The Seeds Of A Daisy: The Lily Lockwood Series: Book One (Women's Fiction)

by Alison Caiola

  I was standing in the corner of the empty sound stage, off to the side, in the shadows. The cast and crew were outside shooting and would return shortly for my scene.

  The hospital room was already set for the shoot. Once a set is ready, no one is allowed to enter it or touch anything. There was a rope across the entrance to the room with sign hanging from it: HOT SET—KEEP OUT!

  I saw this really cute guy walk on set, look around, and duck under the rope to get into the room. He was wearing a hospital gown and jeans. I watched him from my corner; he obviously didn’t see me.

  He jumped on the hospital bed. He had a Jell-O and a spoon in his hand. He opened the lid and started eating.

  “You know, there’s a craft service table in the back, and they have plenty of food,” I said from my corner.

  I don’t think I’d ever seen anyone jump out of a bed that fast. I laughed so hard, I couldn’t catch my breath. His face was beet red and he walked quickly from the room and toward the corner where I was standing. “I was just getting into my part and feeling the hospital room,” he explained.

  I stopped laughing, caught my breath, and extended my hand.

  “I’m Lily Lockwood; I play Stacy, your nurse, in the next scene. Do you need to feel me too, in order to get into your part?”

  He recovered quickly and flashed me what I would come to recognize as his “Jamie being oh-so-very-charming” smile.

  “Nope, I don’t think that’ll be necessary—but I’ll let you know after we start.” He smiled.

  “I’m Jamie Fleming,” he continued.

  He actually did surprisingly well that day, and the director and producers took notice of him. They wrote him in as a recurring love interest for me. He was one side of my love triangle—someone my character used in order to get her then-very-married lover very jealous. Jamie was on the show for six episodes and we spent a lot of time together on and eventually off the set. The rest is history. That was three years ago. Every year on our anniversary, we exchange cups of Jell-O for dessert.

  For the hundredth time that morning, I look at the large clock on the far wall. The doctor should have been here already. I hate being kept waiting. I think of my mother again, so wounded and lying helpless and unconscious in the tiny room up the hall. The passing of time means nothing to her. This is a nightmare.

  My cell phone vibrates, and I look at the number. It’s Mom’s best friend, Donna. I was told earlier that they didn’t allow cell phones on the floor.

  “Hello,” I whisper.

  “Doll, I just got your message. I worked late last night and just got up,” Donna says.

  “Where are you, Auntie D.?” The sound of her voice is enough to start my tears again.

  “Oh Lily, honey—shhh—please take a deep breath. I’m in Portugal, with the band, on tour.” Donna’s a fantastic singer, moderately successful in the USA, but for some reason, a bona fide superstar in Portugal.

  She continues, “Franny left me a message. My assistant’s trying to get me on the next flight to New York. Tell me what’s happening.”

  I can’t stop crying. “That’s the thing, Auntie D. I don’t know. I’m waiting here for her doctor. When I first came here, they told me her car hit something and flipped over and she suffered some—what the hell did they call it? Brain injury trauma or something like that. She’s unconscious. She has all these tubes going everywhere and she’s on a breathing thing.”

  Donna gasped. “A ventilator? She’s on a ventilator??”

  “Yeah.” I stop crying. “Is that bad?”

  “I’m not there, I really don’t know,” she says. “Have you called Tommy?”

  Tommy’s been Mom’s editor for years. He and his partner are two of her dearest friends. I adore them both, but in times like these, they tend to get overly dramatic. I don’t think I can take anyone else’s drama right now.

  “No, I can’t speak to anyone, I’m way too upset. I just took your call.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll call him. I’ll text you with my flight info when I get it.” Her voice cracks “I can’t believe this; I just spoke to your mother yesterday morning around nine, my time. When did you speak to her last?” she asks.

  “I don’t remember,” I lie.

  “She told me she was going to head back to the city because she was supposed to have a meeting with Tommy this morning,” Donna continues. “They were going to go over some rewrites or something.”

  “Auntie D., when you call Tommy, tell him I’ll call him and Fernando later, when I have a better idea of what’s happening.”

  “Okay, sweetheart. I love you. Hang in there, I’ll be in New York soon.” She hangs up and for the first time since I arrived at the hospital, I feel a wave of relief.

  I remember the last time I did speak to my mother. Was it really only two days ago?

  It was Monday morning after Jamie left for the airport. I called her to talk about the fight he and I had had the night before. We’d been invited to a party at producer Harvey Leder’s house in the prestigious Los Angeles community of Bel Air. The occasion was a pre-production meet-and-greet for the actors, their significant others, and the director of Jamie’s new movie. Principal shooting was to begin a few days later in New Mexico, and they wanted everyone to get to know each other.

  I was really proud of Jamie; he had the lead role in a remake of an old Hollywood Western. Before going to the party, he and I sat out on our terrace talking, drinking wine, and watching the sun, a massive blazing red egg yolk that hung over the Pacific, slowly disappear into the horizon. What had begun as a light-blue sky was now transformed into a gorgeous palette of pinks, purples, blues, and yellows.

  I looked over at Jamie and felt as though my heart was going to burst with joy. I was blessed to be in my gorgeous Malibu beach house, next to my adorable boyfriend, taking in all this beauty.

  He caught me looking at him and smiled “I love you, babe,” then took my face in his hands and kissed me.

  Love and gratitude welled up in me and I got teary-eyed.

  “What’s wrong?” he said, surprised.

  “Oh, nothing. It’s just that I’m going to miss you,” I said, playing off the emotion I was feeling.

  “No worries, babe. It’s a short shoot. I’ll be home in no time.”

  He kissed me again, this time more passionately, leaning me up against the railing and unbuttoning my blouse. While he kissed my neck, his hands caressed my breasts. I unzipped my jeans and kicked them off. Within seconds, Jamie was undressed. He lifted me up almost to the top of the railing, and pushed inside of me. I gasped as my bare flesh touched the cold metal. I tightly wrapped my legs around him. With each thrust of his body, his kisses got deeper and more passionate. I grabbed the back of his hair until, in an intense surge, we came together. He held me for a few seconds, both of us too depleted to move.

  When he finally lifted me off the railing, we looked at each other and laughed. One thing we never lacked was passion.

  Within seconds, Jamie grabbed his pants, put them back on, and said, “That was great, babe, but we can’t keep the great Harvey Leder waiting.” He slapped my butt and said, “Come on, little missy, get a move on.”

  I was slightly stunned by the speed with which he had shifted gears. I could have used a little post-sex affection. When I realized it wasn’t going to happen, I agreed, gave him a peck on the cheek, and went inside to shower and change. It wasn’t worth complaining. Jamie was in a good mood, and I didn’t want to risk pissing him off.

  Within the hour, we were driving in his black 2008 Jaguar XK, an overpriced and awesome convertible that—unbeknown to my mother—I had bought for him on his last birthday. He usually drove way too fast but, wonder of wonders, this time he kept below the speed limit.

  He was smiling and in great spirits. I knew I had made the right decision not to tell him that, although the sex was hot, I didn’t appreciate his slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am moves. He turned up the radio and we sang at the top of our
lungs.

  There was hardly any traffic on Sunset going east, so we made great time. He took a left onto Bellagio and went through Bel Air’s faux-gated entrance.

  Almost all the homes in Bel Air are private, hidden behind huge hedges and wrought-iron gates from curiosity-seekers on the winding roads of the community. The hedges appear to have been manicured to within an inch of their lives. It was a beautiful night, and the car hugged the curves as we made our way up to Stradella Road.

  We turned onto the gravely street and Jamie pulled up to the video intercom. He pushed the button and waved to the camera. Like magic, the gates opened miraculously.

  The private road that led up to the estate was artistically lined with dozens of palm trees. As we drove closer to the estate, the air became thick with the intoxicating aroma of purple and red bougainvillea. Jamie pulled into the circular driveway, gave the car keys to the valet, and we rang the bell.

  Harvey’s wife, Mitzy, a stick-thin woman in her sixties, opened the door for us. She was the type of woman Mom would shake her head about. Her face was pulled too tight from an excessive number of facelifts. Her lips appeared to be ten times larger than they were the last time we’d seen her. Likewise with her boobs, which looked brand-spankin’ new and also ten times larger than the last time we saw her.

  She wore a tight, black, low-cut sleeveless dress that made her waist look miniscule. The dress was vintage Chanel, and to give her petite frame a boost, she wore four-inch heels, killer-black satin Jimmy Choos with silver pavé buckles on the sides.

  I’ve always found it strange that these types of women were always striving to make certain parts of their bodies extremely big and other parts quite small. What would happen if one day all the women like Mitzy woke up and found that the parts that were supposed to be small were large, and vice versa? It would be a laughable tragedy of dramatic proportions and I made a mental note to tell this to Mom. She’d find it hilarious.

  Mitzi gave me what Mom refers to as the “dreaded Beverly Hills air kiss.” She then gushed over Jamie and gestured us to follow her.

  As we passed an enormous gilded mirror in the hallway, I gave my long brown hair a quick fix. It had started out wavy and sexy, but was looking more “cavewoman” after our convertible ride. I definitely had to give Jamie a hat to keep in the car for me. After smoothing my dress, I glanced quickly one more time and thought I looked pretty good.

  Over the years, people have told me I look like a young Sandra Bullock and even though it is a bit annoying to be compared to someone else, I secretly had to agree. I had gotten some sun that day, which brought out my hazel eyes. I had decided to dress casually, since it was Sunday and I wasn’t in the mood for getting too dressed up. I’d put on a salmon-colored silk Stella McCartney sun-dress with a camisole neckline and scallop detail. I threw on a pair of strappy sandals, applied a quick dash of lipstick, and was good to go.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Mitzi turned to me. “Congrats on the Emmy nomination.” Before I could respond with proper thanks, she continued, “You’ve got some stiff competition there, girl.”

  Ouch. I responded to her with something I thought I’d never say in my lifetime: “I know, but it’s an honor to be nominated.” Jamie looked at me like who are you and what the hell did you do with my girlfriend?

  Mitzy ushered us into the large living room. The décor was classic Hollywood of the 1960s, with a sunken conversation pit, large brown module couches, and a massive slate-gray stone fireplace.

  “Where are the go-go girls?” I whispered to Jamie. He tried not to laugh.

  Harvey Leder, known in Hollywood for his shrewd taste in picking movies that became big box-office smashes and for his bad taste in picking ratty toupées, looked genuinely happy to see us.

  “Thanks so much, Harvey, for having this get-together,” Jamie said.

  “Are you kidding? I wanted my star to meet everyone. Kid, this film is going to be golden, and you are going to rocket to the top!”

  Jamie was eating it up and I was happy for him. Proud of him, too. This was a big break for him and the first time he was carrying a movie.

  “Groovy house,” Jamie said. He shot me a look. This time I tried not to crack up.

  “Thanks, kiddo,” Harvey replied. “Mitzi and I love it. Man, if these walls could talk. . . Dean lived here back in the day. Frank and the Rat Pack hung out and partied here all the time.

  Jamie nodded his head up and down slowly while looking around. “Yeah… I could see that.”

  “Lily, mind if I take Jamie away for a minute? Some last-minute work stuff we need to straighten out.” Before I could answer, they were making their way into another room. I found myself standing alone in the middle of the groovy living room.

  “Alrighty, then,” I said out loud. Mitzi came back and handed me an apple martini.

  “Here you go, sweetie. Now, do you know everyone here?” I looked around and saw small groups of your typical good-looking young actor types chatting and drinking. I’d been a child actor, so I was really considered a veteran in the business. This crowd looked like a new crop of young up-and-comers.

  “No, Mitzi, don’t think so, but I’ll be okay—I’m a pro at this. First, I think I need to eat. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I smelled the food.”

  “Well, go head outside and by all means, eat. We have the old sushi chef from Myagis before it closed down. He makes the most incredible rainbow rolls, and Wolfgang sent us his best pasta chef. The linguini is to die for! So go—enjoy.”

  I walked through the French doors to the back patio area. There was a huge kidney-shaped pool with cabanas on both sides. A full bar took up one corner, with six buffet tables positioned in front of the cabanas. Round, multicolored lanterns were hung in double strands across the patio, casting enough light to let you see what you were eating, while maintaining a festive and romantic ambience. Small groups of attractive twenty and thirty-somethings chatted, laughed, drank, and mingled.

  In high school, I’d had a friend who lived on this block, so even though it was nighttime, I knew the house had a phenomenal view of Los Angeles basin and Catalina Island. I walked over to the bar to exchange my martini for a mojito, which I had recently adopted as my cocktail of choice.

  While I waited for the bartender to make my drink, I noticed a large man walking toward to me. He had a sweet face—a cross between John Belushi and Jon Favreau.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey yourself,” I replied.

  “I’m Jamie’s sidekick,” he said.

  “Sorry, guy, that position’s been filled,” I quickly responded.

  He gestured as if he were hitting a drum and cymbal, and made the sound of a rim shot. We both laughed.

  “Well, I guess you are, in real life,” he replied. “But in the movie, it’s me. Put it this way, if Jamie was Don Quixote, I would be Sancho Panza.”

  “And that would make me his sweet Dulcinea,” I replied. We both laughed again. I liked this guy.

  “I’m Bobby,” he said.

  “Lily,” I replied.

  We shook hands.

  “I know who you are,” he said. “Everyone here does. They’re all trying to look at you without turning their heads. I’m afraid there are gonna be a lot of young actors going home with headaches tonight!” He faked an expression of deep concern and I laughed.

  “I’m a big, big fan of St. Joe’s.” He patted his oversized stomach. “A big fan in every way.”

  “Well, the show could sure use every fan it can get, big and little,” I said.

  “Not what I hear—I hear your ratings are through the roof. I also hear they’re starting contract re-negotiations.”

  “You hear right, sidekick,” I replied. I was amazed. How did people find these things out? It was beyond me.

  “I guess your Emmy nomination came at the best possible time.”

  “I guess so.” I changed the subject quickly. “So, tell me, what does a sidekick usually drink?
”

  “Well, this sidekick drinks Diet Coke—I’m in recovery and on Weight Watchers. Pretty pathetic, huh?”

  I laughed again.

  Jamie came up behind me, put his arm around my waist, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I leaned into him.

  “I see you’ve met Bobby,” Jamie said.

  “I certainly have!” I replied.

  “Hey, brother,” Bobby said.

  Bobby and Jamie did what I always call the “manly man hug.”

  “Just getting to know your lovely lady,” Bobby said. “She’s as quick as she is beautiful.”

  “Oh kind suh, don’t make me blush,” I said in my very best Scarlett O’Hara accent.

  Jamie looked at me and said, “I’m a damn lucky guy, I know that.”

  At that moment I felt wonderful. I was happy that Jamie’s career was finally taking off. In the past, there had been some uncomfortable moments on the red carpet when he’d been pushed aside when people wanted to get to me. I tried my best to make him feel as comfortable as I could, but sometimes with everyone wanting to speak to me at once, it got difficult.

  After those nights, Jamie usually went into one of his funky moods for days. But not tonight—this was his moment and I was happy to be on his arm for once.

  “Hey, guys, how’re you doing?” A pretty blonde girl came over and stood between me and Bobby. She was about 5’8”, with long, stick-straight hair and a smokin’ hot body. She was wearing an exceptionally short Marc Jacobs black strapless silk seersucker dress with a sweetheart neckline. A thin black band of silk was tied at her waist. I remembered seeing her in an episode of Mad Men a couple of years ago. I was pretty sure she played a slutty model. I couldn’t remember if she was any good or not.

  “Hey, Natalie, how’re ya doing? Ready for the shoot? ” Bobby asked. I noticed that even though Bobby was talking to her, he was staring at her boobs. Which, in all fairness to my newfound friend, she had put out there, as my mother would say, on a silver platter for the whole wide world to see.