In my defense, part of my stuttering, starstruck reaction was simply that I did not run in these circles. I’d never been to any of the hottest clubs or had lunch at the Ivy; as stupid as it sounds, since I had not crossed over into the celebrity world, they still seemed a little like mirages to me. Logically, I knew that famous people were real, tangible humans who went to the grocery store and the movies just like everybody else, but it just wasn’t something I really thought about. And to find myself at Daisy’s front door, I suddenly realized just how much I was out of my element. I didn’t belong here, and in whatever capacity she wanted to hire me, I knew I was drastically underqualified. Even still—this was pretty damn cool.
“Nice to meet you,” I finally managed, reaching out and shaking her hand. I looked down just as her three pocket-size dogs began leaping up at me. I wasn’t sure if they were trying to protect Daisy or just say hello.
“I’m so sorry about these three,” she sighed, her drawl more pronounced on sorry. Daisy watched, shaking her head, as her fluffy beasts continued to maul me, the Pomeranian nosing his way up my skirt. “I’ve had a gazillion dog trainers over here—I even hired that Dog Whisperer guy—but no one has made a lick of a difference.”
The actress said this like it had all happened in the past tense, as though I wasn’t furiously trying to keep the irritating yellow dog out of my underwear. I kept waiting for Daisy to pull the dogs back, either physically or with a few sharp commands, but she just watched and continued to shake her head. She also seemed not to notice that I was still standing outside the house in the hot sun.
At that moment, a woman I instantly recognized as her mother (same gorgeous face and tiny figure, plus twenty years in age) came into the foyer, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
“Is that the writer?” She said it like wryyy-terrr, her accent decidedly thicker than her daughter’s.
“No, Mama, she’s a Jehovah’s Witness tryin’ to save my soul,” Daisy teased, rolling her eyes for my benefit. “Of course it’s the writer. Holly, this is my mama, Faith Dixson.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Dixson.” I smiled back. I would’ve shaken her hand, but I was still standing awkwardly on the front porch. Daisy hadn’t waved me in or even stepped aside, and I wondered if I was supposed to have this interview in the ninety-plus-degree heat. Maybe in this business, you didn’t get to come inside until you actually had the job.
“Call me Faith. And Daisy Mae, haven’t we taught you any manners? Don’t leave the child outside like that. Come on in, Holly, and I’ll pour you a glass of my famous sweet tea.”
“Sorry about that,” Daisy said, blushing, for the first time really seeming like a normal teenager. “Please come in.” She pulled away from the door and nodded for me to enter.
As I stepped inside the enormous mansion, I realized my thoughts about Real Housewives were mistaken—this house was more classic, like a syndicated rerun of the original Dallas. I followed Daisy through the antebellum foyer with a winding staircase and wrought-iron banisters, and then abruptly into a modern kitchen that took my breath away. Stainless steel Bosch appliances, real cherry cupboards, and slate countertops with a microtile backsplash. It was a virtual culinary heaven.
“What a gorgeous kitchen,” I said. I can’t help it; I’m a sucker for gourmet kitchens and appliances. Sometimes I like to hug the Maytag front-loading washers at Best Buy, just so they know I’ll be back for them when I can finally afford it. At the moment, I’ve accomplished nothing greater than an Emerson microwave with a dedicated popcorn setting. But a girl can dream.
“That’s all Mama,” Daisy said, smiling. “I can barely turn on the coffeepot.”
“It’s true.” Faith giggled, her laugh like the tinkling of a wind chime. “But I couldn’t cook when I was Daisy’s age, either. It all comes to us in our own time.”
I was instantly charmed by these two, happy to see that Daisy’s good-girl image was real, instead of some corporate facsimile of the ideal teenage girl. I was also more than a little in love with their home and easy, flowing relationship. The Dixsons looked and acted like the quintessential American family, and I was immediately jealous. Don’t get me wrong; my mother and I love each other, but the woman can make me crazy and no one would ever mistake us for friends.
“Sit down, Holly.” Faith waved as she poured me a glass of iced tea. “Jamie’ll join us in just a minute, he’s just hammering out a deal with De Niro’s people.”
As I sat down, I looked at Daisy in astonishment, but the caliber of the name seemed to have no effect on her.
“We ran into him at the Tribeca Grill last month,” Daisy said, taking a seat next to me at the table. “He has a script Jamie wants for me. I don’t get it—way too artsy and talky, but Jamie says it could get me an Oscar, or at least a Golden Globe. The working title is ‘Alley’ something, I think.”
“Back Alley?” Though he refuses to pick up the phone and attempt to get me a real job, my agent does e-mail me all of the scripts that were sold that week, along with their sales figures. He claims it will help me learn what producers are looking for, but as I have never had any inclination to become a screenwriter, I think it’s really his way of showing me how much money I’m not making him. I’d read “Back Alley”—twice, actually, because it was highly convoluted.
“I think that’s it,” Faith agreed. “So dark and mysterious, just what the academy looks for. I swear, I didn’t even understand half of the scenes.”
“That’s because they don’t make sense,” I said before I could stop myself. I am perpetually in need of a verbal shoehorn. I was pretty sure I’d just lost this job, but just in case the situation could be salvaged, I quickly added, “I didn’t . . . hate the script. . . . It’s just that the source material is so much better.”
Like twins, Daisy and Faith stared at me with huge, blank eyes. “What do you mean?” Faith asked.
Neither of them had ever heard the term source material before? Daisy had been in this business since her bike had training wheels. “Um . . . the book,” I said, trying to hide my disbelief. “It’s based on the memoir of a pregnant prostitute. I just didn’t think the script did the story justice.”
I could tell Daisy was listening to what I had to say, but Faith was already back at the kitchen counter, waving me away dismissively with a dish towel. “We’re not one of you egghead types. Jamie decides those things,” Faith answered quickly. She almost seemed insulted that I thought she might have an opinion of her own.
“Oh . . . okay,” I said, nodding and trying to gauge the level of damage I had done here. I needed a paycheck, it didn’t matter anymore where it came from. “I’m sure he’ll pick what’s best for your career.”
“It’s really about time I started getting these offers,” Daisy said, the weight of the world clearly pressing down on her shoulders. “I’ve been trying to break into drama for years.”
“It’s all happening,” Faith said, bringing over the glass of tea and setting it in front of me. She leaned down and kissed her daughter on the top of the head. The mother looked at me and said, “I’m just so impressed with her drive and talent. Believe me, her father and I resisted letting her get into acting, but Daisy was absolutely determined. You just thank the Lord that you have no idea what it’s like to be ambitious. It’s quite the burden.”
I stared up at Faith Dixson for a moment, trying to figure out if her last words were a slip of the tongue or an intentional dig at me, but I chose to go with the former.
Before I had too much time to think about it, Jameson Lloyd came into the room. He was in his mid-forties and ruggedly handsome; I could see why the Dixson ladies liked having him around. Then I thought of my balding, pudgy, and belching Uncle Bob, and suddenly knew why he’d never made it out of suburban New York.
“Hols, glad you found the place,” Jameson said, grabbing my hand and practically crushing it.
“My directions were okay?”
Barely sufficient, actually, I thought.
“Just fine, thanks.”
Jameson pulled out a chair and swung it around so that it faced the opposite way, then plopped himself down backward. He offered me a stunning, toothy grin that made me a little dizzy. “So how’s the meet-and-greet going?”
“Great,” Daisy said, smiling at me. “I really like Holly.”
“I knew you would,” Jameson replied, ruffling Daisy’s hair like she was an adorable six-year-old. “She and I haven’t had nearly enough time to work out the fine print, but I was struck by how well she got you, Daise. I just knew you’d be two peas in a pod.”
I stared at Jameson, dumbfounded. We’d spoken on the phone for maybe five minutes, and he’d never once mentioned Daisy’s name. I didn’t even know what kind of writing I was expected to do. He must have seen the confusion in my face, because he winked knowingly, then briefly gave me a thumbs-up. I had no idea what that was supposed to mean.
“So . . . can we pull the trigger on this deal?” he asked, looking back and forth between Daisy and Faith.
I assumed Jameson was talking about the De Niro movie deal, but a beat later, I realized he was referring to me.
“Yes, yes,” Daisy said, tugging on Jameson’s shirt. “You said we could have this done for my birthday!”
Jameson turned to me, shrugging. “What do you think, Hols? You up to the task?”
“Of course,” I said, wondering what the task was.
“Isn’t this just the greatest birthday present ever?” Daisy gushed, kissing Jameson on the cheek. “You’re the best, Jamie.”
Faith took the last seat at the table, smiling and shaking her head. “I just don’t know how your father and I are going to compete with Jamie having your autobiography written. We’ll have to launch you into space or something.”
Ohhh . . . So I was ghostwriting her autobiography. This simultaneously answered and created a whole host of questions. I’d never written a book before, even though I’d spent a lot of time thinking about it. I was used to writing one- to two-page articles. Books needed to be three to four hundred pages. At most, I’d thought I was being hired to write some celebrity’s guest piece for Cosmo so she wouldn’t have to. But a whole book? I hoped the terror wasn’t evident on my face.
As the others laughed at Faith’s joke, I joined in, just so that I didn’t start crying in panic. Ha, ha, launch Daisy into space, how ridiculous, we all seemed to be saying. But a moment later, I realized how ridiculous my entire world had just become.
“Oooh, could we really do that, you think?” Daisy cooed. “I mean, everybody is taking that stupid Richard Branson space plane, but that’s just up and right back down. What if I went to the space station? I could sing for the astronauts.” She looked first to her mother, then to Jameson. “I bet I’d even get the cover of Vogue for that!”
“I’ll call NASA. I’m sure they can use the publicity.” And just like that, he stood up from the table, pulling out his cell phone.
“Jamie, do you really think this is a good idea?” Faith said, cringing. “I don’t like the idea of sending a teenager into orbit. Sounds awfully dangerous.” She turned to me, her expression that of any mother concerned about the welfare of her child. Her child, who could afford to have herself launched into space. “What do you think, Holly?”
“Er . . .” I stalled, trying to come up with a suitably noncommittal and inoffensive response. “I don’t think NASA would put a civilian in danger.” Daisy was a civilian, right? I was fighting hard not to hyperventilate. Everything I’d ever hoped for had just been dropped into my lap . . . and I simply wasn’t ready.
Jamie held up his hands for calm. “I’m only going to put some feelers out, nothing concrete,” he said. He then snapped his fingers and pointed at me. “You can stick around for another few minutes, right? We’ll work out a price and get you a retainer check.”
“Sure.”
Retainer check. As far as I was concerned, the two greatest words in the English language. Who knew that they had the power to create the wave of excitement that rippled through my entire body. My first thought was, Smitty’s getting gourmet cat food tonight. My second thought was, God, my life is depressing.
Daisy yawned, her mouth making a perfect little sleepy O that didn’t even crease her face. Seriously, was this girl made out of clay?
“Do we have to start today? This meeting has worn me out.”
I didn’t point out that I’d only been there for fifteen minutes. “Of course not,” I said. “I can come back tomorrow, if you like.”
Faith clucked her tongue and shook her head. “Can’t do tomorrow,” she said. “We’ve got that photo shoot with Elle. And we’ll be on vacation in Nice next week. How about the week after?”
“Sure. You said you wanted the book done for Daisy’s birthday? When is that, exactly?”
“Four months and six days! Magic Mountain is shutting down for the day to host my birthday party . . . Ooooh, you’ll come, right?”
“Sounds like a lot of fun,” I replied, barely paying attention. Did she just say four months? I had to write an entire book in four months? Even with three extensions, I still hadn’t finished that library book I took out six months ago.
Jameson appeared in the doorway and waved for me to follow him. “You’re up, Hols.” Did he really just get NASA on the phone in three minutes?
“It was lovely to meet you, Holly,” Faith said, giving me a hug.
“I’m sure we’ll be the best of friends,” Daisy told me, waving.
I smiled and waved at Daisy and her mother and then followed Jameson into the hall, wondering what the hell I had just gotten myself into.
• • •
“You’re good with a standard thirty-five/thirty-five, right?” Jameson asked me as soon as we stepped into his office. Even though he was her manager, I still found it creepy not only that he had an office inside Daisy’s family home but that the walls were plastered with publicity shots of an eighteen-year-old girl. Some of them in very suggestive poses.
And surprise, surprise, I had no clue what a 35/35 was.
I blinked back at him, trying to reason out what he might be talking about. Money, percentages, the number of cattle being bartered in this deal . . . Luckily, Jameson mistook my confusion for calculation.
“Okay, okay.” He laughed, holding up his enormous hands. “I’m sorry I lowballed you, but hey, I’m a businessman . . . I had to try.”
I laughed back, more out of relief than anything else. I wagged a finger at him jokingly. “Did you think I wouldn’t do my homework?” I hoped it wouldn’t occur to him that I couldn’t possibly have priced a job I knew nothing about.
“Forty-five?” he tried, raising his eyebrows.
I studied Jameson’s face for a few seconds, trying to read his expression. I still didn’t know what game we were playing here, but I sensed that I had more wiggle room on the number. “Fifty,” I replied, sounding as firm as I could manage. “Fifty/fifty.”
He didn’t even pause. “Done.” Jameson sat down at the giant mahogany desk and pulled out a checkbook. “Should I make out the check to you, or do you have a corporation?”
“Just make it out to me,” I said, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. “My agent will take care of the rest.”
Jameson nodded, filling out the check. Over his shoulder, he asked, “I can hook up with your agent later today, if you want. I’d like to have the contract signed by close of business tomorrow.”
“Oh, I can take care of that,” I added hastily. “He’s looked into you.”
Again, Jameson laughed. “I like you, Hols, I really do.” He signed the check with a flourish, then tore it off and passed it to me. I had to resist the urge to read the amount right then and there; I couldn’t risk being bet
rayed by my reaction. “But the most important thing is that Daisy likes you. We’ve interviewed so many writers, and she’s hated every one.”
“Really?” Our meeting hadn’t seemed like much of an interview to me, and they hadn’t requested a single sample of my writing. Not to mention, I’d barely spoken . . . I wasn’t sure how they could have taken a liking to me.
“You’re our sixteenth writer this month,” he said, shaking his head. “She’s vetoed every last one, until you. Now get on out of here and cash that check, missy. I’ll have the contract messengered over this afternoon.”
He shook my hand, again with enough force to break a few bones. “Welcome aboard, Holly.”
CHAPTER 3
I’ve heard people call L.A. “Hollyweird,” and this hurts my feelings. It’s been my home for almost half my life, and I swear, it’s not all that weird. We work and live and love, just like everywhere else. It might be a little different than what you’re used to, but it’s the world we know. And the fancy cars and nice clothes may make us seem superficial, but they’re just things. Deep down, most of us are good, honest people, just like you.
An hour later, I was sitting in my apartment, staring down at the check. I knew I needed to go to the bank—I’d promised Jameson as much—but when I had finally pulled out of the Dixson compound and glanced down at the amount, I was so distracted I could barely find my way back home, let alone run errands. I had just made it into the apartment when a messenger appeared at my door with several copies of my contract.
Absolutely True Lies Page 3