression and posing for a photo when someone recognizes her. We’re almost to the end, the fun part where the fans lose their effing minds, scream themselves hoarse and take crappy cell phone selfies they plaster over social media. I’m looking forward to this part. A fan crowd, I can totally rock.

  They go wild when we arrive. I walk straight over to the fence. A herd of bodyguards rush me, but I shoo them away.

  “You want a picture?” I ask a young girl on the front row with her mother. She nods, too nervous to speak. I take her phone and lean in for a pic. More phones are thrust in my face. The guards jump in to calm the crowd. But I take it all in stride.

  “Would you mind taking our picture?” I ask the nearest guard. What can he say? We crowd into the frame. I strike my best red carpet pout and the guard snaps away.

  “Carly.” The voice sounds familiar. Normally, I don’t recognize reporters. This one, I can’t forget. I turn to find Jessica standing behind me, waiting for an interview. The New Yorker obviously wasn’t looking for a reporter with a penchant for Quaaludes. Oops. But she has evidently transitioned to TV, which is certainly a step up.

  “Would you like a shot of the gown?” I ask with a shit-eating grin. Just to remind her of the invisible boundary separating people like her from people like me, I take a single step back and pose.

  “No, I’d like to talk to you about your current relationship.” My heart stops beating and explodes in my chest. How the hell did she sneak the dagger she just thrust through my ribs past security? The smile falls from my face and I can’t even begin to process words.

  “What?”

  “You and Maria Rhodes are awfully chummy these days,” she accuses like a courtroom interrogator. I screw up my face, look at Maria and burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Maria’s like a sister to me. You know that.” Of every reporter on the carpet, she should know.

  “Then what’s this?” She holds up a phone with a photo of Maria and me shotgunning a cigarette minutes ago.

  “We were...” I start strong but break off because I don’t really know how to describe this. I should say we were smoking, but only potheads shotgun smoke. Shit! My mind races. The perfection of the night shatters and rains down to the red carpet in cold, panicky sparks. What the fuck am I supposed to do?

  The crowd roars. It’s so deafening I can’t think. I frantically search for India. She’d know what to do. She’d whisk me away like I’m too important to have my time wasted. But the crowd has engulfed me and I can’t find anyone.

  “What comment do you have?” Jessica thrusts her microphone in my face again. The camera is bearing down, its light so hot sweat prickles everywhere. I can’t think of anything to say.

  The crowd goes deafeningly wild. So wild we both turn to see what’s going on. Whew! A brief reprieve while I think. But not for long.

  I feel him before I see him, because that’s how starved my body is for this man. He’s giving an interview, but when he glances to the side and sees me he stops cold. The look of horror on my face steals the smile from his. He pushes the microphone back in Matt Lauer’s face midsentence. Turning to me, he takes off in long, confident strides. He’s wearing a white dinner-jacket-type tux. Only, the black is a dark navy blue that glistens in the sun. His pace picks up, looking from me to Jessica and back to me. The crowd reaches a deafening roar so violent the ground vibrates. An easy smile no woman can resist breaks over his face. He turns his charm to Jessica and snakes an arm around my waist on arrival. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. My muscles weaken and I lean heavily against him. God it feels good to be in his arms again.

  “Did you have a question about Mighty?” Devon is cool, calm and 007 collected. I drink in his smell and want more than anything to wrap my arms around him. I’m so sick of pretending. So sick of acting like I’m not in love with this man. India promises we’ll go public after award season. That’s a month away. One month. I can do that. I suck it up and plaster on a he’s-just-my-costar smile. The reporter, realizing she’s got a bigger fish on the line, doesn’t miss a beat.

  “I was asking Carly about her love life. It appears she and Maria Rhodes are closer than we thought.” She shows Devon the picture. He gives a low, sexy whistle, admiring our lip lock.

  “That’s pretty hot.” He jokingly rubs a hand over the back of his neck, eyes going wide. It’s all for the camera watching his every move. “Whoa.” He smiles and starts pressing buttons on her phone.

  “What...what are you doing?” she asks.

  “I’m sending it to my phone,” he says, joking good-naturedly as if this isn’t the huge fucking bombshell I thought it was minutes ago.

  “But you can’t...”

  “Too late, I just did.” He flashes his Sexiest Man Alive smile and she turns to jelly along with every other woman in a ten-mile radius. “But, I’ll let you in on a little secret.” He winks at her. “Hey, you guys want to know a secret?” He turns to ask the crowd that is already punch-drunk on his presence.

  What is he doing? I stare dumbly, totally incapable of following where he’s driving this crazy train. One Xanax coupled with his touch has rendered me little more than a rag doll stitched to his side. He turns from Jessica and a gathering gaggle of reporters to the crowd, all hanging on his every word. I turn with him, our hips glued together.

  He knows what he’s doing to me. He can feel the needy weakness his touch draws out of me, the panting that replaces good solid breaths. Thank god he knows better than to let me go. The crowd goes King Kong ape shit wild at his brilliant display of unscripted candor. Screaming and yelling like mad men, they are licking the tiniest crumb from the palm of his hand. Me? I am just along for the ride.

  “I’m in love.” He holds his free arm out in a huge, remorseless shrug and turns around for everyone to see. It’s all I can do to stay on my heels to make the spin with him. The crowd reaches another decibel and I’m
pretty sure their stomping is about to wake the San Andreas Fault. “You guys think it’s time for me to move on?” They roar their agreement.

  It is amazing how quickly he takes the spotlight off me. Finding enough strength to steady my knees, I step away from him. This isn’t how our PR plan unfolds. This is dangerous. My brain is in such disarray I’m not really paying much attention to what he’s saying. I turn away from the crowd to be sure my outside doesn’t reflect the chaos raging inside. Maria waves desperately to get my attention.

  “What?” I mouth the word at her and shake my head. She motions for me to turn around. And I’m about to...

  But he beats me to it.

  In a dramatic motion worthy of the most epic black-and-white cinematography, Devon pulls me to him, our faces less than a breath apart. The crowd quiets. Louboutin’s next-season heels leave the garnet carpet when he lifts me against the starched tux shirt covering his considerable chest. I gasp in the way a woman should. His grip tightens around dove-gray satin at my waist. Without any effort at all, he lifts me higher into the air. I place my hands on his shoulders to brace, knowing somewhere nearby India is having a heart attack.

  Our eyes lock when I’m a solid foot above him. He looks up. I look down. In the deep blue chasms of his wildly dancing eyes, I find everything that means anything in life. Who gives a fuck about a PR plan when you’ve got that staring at you? A delirious smile breaks over my face. His is already there. I throw my head back and laugh at the reckless beauty of our love. After months of secrecy, our happily-ever-after finally plays out for the world to see. It doesn’t get better than that.

  Slowly, he spins me around like a first-place trophy. Chaos has claimed the world around us—the crowd, the reporters, the bodyguards, anyone with eyeballs and a view. Strangely, we don’t notice them. Holding me close, he releases me until our lips are once again a breath’s width apart.

  “I love you, Carly Klein.”