Absolutely True Lies

by Rachel Stuhler

  Just as I was about to ask, Faith’s phone rang. She glanced down and saw it was Jamie, then rolled her eyes and pressed ignore. Suddenly my questions about their affair were ignited. “You aren’t going to answer that?” I asked.

  “If he needs something, he can leave a message,” Faith replied, her tone curt. She steered us back toward the offices.

  I shouldn’t ask. I knew it wasn’t my place. But damn if I wasn’t curious. “Is it true you were . . . involved with him?”

  “It’s not that much of a secret,” she said, shrugging.

  I lived in a culture where it didn’t need to be a secret that a married, publicly Christian woman cheated on her husband. “Can I ask . . . why him? You meet handsome, talented men every day. . . . Pick one of those dumb, shirtless guys from that HBO show.”

  “Jamie was always just so sweet to me,” she said. “I swear, no one has ever treated me so well before.”

  That poor woman, I thought. “Really?” I couldn’t help asking. “He always seems so . . . brusque.”

  Faith looked up at me in confusion. It took me a moment to realize that she didn’t know what the word meant.

  “Umm, abrupt. He’s always so abrupt with everything.”

  “Oh,” Faith drawled. “That’s just his way. He’s a very busy man. But he has a good heart.”

  It’s funny, I’d drawn the conclusion that Jamie was lacking that organ entirely. “Then why did your relationship end?” We were really off the topic of the book at this point, but Faith’s life was far more interesting than Daisy’s. At least, the parts of Daisy’s life I was allowed to talk about. Plus, it was nice to connect with Faith on another level. It made me feel a little less like any old paid employee.

  Faith looked away from me, and I thought she was about to cry. But she just shook her head and shrugged, her eyes dry. “I don’t remember exactly. One day we were crazy in love and the next. . . . Well, you know how these things go.”

  I scanned my brain for a similar experience in my own life, but I couldn’t find one. I’m not sure I’d ever been “crazy in love” in my entire twenty-five years. “Of course,” I lied, too embarrassed to tell her the truth.

  “I wish I was as strong as you,” Faith said. “Or as smart. You’ve got that amazing brain, people see it as soon as they meet you. Pretty’s all I’ve ever been, and I’m getting right up on my expiration date. At least Daisy has all that talent. I’ve got nothing but my face.”

  I’d seen Daisy’s show; she didn’t have that much talent. Apparently Faith had never learned the power of her beauty, and she was right about one thing—she was approaching an age where that revelation was moot. But if she really was as hard a worker as Vaughn claimed, surely she could see the value in that? I was ashamed of whatever person/people were responsible for her belief that her self-worth began with her face and ended in her silicone double-Ds.

  We finally reached the offices and found Daisy was out front talking to a couple of other kids her age. As they were all smeared with ridiculous amounts of unnecessary makeup, I figured they must be her fellow actors. If you can call what they were doing acting. Faith and I were going to continue on when Daisy reached out and yanked me into her little group.

  “Oh my God, this is Holly, the writer I’ve been telling you about,” she gushed, hugging me tightly. I still didn’t understand what about our limited relationship caused her to think we were in any way close, but I wasn’t going to argue with something that made my job easier. “It is so awesome writing an autobiography.”

  Faith grinned at me, offering a reassuring thumbs-up.

  “Hi,” I said meekly, waving to the gaggle of teenagers who were clearly in Daisy’s thrall.

  “I’m telling you, if you work really hard, one day maybe you’ll get to write your own autobiography,” she said. “I mean, probably not, but why not reach for the stars!”

  • • •

  I told myself that when I got home that night, I would finally start writing. Given the limited brainpower of my subject, I figured it couldn’t be altogether difficult to channel her folksy/ignorant persona. But as the minutes (and then hours) ticked away, I found myself listening to the same stretch of digital tape over and over again, with no idea what to put on the page. I had no starting point, no beginning to my story. I had only fragments of a teenager’s warped life, most of which I couldn’t even use. This was supposed to be a book about America’s Sweetheart, but that persona was completely an act. If I was supposed to channel the fake Daisy, I hadn’t seen enough of her to know the voice. I was writing about someone I had never met.

  The sky outside my window was already starting to lighten when I finally gave up. I had been hunched over my laptop on my ancient couch with only two of its original springs, and when I straightened up, I heard (and felt) a number of muscles attempt to snap back into place. A lot of writers have aspirations like Oscars and Pulitzers; at this point, I was bucking for an IKEA desk and an apartment big enough to hold it.

  It wasn’t until I was brushing my teeth that I realized I hadn’t seen Jamie at all. Which meant I hadn’t gotten paid. And if someone demanded to see pages between now and the next check, I was screwed. As for my current money situation, I was pretty sure I still had enough to pay my rent the following Monday, but it would be tight. And forget about any trips to the grocery store until the Dixsons’ check cleared. They now owed me $16,500 and I was worried about $80 worth of groceries. I wasn’t scheduled to see Daisy that day, but I knew I’d have to do something. I couldn’t wait indefinitely for that check.

  But I had to get it without ever letting them know just how dire the situation was. I figured it was unwise to tell my bread-and-butter (and only) client that I’d starve without their business. Then they’d have me over a barrel. Well, even more over a barrel.

  • • •

  Jamie didn’t answer his cell phone all day. I called three times, leaving two messages. I wanted to spend all day hitting redial on my cell, but I also didn’t want him to call the police and accuse me of stalking. His ego was enough out of whack that I was sure he’d believe just that.

  It then occurred to me to call Faith, but I didn’t have her number. In fact, I didn’t have anyone’s number but Jamie’s. This struck me as odd, considering that I’d just spent a week practically living with these people, but I guess privacy is paramount in this industry. God knows how many little girls would die to have Daisy’s cell phone number.

  By the afternoon, I remembered that I did have one more, very important, number—Vaughn’s. I immediately called him and, after assuring him I wasn’t canceling our plans (little did he know I would’ve found a way to get there with a broken back), was given Faith’s contact info. Which turned out to be no help at all.

  “Ohhhh,” she drawled. “Well, shucks, I don’t know anything about payments, Holly.”

  First of all, who says shucks? Last I’d checked, the calendar had progressed well beyond 1955. And not even real 1955, but the parallel universe years chronicled in Father Knows Best. Second, how could Faith not know anything about their money? I know every detail about every damn cent in my checking account and, usually, in my change bucket. I couldn’t fathom getting to a point where I didn’t have a clue how much money was going in or out.

  “Do you happen to know where Jamie is, then?” I asked, forcing a polite tone I definitely didn’t feel.

  “Hmmmm . . .” she mused, taking a maddeningly long pause to think about it. “He and Deacon might be golfing with Jeff today.”

  Never mind that I didn’t have a clue who Jeff might be. What the hell was Jamie doing golfing with his ex-lover’s husband? I had already given up trying to understand this family dynamic, but it really got weirder by the day.

  “Jeff?” I asked, not really caring but figuring that Faith wanted me to guess.

  “Jeff King, the head of Idol Pictures. H
e’s a longtime family friend.”

  Okay . . . I had never heard of either the man or the company. But then, every actor and writer has their own “production company” (also known as a scam to get more money on the back end), so it wasn’t that surprising.

  “He wants to fund the movie De Niro has in mind for Daisy,” Faith said. “So far he’s not willing to go over forty mil, but I think Jamie and Deacon can talk him to seventy. We want to keep it small, after all. The Academy loves low-budget movies.”

  For $70 million, I could start my own country and declare myself the lord and unquestioned master of my subjects. And I could afford to pay those subjects in gold bullion. Jamie was off making a $70 million deal and he couldn’t pay me the several thousand he owed me?

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?” I asked. Using Camille’s logic, I decided to bluff. “My, um . . . agent will be really upset if he doesn’t get his check this week.”

  “No idea, sweetheart,” she told me. “But I’m sure he’ll call you back soon.”

  “Thanks,” I replied, disappointed. I didn’t believe he’d call me back soon. In fact, I was fairly certain I would only hear from him when he needed something from me.

  “Hey, listen,” Faith added quickly. “We’re having a dinner with some of the ladies from the Universal movie Daisy was in last year. Would you like to come over and join us? I’m sure they’d love to talk about Daisy.”

  Crap.

  In my initial research, I’d done a complete filmography for Daisy, and had even Netflixed the movie in question. Daisy had a tiny part, but she had been one of ten women from an ensemble cast filled out with some of the most powerful, successful actresses in Hollywood. And they were all having dinner together—tonight. The same night I was supposed to go hang out with Vaughn.

  I knew what I needed to do, of course. This was just a movie (and a free one), and I hoped the opportunity would present itself again. As a responsible, hardworking adult, I knew the right answer was to respectfully bow out of the movie and spend the night listening to other disgustingly rich superstars talk about how wonderful my disgustingly rich client was. It would all be lies and platitudes, of course, but their quotes would help sell the book. A book I got half the revenue from.

  Luckily, Faith’s next words made my decision much easier. “You can’t use any of what they tell you, of course.”

  It was one of the most ridiculous things I’d ever heard Faith say, which was pretty telling. “And why is that?”

  “Oh, honey-bunch. These are very private women, even more famous than our Daisy, if you can believe it. Now, we can’t have them feeling taken advantage of. Or worse, that we’re trying to eclipse their fame.”

  What I couldn’t believe was that a group of grown women might be threatened by a teenage pop star writing the world’s tamest memoir. That there were people, however few, with higher star power than Daisy Mae—that was no great stretch. “Well, then . . .” I said, stalling for the proper way to word my refusal. “I would very much love to be a part of this, but I worry that if these women give me great information about Daisy, I might really want to use it. I don’t know what’s to be gained with conversations I have to pretend didn’t happen.”

  “Oh, you are so right,” Faith agreed. “I hadn’t even thought of that. And I know you need to work with Daisy some more, but the show’s filming in Rome next week . . .”

  I needed to work with Daisy a lot more. This book was supposed to be about three hundred pages and I still hadn’t found a way to start the first chapter. I desperately hoped that with more conversations with Daisy, a little bit of her public persona would shine through and onto the page. And Rome, really? I was twenty-five and had never even been to Canada. I was totally in the wrong business.

  “That is a problem,” I couldn’t stop myself from saying. I wanted to be accommodating, but on Monday, I would have been on the project for a full four weeks. At this rate, the book would be done in seven to eight months, if ever.

  “Hmmm . . .” Faith said again.

  She paused for another interminable length of time, as though waiting for me to make some kind of suggestion. I wasn’t about to do that. They hired me, let them figure out the logistics of the job.

  “Do you have a passport?”

  The prospect of an impromptu Italian vacation absolutely thrilled me—for about four and a half seconds. Then I remembered being left in Miami with an obscene hotel bill and no flight home. Not to mention, based on my current financial situation, I couldn’t afford to eat in Rome.

  But I did have a passport. I had gotten it two years earlier while reading The Secret. The book said that to attract things to your life, you just needed to plan on them appearing. So I got a passport, anticipating a whirlwind jaunt around the globe. But I hadn’t gotten my European adventure and there still wasn’t a single stamp in the little booklet. Maybe The Secret had brought me that trip to a run-down Newark Radisson for my cousin Marie’s fourth wedding, but I refused to count that as a vacation. My uncle was mugged in the hotel parking lot and I got a case of food poisoning from a local Mexican restaurant during the rehearsal dinner.

  “Yes,” I replied. Again, I wanted to accommodate their needs—and I sure as hell wanted my own Roman holiday—but I wasn’t going to stupidly walk into a repeat performance of Miami. If I fell for that again, it wouldn’t be the Dixsons’ fault, it would be mine. “And I’d love to come with you, but I do have a few concerns.”

  “Of course, Holly. What do you need from us?”

  I was beginning to think I’d been addressing my problems to the wrong people all this time. “Honestly, I’ll need a round-trip ticket, and my hotel room will have to be paid for up front.”

  “Of course,” she said again, sounding surprised. “I wouldn’t expect you to pay for yourself while you’re working. I’ll tell Jamie you need a per diem as well.”

  My opinion of Faith shifted faster than the weather. One minute, she sounded like an idiot, and the next, she was the most reasonable boss I’d ever had. I was starting to get whiplash.

  “All right, then,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t regret my decision. “I’ll go wherever you need me.”

  “Daisy will be very happy to hear that,” Faith told me. “And by the way, Vaughn Royce is coming, too.”

  I swear, the thought hadn’t even occurred to me. But now that it was there. . . . “Oh.”

  “He actually asked me yesterday if we were bringing you along,” she added.

  My throat felt stuffed with dry cotton balls. “Oh,” I croaked again.

  “Anyway, I’ll make sure your travel arrangements get squared away,” Faith continued. “And I just know Jamie will call you back real soon.”

  “And you’re going to Italy, too?” I asked. I would feel infinitely more comfortable with the trip if I knew Faith would be there to rein in her monster offspring.

  “Are you kidding?” She laughed. “You think I’m passing up a trip to Rome?”

  CHAPTER 11

  I spend a lot of time in airports, which sounds annoying, but they’re among my favorite places. Of course I could take private jets, but then I wouldn’t get to see and meet my fans from all over the world. During concerts and on press tours, it’s so hard to find time to connect with the folks who’ve kept me on TV all these years. Running around the big airports of the world, there’s a weird sense of intimacy. There’s nothing greater than when a little girl stops me on her way to her seat and asks for my autograph. It’s a request I can never say no to.

  I parked at the Fox lot at ten after six, one of the only people pulling into the parking structure at that hour. I was thirty minutes early, but that’s inevitable in Los Angeles. Traffic is so unpredictable that the same trip can take seven minutes one day and forty the next. So I always err on the side of congestion; this was one of the few times I was wrong.

  S
ecurity gave me a map, my first indication that the Fox lot was bigger than the one I’d visited the day before. There was a studio store and commissary, a medical department, and even a child development center. As I wound through the streets, I saw that most of the soundstages were occupied and running. A few network TV stars milled around while crew people moved lights and a frantic woman ran down the street with an armful of suits that were taller than she was. I felt very small and insignificant, but not in a bad way. This studio lot had all the magic I’d been waiting to witness with Daisy.

  I made my way to the correct theater (there were apparently several) and found I was still quite early. As I pulled out my phone, Camille called. This was not a moment of serendipity, as you might think. Camille doesn’t like to leave messages, so she calls again and again until you answer. This was just the first time I noticed, as my ringer broke about six months ago.

  “Are you there? Is he there? What did you wear?”

  “Why are you so excited?” I asked. “I don’t even know if this is a date.”

  “It is. Of course it is.” I love how decisive Camille can be, but I don’t find it particularly reassuring, because she’s frequently wrong. Though she is always the first to admit when she’s wrong. “The guy came to your hotel room at ten P.M. And he brought dinner. The last time Donnie brought home dinner it was a Whopper and it was because he was too full to eat it himself.”

  Donnie, the prince among men. But I was sober, so I kept my mouth shut. “He didn’t kiss me.”

  “He kissed your cheek. That’s way better.”

  “He didn’t offer to drive me here.” We argued like this all the time. My mother loved Camille and often said that we were like Statler and Waldorf from the Muppets.

  “Phhht. The man has a job. You don’t think he left work just to come see this movie with you?”

  I hadn’t considered that. Looking back down the street, I again noticed how the lot was in full swing pretty close to 7:00 P.M. No one was showing any sign of packing up for the night. “I bet you’re right, actually.”