Hideaway

by Roberts, Nora

  “Then let me do this, let me try to get the part. Let me see what happens.”

  “I won’t stand in your way.”

  She jumped up, threw her arms around him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

  He squeezed tight. “There are conditions.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “I’ll hire a bodyguard.”

  Stunned, appalled, she yanked back. “Come on.”

  “I’ll get a woman,” he continued. “We can say she’s your PA.”

  “God, like I’d need a personal assistant. Dad, the studio has security.”

  “Deal breaker.”

  She knew that tone, the one calm and clear as water. He meant it.

  “Are you going to worry about me my whole life?”

  “Yes.” Same tone. “It’s part of the job description.”

  “Fine, fine. What else?”

  “If a call runs late, you text me. And as we both might be working, I get a text when you’re home if I’m not here.”

  “No problem. More?”

  “You keep your grades up.”

  “Done. Is that it?”

  “Other than the already in place no drinking, no drugs, yeah. That’s it.”

  “We have a deal. I’m going to run over and ask Grandpa to set up an audition.”

  She raced off so fast he barely had a moment to feel pride she’d expect to audition. But he had plenty of time to worry about what she might face out in the world he’d kept her from for seven years.

  But Cate thought only of now as she raced along the wide, pavered path toward the main house. It stood gloriously Georgian, magnificently ornate in the deepening shadows. Lights flickered along the path, and along other paths through gardens smelling of roses and peonies, inside the many windows, glimmered in the blue, blue waters of the pool.

  And, she saw, washed over the big patio with its outdoor kitchen under a pergola of wisteria where her grandparents sat sipping drinks.

  “Look who’s come to call.” Lily, her hair a flaming red swing around her face, lifted her martini in toast. “Get a Coke, darling, and sit with us old farts.”

  “I don’t see any old farts.”

  She sat, on the edge of a seat because that’s how she felt. On the edge.

  “I didn’t want to say anything until I got the check mark from Dad. We read the script for Absolutely Maybe. He said I could do it, and boy, I want to. When can I audition for Jute?”

  Obviously pleased, Hugh studied her over his whiskey. “Honey, I’m not just playing Karrie’s irascible grandfather, I’m executive producer. It’s yours.”

  Her pulse did a quick dance, just as her feet wanted to. “Oh, man, I want it so much. It’d be so easy to take it that way. But no, please. I want to audition. I want to do it right.”

  “Hugh, set up the audition, and congratulate yourself on having a granddaughter with pride and integrity.”

  “All right, I’ll set it up.”

  “Yes! I need to go prepare.” She jumped up, then dropped down again. “I need . . . G-Lil, I need a salon. My hair. And I need some L.A. clothes. Can you tell me where, and can I use the driver?”

  Lily held up a finger, then picked up the phone she’d set on the table. She hit speed dial. “Mimi, do me a favor? Cancel my lunch date tomorrow and contact Gino—yes, now, at home. Tell him I need him to take care of my granddaughter tomorrow. That’s right, personally. We can work around his schedule. We’ll be shopping most of the day. Thanks.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Have to?” She threw back her head, let out a hoot. “Does a rooster have to crow? I’ve wanted my Gino to get his genius hands on your hair for years. Now’s my chance. Add shopping, it’s a day at the damn circus for me. And I do love a circus.”

  “She does,” Hugh agreed. “It’s why she married into the Sullivans.”

  “That’s the pure truth. Oh, Mimi’s fast. Here’s Lil,” she said as she answered the phone. “That’s just perfect. Yes, I’ve got it. You’re the best, Mimi. Kisses.”

  She set the phone down. “Gino’s going to come in early—for him—just for you. Be ready at eight-thirty.”

  “Mimi’s not the best, you are.” Cate sprang up again, gave Lily a noisy kiss on the cheek, then repeated one for her grandfather. “Both of you. I’m going to make you proud. Gotta go!”

  As she raced off, Lily lifted her martini again. “I dimly recall having that kind of energy. You’re going to need to look after her, Hugh.”

  “I know. I will.”

  It had been years since Cate walked into an L.A. salon, the exclusive type that served its clients spring water or champagne, infused teas or lattes. The sort with private stations and a menu of services as thick as a novel.

  When she did, the scents—expensive products, perfume, fragrant candles—melded together and shot her back to childhood.

  Back to her mother.

  She nearly balked at the door.

  “Cate?”

  “Sorry.” She pushed herself into a world of black and silver, of techno music pulsing low and bright chandeliers formed with curving silver bands.

  A man in a shirt that might have been designed by Jackson Pollock manned a semicircle reception counter. His hair rose up in a wave, like a surfer’s curl, over his forehead.

  He had a trio of studs in his left earlobe and a tattoo of a dragonfly on the back of his left hand.

  “Luscious Lily!” Popping up, he clapped his hands together. “Gino’s already at his station. This can’t be your granddaughter. You’d have been ten when she was born!”

  “Cicero!” Lily exchanged kisses. “Aren’t you the one? Caitlyn, this is Cicero.”

  “My sweet girl.” He clasped her hand in both of his. “What a beauty! I’ll take you right back. Now, what can I get you? Your morning latte, Lily, my love?”

  “We’ll both have one, Cicero. And how are things with you and Marcus?”

  He wiggled his eyebrows as he walked them through the salon. “Heating up. He asked me to move in with him.”

  “And?”

  “I think . . . yes.”

  There was a sweetness, Cate thought, in the way Lily put her arm around him, hugged. “He’ll be lucky to have you. You know, Cate, Cicero isn’t just another pretty face. He helps Gino run the business, and he makes the best latte in Beverly Hills.”

  “But he does have a pretty face,” Cate said, and had Cicero beaming at her.

  “Aren’t you a darling!” He whisked a black curtain open.

  “Gino, two gorgeous ladies for you.”

  “My favorite kind.”

  While Cicero was slight and slick, Gino hit big and muscular. He had a shock of black hair tumbling to the collar of his black tunic, big, heavy-lidded brown eyes, and a perfect two-day stubble.

  He didn’t exchange kisses with Lily, but picked her an inch off her feet in a bear hug. “Mi amor. You got me out of bed an hour early.”

  “I hope whoever the lucky woman was, she forgives me.”

  He offered a toothy smile. Then turned to Cate. “So this is Caitlyn. My Lily flower tells me about all her chicks.” He reached out, took a handful of Cate’s hair.

  “Thick and healthy. Sit. Lily, my own, Zoe will give you a mani-pedi.”

  “I planned to sit and watch. Quietly,” Lily insisted.

  Gino raised both eyebrows, then just flicked a finger toward the curtain. “Close it on your way out.”

  Cate sat in the big leather chair in front of the big silver station with its triple mirror and Hollywood lights. “You must be a genius with hair because nobody flicks Lily out of the room.”

  “A genius with hair, and discreet as a sphinx. The secrets that whisper in here stay in here.” As he spoke, he ran his hands through her hair, studied her face in the mirror. “You’re a Sullivan through and through. An Irish beauty still in bud. It’s not telling secrets to say Lily loves you with all her heart.”

  “It’s mutual.”
<
br />   “Good. Now, do you know what you want for your hair, or will you be smart and let me tell you?”

  “I think I’d be intimidated enough to go with the second, but I need to look a part. For an audition.”

  “All right then, that’s an exception I believe in. Tell me.”

  “I’ve got a couple pictures.”

  As she got out her phone, Cicero brought in her latte, set it down, and whisked out again.

  “Um. Hmm.” Gino nodded as he studied the photos, narrowed eyes at her face in the mirror.

  “I’m thinking sort of a combination. She’s defiant and quirky and likes making a statement—her own. So if you could—”

  He cut her off with another finger flick. “Now you leave it to me. One question. Since you have good, healthy hair you’re giving up, will you donate it?”

  “Oh. Sure. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I’ll see to it. Drink your latte and relax.”

  She tried to, but even though he turned her away from the mirror, she squeezed her eyes shut at that first, burning-bridges snip.

  Done now, she thought.

  “Now, let out your breath. Take another, let it out. Good. Tell me about your life.”

  “Okay. Okay. God. Whew. Well, I’ve been living in Ireland mostly since I was ten.”

  “I haven’t been there. Show it to me.”

  So she closed her eyes, told him about the cottage, the lake, the people while he worked.

  Fully two and a half hours later, he opened the curtain and let Lily come in.

  Both hands flew to her mouth as if holding back a scream.

  Cate sat in the salon chair, her hair a short wedge with the heavy mop pulled forward from the crown dyed a deep, vivid blue. At Lily’s reaction, Cate’s delight turned to distress.

  “Oh God. Oh, G-Lil.”

  Lily shook her head, then waved her hands in the air, then turned around. Then turned back. “I love it! I love it,” she repeated, waving her hands again. “Oh, holy heap of smoldering shit, Catey, you’re a bad-ass teenager!”

  “Really?”

  “I read the script, too. And even without that, it’s fantastic. Be seventeen, sweets. Listen to Mellencamp and hold on to seventeen as long as you can. Gino, look what you did for my girl.”

  “Did you doubt me?”

  “Not for an instant. Get up, get up, turn around. I love it. Your father’s going to hate it, but he’s supposed to. Don’t worry about that. Plus, it’s Jute, so he’ll swallow it. We’re going to get you some clothes to go with that hair. And some bad-ass teenager boots.”

  Two days later, with her statement hair, her lace-up combat boots, ripped jeans, artfully faded Frank Zappa T-shirt, blue nail polish she’d scraped off in strategic places, an armload of leather and cloth bracelets, she clomped into the audition.

  Her heart pounded, her stomach churned, and she felt her throat close as the director—a woman she respected—gave her a narrow stare.

  “Caitlyn Sullivan, auditioning for Jute.”

  She felt the eyes on her, judging, assessing, let herself go.

  She cocked her hip, made her own eagerness drain, filled it with Jute’s bored defiance. She spoke with just the faintest hint of Valley Girl.

  “So, are we gonna do this or not? ’Cause I’ve got a bunch of better shit I could be doing. You know, like scratching my ass or whatever.”

  When she saw just the hint of a smile in the director’s eyes, she knew she’d stepped through the door again.

  CHAPTER TEN

  In the long gap between Donovan’s Dream and Absolutely Maybe, Cate forgot how much she enjoyed being a part of a project, part of a community. But it all came back.

  She didn’t exactly dress in character for the table read, but the hair was the hair. Plus, putting on what she believed Jute would just helped her get into character.

  God knew she’d worked on her voice—the pitch, the rhythm. And what Lily called “the ’tude.”

  She liked Jute’s ’tude, and wished she actually had a good chunk of it inside herself.

  She’d met Darlie Maddigan, who’d play Karrie, had run a scene with her to test chemistry. She liked Darlie’s approach to the role—the wide-eyed, anxious perfection seeker.

  They played it as opposites attract, and it worked.

  In reality Darlie, a confident, savvy vet of eighteen, had snagged her first part at the age of three and never looked back.

  She had a house in Malibu, preferred lunch meetings to nights at the clubs, and had recently inked a whopping contract as the face—and body—for a line of activewear aimed at the sixteen-to-twenty-five demographic.

  Darlie, her long blond hair in a simple ponytail, walked into the read and straight to Hugh. “Gramps.” She hugged him. “I’m going to say, again, how excited I am to work with you. How’s it going, Cate? Are you ready?”

  “Really ready.”

  “Good. I’m psyched. Let’s have some fun.”

  It was—mostly. Cate sat at the table with the cast, the director, the money people, the writer, the assistant who’d read the stage directions. She met her movie parents for the first time, and the actor playing the top jock Karrie pined for, the awkward nerd who not-sosecretly pined for Jute, and all the rest.

  “Karrie wails, throws herself on her bed and sobs.”

  Though Cate found the wail impressive, she was too deep in character to show it.

  “Jee-sus, Kare, mop it the fuck up! You’re embarrassing yourself. More important, you’re embarrassing me.”

  “Jute drops down to sit on the bed. For a beat, her face shows sympathy, then she slaps Karrie on the ass.”

  “The guy’s a dickwad, Karrie.”

  “Why won’t he be my dickwad?”

  “Karrie rolls over.”

  “I love him. I want to die. My mother’s having sex with Mr. Schroder. She bought sex underwear! I’m getting a B—a B!—in calculus. And—and after I tutored Kevin for two weeks, after I spent hours with him, after I helped him get an A, it’s just: Thanks, glad that’s over!”

  “Hence dickwad. Let’s address, in no particular order. Your mom having sex with Schroder—who’s hot for an old dude—is advantage Karrie. As long as she’s having sex, thinking about sex, buying sex underwear, she’s off your back. It’s the dry spells, Kare, where they’re all over us. Root for the sex and live free.”

  Karrie throws her arm over her eyes, sniffles. “I don’t want to live free without Kevin. You’re my best friend. You’re supposed to take my side.”

  Rolling with it now, Cate jumped up, turned a circle, kicked an imaginary bedpost. “You want me to take your side? You take your side. Do you want that dickwad?” Shouting now. “Do you want that dickwad!”

  “Yes!”

  “Then mop it the hell up. Mop it now! Strap on your ovaries, hoist your tits up.” Walking over, she pulled Darlie to her feet. “Strap those ovaries on tight. Hoist those tits high, and go get your dickwad.”

  “How?”

  “Are your ovaries strapped?” Cate jabbed a finger in Darlie’s belly. “Are your tits high?” Covered a startled Darlie’s breasts with her hands and pushed up.

  “Yes?”

  “Then I’ll tell you. But I need some nachos.”

  Applause and laughter broke out around the table.

  “Can we keep that in?” Darlie demanded. “Can we keep in the poke and grope?”

  “Already in the notes,” the director said. “Good work, ladies. Next scene.”

  Cate all but bounced out of the read, and would have bounced right into the wardrobe meeting the next day.

  But that night Entertainment Tonight broke the story of Caitlyn Sullivan’s return—and rehashed the kidnapping.

  Variety ran the story. People, the Los Angeles Times, Entertainment Weekly all hammered on the door for interviews, statements, comments, photos.

  The internet exploded over it.

  The refusal to give interviews or comments didn’t starv
e the fire.

  During the first week of production, it only shot higher when someone managed to take a photo of Cate on the back lot and sell it to a tabloid.

  They ran the picture of her dressed as Jute, flipping her middle finger, beside one of her taken when she’d been ten.

  LITTLE GIRL LOST TO TEENAGE REBEL

  Caitlyn Sullivan’s Ugly Secrets

  Social media picked up the theme, ran with it.

  Stewing with resentment, Cate sat in Darlie’s trailer on the back lot, waiting for a call to their next scene.

  “I know how it works. I know why they do it. I just don’t understand why anyone cares so much.”

  “Sure you do. You were a kid whose mother used her. I’m sorry if that chips the bone.”

  Cate shook her head. “I know what is.”

  “Well, it sucks wide. You’re also one of the Hollywood Sullivans, and that’s a BFD.”

  Darlie, looking her part in a red-and-white cheerleader outfit, gestured with her bottle of unsweetened peppermint tea.

  “Even if you weren’t, you’re an actor, you’re a performer. We’re not-so-fair game, Cate. That kind of bullshit is part of the price.”

  Truth, the simplicity of it, didn’t make it an easier swallow. “I knew it would happen. I figured it would hit, then fade off if nothing fed it.”

  “People feed it. People who click on the stories, who grab the trash at the checkout counter while the grocery store clerk’s ringing up their cans of tuna.”

  “I know they do it to you, too.”

  “Yeah. I can usually ignore. But I had someone I was pretty serious about last year. I go out to dinner with my costar, and somebody gets a picture of us smiling at each other, and wham-bam, it’s all over everywhere we’re doing it and hard. I could shrug it off, but the guy I was seeing couldn’t. Wouldn’t. He more than half believed it, so . . .”

  She shrugged, drank more tea. “That ended that.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too. I really cared about him.” Smiling, she poked Cate in the arm. “Even though he turned into a dickwad.”

  At the knock on the door, Darlie glanced over.

  “You’re wanted on set, Ms. Maddigan, Ms. Sullivan.”

  “Thanks! It’ll fade off,” she told Cate. “Somebody’ll cheat on somebody or get knocked up with somebody’s baby or get busted for a DUI. There’s always something. So.”