The Prada Paradox

by Julie Kenner

  Originally Tobias had hired him as a consultant for the action sequences. But then Tobias let the camera roll during one choreography session. He watched the footage at home that night and canceled the scheduled screen tests for Stryker. Blake, he said, was the guy.

  He got no argument from me. Which in retrospect turned out to be a mistake, since we broke up almost exactly one month after Tobias signed Blake. And as much as I begged Tobias to fire Blake’s sorry ass, he has that irritatingly smug director mentality, and thinks that he knows best. And since I’m not Angelina Jolie (although I do look a bit like her, what with the long dark hair and wide mouth), I don’t have the clout to tell Tobias to dump Blake or I walk.

  The clout or the guts, frankly.

  And, yes, Blake is a decent actor, but this movie is supposed to be my vehicle. A way for me to prove that I’m back in the game. Not a centerpiece for Blake to get his jollies with the press.

  “So, you okay?” Mackenzie asks through a mouthful of gummy bears.

  “Sure. Of course.” Although to be honest, I’m not okay. Because I shouldn’t be worried about Blake and publicity. I shouldn’t be worried about Blake at all. After all, I’m a professional, right? Just because I used to date my costar doesn’t mean—

  Tap, tap, tap.

  The sharp rapping at the door draws my attention, and Mac and I both swivel our heads in that direction.

  “Susie,” I say. Then, louder, “Come on in. Did you track down lemons?”

  “Depends on what you call a lemon,” comes the response, in an oh-so-familiar voice. And then the door opens and there’s the man himself, his broad smile and dancing eyes still more than enough to make my knees go weak. “That convertible I bought last year was a piece of shit.”

  “Well, gee,” Mackenzie says brightly. “These trailers just really aren’t big enough for three people.” She aims herself like a bullet for the door and squeezes past Blake with a “catch you later.” He steps inside, the door closes behind him, and we’re alone for the first time in weeks. Little needle stabs of pain zing my heart, but I can’t help the little leap of joy, too. Because he’s Blake and I do love him. Love was never a problem. (Neither was sex, for that matter, but that isn’t really an issue at the moment.)

  “You should have listened to me,” I finally say. As repartee goes, it’s pretty lame. But it’s the best I can come up with.

  “About the car?”

  “About a lot of things,” I say, looking him straight in the eye.

  I push myself out of my chair and head to the refrigerator. It’s mostly empty, but I have a stash of Diet Cokes and a box of divinity, which has been my absolute favorite candy since some appeared in my Easter basket at age five. Each day I allow myself only one Diet Coke (the carbonation makes it harder to lose weight, according to my trainer, and the caffeine makes me jumpy) and two pieces of divinity. I grab a soda and eye the candy, which is now a hell of a lot more appealing than my Newtons. Unfortunately, I ate my allotment earlier (my reward for both surviving the scene and nailing it).

  I’m still holding the unopened snack-size package of Fig Newtons, and I’d been secretly proud of myself for not ripping into them despite temptation. Now, though, temptation be damned. I toss the package aside and dive for the divinity. Because if it’s a question of fortitude by sugar or facing Blake unarmed, I’m going for the candy.

  He watches but doesn’t say anything, and I give him points for that. He knows about my divinity rule. And he also knows that I invariably snarf my allotment after nailing a scene. So he has to know that he’s driven me to this—it’s his fault I’ve fallen off the candy wagon.

  Frankly, I hope he’s wallowing in guilt. But at the same time, I’m grateful that he’s wallowing quietly.

  “What’s up?” I ask, after I’ve swallowed. I’m silently congratulating myself on not leaping on him immediately and demanding to know what the heck he’s doing coming on the set when he doesn’t even have scenes scheduled today.

  “Interview,” he says.

  I narrow my eyes. I know him too well, and something’s up. This is more than just an interview. “With who?” I say, cautiously.

  “Letterman,” he says, and I immediately bristle.

  “That isn’t even funny.” I’m impressed that my voice comes out normal despite my shock and anger. I never dreamed Blake would be that cruel.

  “I’m serious,” he says. He gestures vaguely toward the north. “They’re setting up on the set.”

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask. Letterman shoots in New York, so I know he’s just being a prick. But I don’t understand why.

  “Satellite feed,” he says.

  “Bullshit. Letterman doesn’t do satellite feed.”

  Blake just shrugs. “I guess he does now.”

  I just stare. I’m honestly not sure if he’s telling the truth or lying. Frankly, I can’t imagine why he’d do either.

  “Apparently the producers thought that since my last appearance was about landing my first movie role, my second appearance should be from the set.”

  “Uh-huh.” I lick my lips and fight for control. “And you thought that would be smart? Or was this Elliot’s idea? Either way, I can totally see the appeal. I mean, you got so much publicity with the first appearance, another one should go over even bigger. Too bad you haven’t got a new girlfriend. You could break up with her on television and really pump up your PR quotient.”

  “Dammit, Devi. I didn’t break up with—”

  “Don’t even start with me.”

  “Devi—” His tone is harsh, warning. And I really don’t give a damn. Technically maybe he didn’t break up with me on television, but the hurt is still the same. And the humiliation.

  “Just go.” My throat is thick, and tears are starting to well. If he doesn’t get out of here soon, I’m going to lose it. And I really don’t want him to know that I’m still a basket case. As far as he’s concerned I am so over Blake Atwood.

  “Would you just listen? I thought we could do it—”

  I hold up a hand. “Go!”

  A myriad of expressions play across his face, so fast that I’m unable to catch and latch on to one until his face freezes into neutral and one hand raises in a dismissive fashion. “Fine. I’ll go.”

  “Good.”

  And then he turns, like he can just waltz in here and drop a bombshell any old time. An unexpected burst of anger rips through me and everything just spews out. “You son of a bitch!” I grab the Fig Newton package and toss it at him. It’s too late, though. He’s already gone, and they smash ineffectively against the door.

  I’m a complete emotional mess, and I shatter, too. The tears flood out, warm against my cheeks. Tears for what I could have had with him, and tears for what we’d lost.

  But most of all, they’re tears of anger and frustration. Because our relationship ended on that show. No warning. No hint that anything about our relationship was bothering him.

  Just boom.

  And now he’s doing a segment here? On the lot?

  He’s just cavalierly throwing it all back in my face?

  The thought makes me sick to my stomach, and I want to lash out. I want to do something.

  I want to humiliate him the way he humiliated me.

  Maybe I was reluctant at first to get back into the PR game, but I’m in it now, and I’m more than capable of upping the ante.

  I stand up, my body thrumming with anger-fueled adrenaline. It’s time to pull out the red stiletto pumps and go have a chat with the boys from Letterman.

  I haven’t played the diva for years…but that doesn’t mean I don’t remember how.

  Chapter 5

  “I found the lemons!” Susie trots alongside me, breathless, a mesh bag stuffed with lemons swinging in her hand. “But they’re out of Evian.”

  “No problem,” I say, without breaking my stride. “Considering my mood, sucking on a lemon will do me just fine.”

  “Oh.”


  Since I’ve clearly thrown her for a loop, I take pity on her. “I’ll take these,” I say, reaching for the sack. “You can head home if you want. Unless you have some rotten tomatoes?”

  I can’t resist the last bit, but I probably should have, because I think I just fried her brain. I wave the comment away. “Never mind. Really. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “’Kay.” She takes a step backward, then stops and nods in the direction I’m heading. “So, um, what’s with Blake?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask warily.

  “They had all the lights and stuff set up for some interview, and now they’re striking everything.”

  “So?”

  “So I don’t think they did the interview.”

  That stops me. “You have to be wrong. They must have done it already.”

  “Dunno,” she says. “Maybe.” Which is incredibly unhelpful, but in this instance, I can’t really fault her.

  Apparently Susie isn’t up for speculation, though, because she trots off, a lot faster in her tennis shoes than I can handle in my blood-red pumps. (And, yes, I really did change clothes. I’m wearing skin-tight distressed jeans that I bought at a charity auction, a white blouse with a plunging neckline contrasted by innocent eyelet material, and my favorite Prada pumps. If I’m going into a confrontation, I’m going to damn well look my best.)

  As I watch her leave, I spot Elliot beside the wardrobe trailer. He sees me and starts to walk in the other direction, but I’m having none of that. “Elliot!” I call in my most self-important voice. “Hold up a second.” (A command, not a request. Am I good, or what?)

  “What is it, Miss Taylor?” he asks, tapping his watch. “I’m running late.”

  “I won’t keep you. I just wanted to find out where Blake’s shooting the Letterman segment. I thought it might be good for the movie if they do a snippet with the two of us together.” I flash my widest smile. It’s phony, manipulative, and he totally knows it. I, of course, expect an equally phony yet polite response.

  “You conniving bitch,” he spits, which isn’t polite at all. “What did you say to him in your trailer? What the hell have you done?”

  “Are you out of your mind? I haven’t done a thing!” I’m completely unnerved by his rage. Elliot and I have never gotten along well (I think he’s a charlatan, and he thinks I’ve fallen too low on the celebrity totem pole for his newly hot client). So I didn’t expect him to be excited about my offer. But this? This is psychotic!

  He points a finger at me. “This interview was essential to Blake’s career. And I swear, if I could get Tobias to fire your skinny little ass, I would!”

  I hold up my hands in defense. “What did I do?”

  But he just shakes his head and walks away. I’m tempted to go after him, but honestly, I’m too baffled. What the hell was he talking about?

  Clearly my diva has nosedived, and I’m left standing on the backlot utterly flabbergasted. At a time like this there’s really only one option. I pull out my cell phone, hit number 2 on the speed dial, and tap my foot impatiently.

  “I need retail therapy,” I say, the second I hear her pick up.

  Lindy’s delicate laugh seeps through the line, and I picture her sitting at her desk, wire-frame glasses perched on her nose, a coffee cup within arm’s reach, and a forest’s worth of paper spread out on the desk in front of her. “You’re rich and famous,” she says dryly. “You’re not allowed to have bad days.”

  “Fuck you,” I say, but oh so politely. She laughs, of course, because she’s been my best friend since age three and knows me too well. We lived next door to each other growing up. I had the celebrity shtick. She had public school. We played at each other’s houses, our moms were friends, and when I got my Academy Award nomination, she spent her allowance to buy alcohol-free champagne and told me that if my head got too big she’d never return my Malibu Barbie.

  That sealed it. We were friends for life.

  Seriously, I love Lindy like a sister. In a business where knowing who your real friends are can feel a lot like you’re playing a real-life game of Deal or No Deal, it’s nice to have someone who would love me even if I were serving weenies at Tail O’ the Pup.

  “So what’s up?” she asks, serious now. “Blake?”

  “Yes,” I admit. “But not the way you think. In fact, I’m not even sure what to think.”

  “You should just get back in bed with him. Not only is the man total eye candy, but he loves you. And you two were good together.”

  “Were being the operative word.”

  “Devi,” she says in the mom-tone she acquired after giving birth to my godchild two years ago.

  I hold up a hand to silence her, which is ridiculous since she isn’t even there. “Don’t even start,” I say, and hear her very loud silence in response. “Damn it, Lindy!”

  “What? I didn’t say a thing!”

  “I heard you thinking.”

  “You’re paranoid,” she says. “I would never think a critical thought about you. You are perfect in every way.”

  I roll my eyes and try not to snort. It’s a bad habit—I snort when I laugh. Fortunately, no one has caught that on tape yet.

  I’m reaching the end of New York Street, which means that I’m almost to the lot where I left my car. “So what do you say? Will truth, justice, and the Hollywood movie machine collapse if you take the rest of the afternoon off?”

  “They’ll survive,” she says. “My boss, I’m not so sure about.” Lindy is an attorney for Universal. Her boss, Richard, is an absentminded professor sort. He’s absolutely brilliant, but also absolutely scattered. Lindy isn’t exaggerating when she says the world as I know it might collapse if she leaves him unattended. After all, in the current state of the industry, lawyers are just as important to the movie-making process as the actors, the director, and the script.

  “So you can’t?” I am crushed. I’m suffering from severe Prada withdrawal, but shopping by yourself when you’re depressed is just pathetic. Shopping with a friend, however, is therapeutic.

  “What time?”

  “I can be there in thirty.”

  “Make it an hour. And meet me at the bar.”

  She means the bar in the Regent Beverly Wilshire, of course. Just a stone’s throw from Prada. And because she’s my best friend, she also knows that has to be my intended destination. “Will do.”

  “And I need to get some stuff for Lucy. So let’s hit the children’s boutiques, too.”

  “Retail therapy is an adult shopping experience,” I say, but just for form.

  “Hey,” she says. “It’s for me. Those little baby capris really show off my calf muscles.”

  I tell her she’s a loon, then sign off. As I slip my phone back into my bag, I realize I’m somewhat happy. It feels nice, too. Considering that my morning started off with terror (albeit fake), then moved to frustration, anger, and complete bafflement, a little bit of friendship is just the ticket. And friendship with a martini or a Cosmopolitan would be even better. And, yes, I gave up alcohol when I gave up the pills, but I’m still going strong with the virgin variety. Fortunately, the bartenders at the Beverly Wilshire make one mean nonalcoholic Cosmopolitan.

  “Devi! Wait up!”

  I turn and see Andrew Garrison hurrying toward me. I like Andy, but I wish he hadn’t called out to me. Because when I turn, I get a full view of Blake strolling down New York Street. He sees me, too, and holds up a hand in a tentative wave. My chest tightens, and I fight the urge to go toward him.

  Then I see that he’s with Elliot, and I no longer have to fight—I’m staying way the hell away from that one.

  Not that I have much choice. Elliot shoots me a fierce look, takes Blake’s elbow, and starts walking with him in the opposite direction. As I watch, I see Blake jerk away. Then he turns and points to me. He puts his fingers to his ear in the universal symbol for “Call me.”

  No way, Jose.

  I turn away, unnerved, baffled, and thi
nking the kind of lusty thoughts that I really didn’t want to think about Blake. Not anymore.

  I shake off the thoughts and try to focus on Andy, who is now breathless beside me, a book of Sudoku puzzles tucked under his arm as usual.

  No luck; I’m still thinking about Blake. And Lindy’s right, of course: I still love him. But like I already said, love really isn’t our problem. Trust and commitment, however…

  I sigh. Damn Lindy for putting the thoughts in my head. And damn me for falling for him in the first place.

  “Heading out?” Andy asks, obviously completely uninterested in either Blake or my lust.

  “Meeting a friend for shopping,” I say, my voice as reverential as if I were talking about a religious experience.

  “You must be heading toward Prada.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “How did you know?”

  He just laughs and shakes his head. “Devi, your fascination with Prada isn’t exactly breaking news.”

  Okay. He has a point. And I would blush, except that I’m not in the least bit embarrassed by my Prada-lust. Prada, I figure, is totally worthy.

  “You did great today,” he says. “Your performance was dead-on.”

  “Thanks. That means a lot.” I’m not lying when I say that. Andy is the one person on the set who has personal experience with Play.Survive.Win. Not only was Andy forced to play the game—and almost died doing it—but he’s been working with Mel for a few years now, trying to locate other game survivors. Apparently he was some kind of tech-head before he got sucked into the game. In other words, he’s a total computer geek, and I know he’s been a lot of help to Mel, investigating Web sites and stuff that have been used as clues in the real-life version of the game. More important for my purposes, though, he’s the movie’s story consultant. And that means he’s been working closely with Tobias, the screenwriters, and the producers for months.

  “When I first suggested to Mel that we turn her story into a movie, I told her you’d be perfect for the role,” he says. “And then when we started negotiating with the studio and Tobias, I kept pushing. I mean, I’ve seen all of your movies, so I knew you could nail the part. I’m really pleased to see that I was right.”