by Julie Kenner
“Oh, that is so not fair,” I counter. But I start walking again, which my therapist would undoubtedly say is my attempt to move away from the truth.
Lindy rushes to keep up with me. “You’d totally decided that he was the love of your life, and then he goes and makes one mistake, and you do a complete one-eighty. I mean, sweetie, Olympic gymnasts don’t flip that fast.”
“Hello? Are we talking about the same man? He dumped me. And on national television, no less.”
“He didn’t dump. He hedged.”
“Hedged,” I repeat. “Well, that makes sense. Because that way he was safe if someone better came along.” We’d been hot and heavy, or at least I’d thought we were, especially since we’d been talking about moving in together, buying a stereo system together. Commingling our DVD collections…
The kind of stuff I’d never done before. Not with any guy.
But I found out at the same time that the rest of the viewing public did that we were “dating, but not yet locked into any sort of commitment.” His words, not mine. And that was news to me, let me tell you. Painful, humiliating news.
He’d been on Letterman at the time, so that’s what? Umpty-million viewers? And when Letterman asked—in his oh-so-Letterman way—if Blake was waiting for something better to come along, he’d laughed uncomfortably and got this little-boy-lost look. “Hoo boy,” Letterman had said. “Devi’s got a drifter on her hands.”
The next week, guess what the Entertainment Weekly headline was? And two points to you if you guessed “Hoo Boy. Blake’s a Devil.”
I mean, come on!
“He didn’t mean it, and you know it,” Lindy says. “Letterman put him on the spot, and he said something stupid. And now you’re punishing you both because he ran off at the mouth. The boy was acting under the influence of Elliot. Obviously he was spouting nonsense.”
That makes me laugh, but I try to stifle it.
“So you’re telling me that the exact instant you found out about it, you fell out of love with him?”
I stop, my arms crossed over my chest, and stare her down. We’ve reached Dalton Way, where the curve of Via Rodeo meets up with Rodeo Drive. Around us, well-dressed tourists glide past, along with some well-heeled locals. I catch a glimpse of someone who looks remarkably like Paris Hilton making a beeline toward Gucci. She sees us and waves. Duh. It is Paris.
“I’m not saying you should have forgiven him,” she says, oblivious to the fact that we’re only yards away from a power shopper. “I’m just saying that you didn’t react to what he did or to what he was feeling. You looked at you. You learned that he wasn’t ready to put a ring on your finger, and suddenly you decided that you were totally wrong to have fallen in love with him in the first place.”
“God,” I say, suitably awed. “No wonder you’re a lawyer.”
She shoots me the finger and continues walking. I hurry to catch up, my mind in a whirl. To a certain extent she’s right, and I know it. But what she doesn’t understand is that I had no choice. I couldn’t just sit there, knowing how he felt, and wait for the other shoe to drop. That would make me the victim in our little love story, and that simply wasn’t a role I could play again. Not ever.
Lindy slows down enough to look hard at me. “Just give the guy a second chance, okay?”
I think about the way he looked in my trailer doorway earlier today, the soft light from the early afternoon sun filtering around him. “I’ll think about it,” I say. “But don’t place any bets on it yet.” Good looks are one thing, but he hurt me to the core.
“That’s all I ask,” she says.
“I don’t even know why we’re talking about Blake, anyway,” I say. “We’re here for shopping, and he was always lousy at that.”
“It’s an X-Y thing,” she says, and I roll my eyes. She lets out a breath of air, then turns to scope out the street. “I’m becoming old and pathetic,” she announces. “There’s not one store here that has something I want.”
“You are old and pathetic,” I say with a laugh. “But I love you anyway. And I know exactly what your problem is, too. She weighs about thirty pounds and has curly blond hair and thinks I’m the coolest person ever.”
Lindy raises an eyebrow.
“Okay,” I correct. “She thinks I’m the coolest person next to her mommy and daddy.”
“Will you kill me if I beg to hit the kids’ boutiques next?”
“No,” I say, because my mind isn’t really on shopping at the moment either. “Except we can’t leave without going to—”
“Prada. I know.” She gives a little nod of her head. Our destination is about half a block up and over, just past the crosswalk. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 9
As I’ve already mentioned umpteen thousand times, Prada Beverly Hills is my absolute favorite store in the universe (next to the Manhattan locations, of course). And before you go all “Celebrities should be more responsible with their money and not bow to the god of designer fashion” on me, let me just say that I am the last person who has to leave the house decked out in designer labels. My current outfit should be proof of that. Yes, my shoes are Prada, but the jeans and the funky eyelet shirt are eclectic, not designer. Which I think proves my point. I’m not a slave to fashion. I’m a trendsetter. Seriously. Entertainment Weekly said so just last week.
About Prada, though, I’m a total fan girl. There’s just something about the way form and function mesh, which sounds like I watch too much Project Runway or something, but it’s true. I’ll confess that my loyalty lies primarily with the bags (purses and totes), but that doesn’t mean I’m not a sucker for the clothes, too.
Here’s my neurotic celebrity secret: If Prada wanted me to be their spokesgirl—like Liv Tyler did for Givenchy and Demi Moore did for Versace—I would totally do it in a heartbeat. Hell, I’d even negotiate down my usual wage (assuming I got to keep the products). I love the stuff that much.
Today, though, I’m not getting my bags gratis. And I do plan to walk away with a bag (or ten). I’ve had my eye on a classy black tote for a week now. I’m thinking today’s the day to take the plunge. I’ve recently bought a new laptop computer, and I want to be able to easily schlep it with me. (I’m not a computer geek or anything, but my assistant syncs all my appointments electronically and forwards drafts of all my fan-mail responses for me to review and send on. So like it or not, I’m attached to the laptop. And, yes, I have been known to type my name into Google and surf the Web looking for fan sites. I know I shouldn’t, because I invariably find a blog or a Web site run by some perv, and then I spend a week being freaked out. But I can’t help it. It’s insecure and pathetic, maybe, but I have to know what’s going on.)
“Are you going to pry open your checkbook?” I ask Lindy, as we pause at the crosswalk. “Or am I the only one indulging?”
“We’ll see,” she says, with a tiny little smile. She makes a nice living, and since her husband is an attorney, too, they’re doing just fine financially. Lately, though, her purchases have been geared more toward the under-five set. Honestly, it’s put quite the crimp in our shopping sprees. Like me, though, she has a weakness for Prada. And I’m guessing that, like me, when she walks out she’ll have at least one shopping bag hooked on her arm.
The store entrance is technically anonymous in that there is no signage announcing that it is Prada. You’d have to be brain-dead to miss the place, though. It’s conspicuous merely by its simplicity. A gray facade, sleek and modern, juts out, forming what I like to think of as an Huxleyesque entranceway. You’re entering a brave new world of fashion here.
The entire width of the store opens onto Rodeo, so even without any sort of sign, it’s not like you’re going to miss the store. Although some people think the store is weird-looking or even tacky, I think it’s a tribute to style and fun. It’s different. And in my book, different is good.
Case in point: To get inside how many stores do you have to walk over the window displays? But that
’s just what Lindy and I do. Our heels click on the wood entrance area as we pass by and over the futuristic pods that display decked-out mannequins below our feet. It’s incredibly bizarre and totally fun, and I’ve loved it since the first day I saw it. Which, thank you very much, happened to be at the opening party. And, yes, Miuccia Prada, the doyenne of high fashion herself, invited me to the opening. I’d arrived in heel-to-head Prada, and looked amazing. But I was no match for Miuccia, who had arrived for the event resplendent in a wooden skirt (yes, wooden). It clacked when she walked and was absolutely fabulous. I’d never wear it, mind you, but in theory it totally rocked.
At any rate, today I have tote-bag-and-purse tunnel vision, so I don’t waste a lot of time scoping out the display pods. Instead, we head straight into nirvana.
An impressive staircase fills the center of the room, leading up to the second floor and the clothes that I know Lindy craves. She calls it the stairway to heaven, and immediately abandons me. I call it a distraction. After all, why get all muddled about clothes when there are perfectly good purses right there on the first floor? Purses that fill that nearly unfillable void in a girl’s life. Purses like that one right there in the nearby glass case. The black bag, with the buckles and the oversize straps.
The floor is made up of black-and-white tile in a checkerboard pattern, and I play my way across the room, absolutely certain of my next move. I lift a hand and signal toward Armen, my favorite sales associate. He sees me, and his eyes go wide. He rushes over, not too fast, but with a definite spring in his step.
“Miss Taylor!”
“Devi, Armen. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“At least half a dozen more,” he says. I don’t even bother to argue. He’s too well trained. And I want my bag too much to waste any more time. “You should have come in through the VIP entrance,” he scolds. “I had no idea you were here.”
“And miss walking down Rodeo Drive? No way.” There’s a VIP door tucked in the back. It actually has a sign and everything. But it’s just not the same. If I simply wanted to open my checkbook, I could send Susie. I want the experience.
“That one,” I say, pointing at my precious baby, tucked away in the glass case. “That one looks like it needs a good home.”
“What?” he teases. “No trying it on for size? No walking down the street for a test drive? You’re not even going to give our other bags a chance? Darling, you’re breaking my heart.”
I laugh. “If it will make you feel better, I’m happy to stroll down Rodeo with that bag over my shoulder. And you know as well as I do that the odds of me getting out of here with only one purse are virtually nil. But you may as well wrap it up for me now, because we both know I’m getting it.”
“I already have.”
I cock my head, sure I’ve misunderstood. “Pardon?”
He lifts a finger, signaling for me to wait, then disappears into the back. After a moment, he returns, a familiar Prada shopping bag hooked over one finger. He extends his entire arm and presents the bag to me with as much ceremony as if he were passing off the crown jewels.
I look inside and see the tissue-wrapped tote. I use my fingernails to pry the tissue away and reveal my bag in all its glory.
Considering all the pomp and circumstance, I can’t say that I’m surprised. What I am, though, is baffled. “Did you set it aside for me the last time I was in here?”
“I wanted to, but you told me not to.”
I had. At the time, I’d still been wavering. I have an entire closet in my house devoted to purses, after all. Then again, a girl really can’t have too many bags.
“Then why is it already wrapped up?” I ask.
“Because you are one lucky lady.” He cocks his head. “Or did you pull a few strings?”
He looks so eager, but I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about.
“Huh?” (How’s that for articulate?)
His face seems to fall. “Well, damn. I was so sure that you’re the one who arranged this.”
“Armen! What this?”
“The bag,” he said. “It’s a gift from the producers. Apparently the order of the day is Givenchy—what with the movie title and all. But you, my dear, are getting Prada, since everyone knows you love us so much. Well,” he adds, hedging a bit, “I think you’re getting something Givenchy, too. I really didn’t get all the details.” He waves a hand, as if he’s moving the conversation along. “Anyway, I was supposed to deliver it to you tonight, but since you’re here, I don’t see why I can’t give it to you now.”
“Really?” I peel away the rest of the tissue and pull out my oh-so-fabulous bag. I am in awe. Truly. It’s not unusual for studios or production companies to buy cast and crew gifts, but usually I get an engraved box. Or a hat with the name of the movie embroidered on it. Or I get to keep my director’s-style chair.
But Prada? And Givenchy, too? Be still my heart!
“Did you tell them which bag was my favorite?” I ask.
“Of course,” he says with a smile. “I did good?”
“Armen, darling, if I didn’t think I would fall in love with you forever, I’d lean over and kiss you right now.”
He laughs, and even blushes a little.
“You know,” I add, “this just proves what I’ve been saying all along. My love of Prada is a force to be reckoned with. You guys really need to think about letting me be a spokesperson.”
“Looks to me like you already are,” he says, then winks. “But I’ll send a memo.”
I sigh, then rewrap my tote in its tissue and nestle it snugly in the shopping bag. Then I sigh again. As usual, retail therapy worked—even better than I could have imagined, actually.
My day is definitely looking up…and I can’t imagine anything bringing me down now.
Chapter 10
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Client name: Devi Taylor.
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>>>Player Profile Attached: DT_Profile.doc<<<
Chapter 11
“Life is good,” I say, hugging my Prada shopping bag close to my chest. We’re back on Rodeo Drive, heading toward our cars.
Lindy raises an eyebrow. “No more angst about inviting Andy over? No more nasty remarks about Blake?”
“Maybe a few nasty remarks,” I say. “But they can wait until tomorrow. For the rest of the day, I’m basking.”
“You’re too easy.”
I hold up the shopping bag. “Easy? Or expensive?”
She laughs. “Both, apparently.”
“I still can’t believe it. A tote bag. And not the kind with the name of the movie silk-screened on the side. I mean, how classy is that? I didn’t know Tobias had it in him.”
“It probably wasn’t Tobias,” she says, and for some reason, that comment gives me chills.
“What do you mean?” I ask warily.
“Just that Tobias doesn’t really seem like the Prada type. More like the McDonald’s Happy Meal type, if you know what I mean.”
I do know, and I can’t help but laugh. (Well, snort, actually, but let’s not go there.) “Marcia, probably,” I say, referring to Tobias’s assistant. “She’s saved him from many a social and fashion faux pas.”
; “Trust me,” Lindy says. “Marcia has never saved that man from a fashion faux pas.”
She has a point.
“Listen,” she continues. “I know you want to get home and switch everything from your purse to your new bag, and I want to get back home before the traffic gets truly insane. So let’s do the Lucy shopping later.”
I heave a sigh of relief and agree. I love my goddaughter, but that plan is fine with me.
We part ways, Lindy to maneuver her way down to Manhattan Beach through the four p.m. traffic, and me to drive the fifteen or so relatively traffic-free blocks to my house in the hills of Beverly, as they say in the Beverly Hillbillies.
In other words, ten minutes later I’m home. Lindy, I’m sure, is still listening to talk radio while idling on the 10. Like I said—I love Beverly Hills.
I also love my house. Before the attack, I lived in a darling little bungalow tucked away in the hills just off Laurel Canyon. Pretty and charming, with a great view and little critters that visited me at night, like raccoons and possums and the occasional coyote.
Those critters didn’t bother me.
It was the two-legged vermin that forced me to move, and even though I loved that house dearly, I love my very secure new home even better. This baby is wired for action, and even has a guardhouse complete with three guards on rotating shifts provided by the security firm I hired. (Lucas, Tom, and Miguel, all three of whom get really great Christmas presents from me.)
I’m all about security and privacy these days. You hardly have to be a celebrity to be the victim of a freakish crime, but all the information that had been in the press about me over the years must have fed Janus’s fixation. And probably helped him figure out how to get to me.
That’s one big downside of being a child star. Folks see you grow up on television and in the movies, and they think they own you. Couple that with a psychopathic personality, and you have a whole I’ll-assassinate-the-president-to-prove-I-love-Jodie-Foster thing going.