Hideaway

by Roberts, Nora

  “Grandpa said that just the other day.”

  “Growing up on me. How about we order some real food—because I see Steve’s pushing his squash again. They make a hell of a burger here—a real one. Let’s get some menus, then we can talk some turkey.”

  McCoy signaled the waiter.

  Cate saw his hand freeze in midair, his eyes widen.

  Before she could turn, see what had put the shock on his face, she heard her name.

  “Caitlyn! Oh my God, my baby!”

  The hands were on her, dragging her out of the chair, into a locked-arm embrace. She knew the voice, knew the scent.

  Struggled.

  “Oh, so grown-up! So beautiful.” Lips skimmed over her face, her hair as Charlotte wept. “Forgive me, oh, my darling, forgive me.”

  “Get off me! Get away. Get her off me!”

  Air backed up in her lungs, weight dropped onto her chest like stones. The arms around her became vises squeezing, squeezing life, identity, purpose out of her.

  Seconds, it took only seconds to throw her back into a locked room with windows nailed shut.

  Fighting for air, Cate shoved, broke free.

  Saw Charlotte, eyes streaming, lips quivering, lift a hand to her cheek as if struck. “I deserved that. I did. But I beg you.”

  She dropped to her knees, pressed her palms together as if in prayer. “Forgive me.”

  “Get the hell away from her.” Joel, already on his feet, surged forward.

  In the chaos of sobbing, shouting, voices buzzing, Cate ran.

  She ran as she had that night in the woods, away, just away. Anywhere else. At intersections, she bolted through, blind to the oncoming cars, deaf to the blasting horns, squealing tires.

  Away, just away, the prey fleeing the hunter.

  Ears ringing, heart tearing, she ran until her legs gave out.

  Shaking, drenched in panic sweat, she pressed against a building. Slowly, the red cloud over her vision thinned, the sounds outside the screaming in her head eked through.

  Cars, sun sparking off chrome, someone’s car stereo blasting hip-hop, the clip of heels on pavement as a woman walked out of a shop carrying a pair of glossy shopping bags.

  Lost, she realized. Like in the woods, but here everything was too hot, too bright. No sound of the sea, just the constant whoosh of traffic.

  She’d left her purse—her phone—she had nothing.

  She had Cate, she reminded herself, and closed her eyes a moment. Gathering herself, she walked on legs she barely felt to the door of the shop.

  Inside the cool, the fragrant, she saw two women—one young, stick thin in candy pink, the other older, trim in cropped pants, a crisp white shirt.

  The younger one turned, frowned as she gave Cate a quick once-over. “Excuse me just one moment.”

  Disapproval with a dose of disgust slapped out as she strode to Cate. “If you’re looking for a public washroom, try Starbucks.”

  “I—I need to call someone. Can I use your phone?”

  “No. You need to leave. I have a client.”

  “I lost my purse, my phone. I—”

  “You need to leave. Now.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” The older woman walked over, nudged the younger one aside. “Go get this girl some water. What happened, honey?”

  “Ms. Langston—”

  The older woman whipped her head around, bored holes into the younger. “I said get some water.” Putting an arm around Cate, she led her to a chair. “You sit down, catch your breath.”

  Another woman came out of the back, pulled up short, then hurried forward. “What’s happened?”

  “This girl needs some help, Randi. I just sent that heartless, pinched-mouthed clerk you hired back to get her some water.”

  “Give me a minute.”

  Ms. Langston took Cate’s hand, gave it a little squeeze. “Do you want the police?”

  “No, no, I dropped my purse—my phone.”

  “That’s all right, you can use my phone. What’s your name?”

  “Cate. Caitlyn Sullivan.”

  “I’m Gloria,” she began as she hunted through a huge Prada hobo bag for her phone. Then her eyes narrowed on Cate’s face. “Are you Aidan Sullivan’s daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “My husband directed him in Compromises. Hollywood’s a small, incestuous world, isn’t it? Here’s Randi with your water. And here, finally, is my phone.”

  The third woman—one between the ages of the other two—handed Cate a tall, slim glass.

  “Thank you. I . . .” She stared at the phone, working to bring Jasper’s number into her head. She tried it, closed her eyes in relief at Jasper’s voice.

  “Jasper, it’s Cate.”

  “Oh, miss, thank God! Mr. Mitchell just got ahold of me. I was about to call your daddy.”

  “No, please, don’t. If you’d just come get me. I . . .” She looked at Gloria. “I don’t know where I am, exactly.”

  “Unique Boutique,” Randi told her, and gave her an address on Rodeo Drive.

  “I got that, miss. I’ll be there in just a few minutes. You just sit tight.”

  “Okay, thanks.” She handed the phone back to Gloria. “Thank you, so much.”

  “Don’t you worry about it.” Gloria turned her head, gave one long, dark look toward the back of the shop. “It’s called being human.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The networks, the cable channels ran video footage, recorded on someone’s phone. Photographs of the forced embrace, of Charlotte pleading on her knees or holding a hand to her face as if Cate had struck her swarmed the internet, the papers.

  In disgust, Hugh slammed down the national tabloid with its screaming headline.

  A REPENTANT MOTHER AN UNFORGIVING CHILD

  Charlotte Dupont’s Heartbreak

  “She set it up. Someone told her where Cate would be and when, and when I find out who—” He broke off, hands fisted.

  “Get in line,” Lily told him, pacing his office as Aidan stood staring out the garden doors.

  “Even after all she did,” Aidan said quietly, “we underestimated her. Days after she’s released, days, and she’s using Cate for publicity. The photos, she had a paparazzo on tap for those. She had the story ready to go.”

  “We’ll get a restraining order. That’s the first thing,” Hugh said. “It’s tangible, and if she tries to get near Cate again, she’ll be right back in prison.”

  “We’re all too far into individual projects to walk away at this point. But as soon as I’m wrapped, I’ll take her back to Ireland. We should’ve stayed there.”

  “I could take her to Big Sur now,” Hugh suggested. “I can commute when I’m needed for postproduction work.”

  “No.” Cate stood in the doorway. “No Big Sur, no Ireland, no anywhere.” She shook her head as Hugh moved to cover the tabloid with a script. “I’ve seen it, Grandpa. You, all of you, can’t protect me forever.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  She walked to Lily, squeezed her hand. “I know I made a mess of this. I did,” she insisted before all three could protest. “I should’ve stood up to her. If there’s ever a next time, I will.”

  “There won’t be. The restraining order’s nonnegotiable,” Hugh told her.

  “I’m fine with that. I hope like hell she breaks it so she’s back in prison. But I’m not going to let her make me a coward, and she did. If she wants this—this shitpile of publicity, she can have it. I know we’re getting another damn shitpile of reporters pushing for my side, my statement.”

  “You’re not talking to the press about this.” Aidan walked to her, took her by the shoulders.

  “No, I’m not. I won’t give her the satisfaction. Everyone here, every one of you gave me what I needed to get out of that room all those years ago. And every one of you gave me what I need to do what I have to do now. I told Joel to accept the offer. I’m doing the film.”

  “Cate.” Gently now, Aidan brushed
a hand over her hair. “I’m not sure you know what you’d be exposing yourself to. Even with security, even if they agreed to a closed set, there’ll be more stories, more photos.”

  “If I don’t do it, there’ll be more stories, more photos, because it’s already out I was having a meeting on just this when she barged in. I walk away from this, she wins.”

  After touching a hand to her father’s heart, she lifted her arms. “You, all of you can tell me I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, but I am ashamed. I need to do this for myself, to prove I can no matter what she throws at me. It’s not a movie anymore, or a project or a part. It’s how I feel about myself. And right now? I feel small.”

  Aidan pulled her in, rested his cheek on the top of her head. “I won’t stand in your way. But we have to work out what precautions to take.”

  “Publicity like this brings out the loonies,” Lily pointed out. “I can be proud of you, and I am, for taking a good grip on your own life. But we’re going to protect you.”

  “I’ll take the bodyguard, I’ll use a car and driver. I won’t go anywhere alone. For now, it’s here and the studio.”

  “Now I’m pissed off all over again.” Her face stony with rage, Lily dropped into a chair. “The girl’s hitting eighteen now, Hugh, for Christ’s sake. We should all be worried about the bad boy she thinks she’s in love with, the clubs she’s sneaking into.”

  “I hope to get to all that.” Cate managed a smile. “Maybe a little late on the schedule.”

  While Cate focused on preproduction, Charlotte made the circuit.

  God, she’d missed the cameras, the lights, the attention. It didn’t matter when she sat in hair and makeup before her segment on a talk show whether she felt disapproval or fascination in the air.

  She was on!

  She knew how to play the part. After all, she’d had seven years to refine it. Remorse over what she’d done, grief over what she’d lost, the faint, shaky hope for a second chance.

  And just a thin line snaking through that pushed the real guilt on Denby and Grant.

  They’d lied to her, terrified her until she’d done a terrible thing.

  Before her interview—a third-tier gossip rag, but cover story—she perused her wardrobe.

  She needed new clothes, a star’s wardrobe, but at the moment, she needed to stick with the simple. Not quite dull, she thought, scowling at the meager selection in the small closet in the crap house she rented. She could never go all the way to dull, but simple, clean lines, no flash had to do for now.

  So . . . the black leggings—she’d worked out like a fiend in prison to keep her shape—the scoop-neck tunic in soft blue.

  No bold colors.

  Laying out the choices, she sat down at the desk—the crap house came furnished—she used as a makeup table, switched on the good makeup mirror she’d invested in.

  She needed a flash tan, but the pallor worked for now. As soon as she could spare a couple weeks, she’d have a little work done. Nothing drastic, but she was sick and tired of looking at the lines.

  As with the mirror, she’d invested in good skin care products, good makeup. It didn’t pay to be cheap. And she’d made a little extra doing makeup for other inmates on visiting days.

  She spent an hour perfecting her face. The pure, no-makeup look took skill.

  While she dressed, she rehearsed—and she plotted. This current run of interviews and appearances wouldn’t last. She’d have to take one of the offers on her table. Lean pickings—straight to video for two, and the third wanted her to play some lunatic in a B slasher that had her cut to ribbons in the first act.

  Bullshit on that.

  Maybe she could find a way to juggle both other offers, get things rolling again. And that would boost up more press.

  Make some connections. If she could find a man who’d back her career—and get her out of this crap house—she’d really be riding again.

  An old, rich man, she considered. All you had to do? Lay them right, and you lived like a queen.

  She couldn’t get pregnant this time to pull another man into marriage—too late in the game for that even if she could stomach the idea of another kid. But sex, with generous doses of flattery, adoration, and whatever bullshit worked could do the trick.

  She’d find one, the right one this time, one without all those sticky family ties and interference.

  But in the meantime . . .

  As she used a perfume sample on her wrists, her throat, she thought of Cate.

  Maybe she hadn’t ever wanted the kid, maybe she’d seen Cate as a means to an end—but she’d treated that selfish, ungrateful girl like a princess.

  Beautiful clothes, Charlotte thought as she walked out into the tiny living room with its ugly navy sofa, its hideous lamps. The best clothes, a professional nursemaid. A nanny—and fuck that Nina sideways. Hadn’t she hired a top designer for the kid’s bedroom? Bought her the sweetest little diamond studs when she’d had the brat’s ears pierced?

  She made one mistake—and it wasn’t even really her fault—but one mistake, and the Sullivans try to make her into a monster.

  She looked around at the beige walls, the secondhand furniture, the view of the street barely steps away from the front door.

  Her eyes shimmered with tears of self-pity. For years, she thought, she’d honestly believed nothing could be as bad as prison—the sound of cell doors locking shut, the smell of sweat and worse, the menial work, the disgusting food.

  The utter loneliness.

  But how much better was this?

  Cate had a few hours—hours—in a room, and for that Charlotte had seven years in a cell, and now how much longer in this horrible house?

  It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right.

  She felt herself sinking toward depression, then heard the knock on the door. She blinked back the tears, put on the brave yet sorrowful face she’d perfected.

  And hit the mark for her next scene.

  In her trailer, Cate poured two glasses of sparkling water. “I’m so glad you’re here, Darlie.”

  “Like I said, I had a meeting, and thought I’d swing in. How’s it going?”

  Cate, wearing the fuzzy pink sweater for her next scene, sat with Darlie at the little table. “It’s good. Steve, he’s—well, he’s just an awesome director. He can really pull it out of you. The two playing my brothers—especially the younger one—they’re just terrific. And they’re a serious riot. Plus, I have my own quirky BFF this time, and she makes me laugh on set and off.”

  “Excellent.” Darlie took a sip of water. “Now. How’s it going, Cate?”

  “Oh, shit.” Slumping back, Cate closed her eyes a moment. “It’s a good part, and I think I’m doing good work. But she sucked the joy out of it, Darlie. I can’t find the joy in the work. She’s still pushing out stories. Doing some straight-to-vid thing. I know, like you told me once, it’s part of the job, but I can’t step outside. Telephoto lenses catching me sitting by the pool at my grandparents’.”

  “Were you naked?”

  “Ha-ha.”

  Darlie gave her a pat. “See, it can always be worse.”

  “It got there. We needed to shoot some exterior scenes on location, and somebody leaked it. So they’re swarming, and taking pictures and shouting questions because I made the mistake of thinking I could go with my movie brothers to this pizza place for lunch. Just to do something. But the worst? One of them harassed my grandfather’s cook—the sweetest woman in the world—when she was at the market. He threatened her, Darlie, threatened to report her to immigration if she didn’t give him access to me. She’s a citizen, she’s a goddamn US citizen, but he scared her.”

  “Okay, fuck it. None of that’s part of the job. Not any of it.”

  “Maybe not, but I can’t stop it as long as I’m in the job.”

  “Don’t you give up, Cate. You’re good, really good.”

  “Joy,” Cate said and flicked the fingers of both hands. “Sucked.”

/>   “This blows. We need sugar.”

  Shock had Cate’s eyebrows disappearing under her bangs. “You? Sugar?”

  “Crisis food.” So saying, Darlie dug into her purse. “My emergency stash.”

  Cate stared at the bag Darlie pulled out, opened.

  “Reese’s Pieces is your emergency stash?”

  “Don’t judge me.” After popping one, Darlie offered the bag. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know yet.” But oddly, sitting there in the deliberately dopey sweater, eating candy with a friend, settled her.

  “I’m going to finish what I started, and do the best work I can. Then I don’t know. I can’t talk to my family about this, not right now. Their worry’s constant, and that’s hard to deal with, too.”

  “Fuck ’em—not your family. The rest of them.”

  “I’m feeling sorry for myself,” Cate admitted. “Absolutely Maybe’s about to release. I couldn’t do the circuit. I can’t go to the premiere, not without getting my family—and me—all stressed out.”

  “Not worth it.”

  “No, not worth it.” She propped her elbow, rested her chin on her fist. “I haven’t so much as kissed a boy—as me—since Ireland.”

  “Ouch.”

  Wallowing, Cate took a handful of Reese’s. “I’m going to die a virgin.”

  “No, you won’t. Not with that face, those legs, and your annoyingly positive outlook.”

  Cate managed a snort, ate candy.

  “But you’re overdue for some touch, even considering your tiny tits.”

  “Tell me.” And she found herself able to smile and mean it. “I’ve really missed you.”

  “Mutual.”

  “And way, way enough about me. Tell me what’s going on with you, so I can add envy to my list.”

  Cate glanced over at the knock on the trailer door. “You’re needed on set, Ms. Sullivan.”

  “Sorry, damn it. I spent all this time crying on your shoulder.”

  “I’ll go dry it off. Look, how about I text you, and we figure out some hang-out time. I can come to your place.”

  “That would be great. Seriously.”

  As they walked out together. Darlie put an arm around Cate’s waist, and Cate returned the gesture. “I’d hang now, watch you work, but I have to book it. I have a date—a hot one—tonight.”