Absolutely True Lies

by Rachel Stuhler

  Faith and Dr. Chace shared a look, and I was instantly sorry I’d opened my mouth. I was also irritated that these two were already bosom buddies considering they’d never met each other until two days ago. Again, I couldn’t shake the feeling that membership in the fame club comes with a decoder ring and a secret handshake.

  “Daisy has been Jamie’s only client since she was ten,” Faith replied, offering me a patronizing smile. She glanced back to Dr. Chace for support, but this time, he look troubled. Well, as troubled as he could look with the limited movement of his facial muscles.

  “We haven’t seen him here yet,” Chace pointed out. “Jamie did say he’d come down as soon as he landed . . .”

  “You don’t know how these things work. He’s just busy. Whenever we’re putting together a new deal, I don’t see him for days. And with this mess . . .” Faith’s smile faded from patronizing to pained, but she managed to keep it for at least a few more seconds. “He knows we’re fine and he doesn’t have a spare minute to drive all the way down here.”

  “I saw him interviewed on E! News,” I said, keeping my tone quiet but firm. “He said he’d just signed that YouTube girl, Ariceli.” I had to stop Faith; I couldn’t keep watching her rationalize Jamie’s betrayal.

  Her façade crumbled. As she spoke, I could see her lower lip quaver. “The one who sang that ballad version of ‘Pour Some Sugar on Me’?” Faith whispered, crushed.

  So that’s the song Ariceli sang at her talent show. Of course every man over the age of five had logged on to YouTube to watch a sixteen-­year-old cutie croon about being “hot, sticky, sweet.” “I think so,” I said.

  Faith slowly walked over and sat down, burying her face in her hands. She was still holding her phone, and just as she hid her face, I saw the screen light up. It dinged, signaling that she had voice mails, but Faith ignored the sound.

  Dr. Botox crossed over and put a hand on her back. “Now, Faith. We discussed the possibility that Daisy’s age might pose a problem. She’s not fifteen anymore, there are a lot of people who won’t be as interested in her.”

  First of all, gross. Second of all, how was that the issue at hand? Faith just found out there was no one steering the ship and that the last captain had made off with at least half a million dollars. I couldn’t see how calling an eighteen-year-old a used-up has-been was part of a constructive dialogue.

  “Forget about that,” I said, unable to stop myself. “The more important thing is cutting off Jamie from your bank accounts. Right now.”

  Faith waved me away without looking up. “I’ll get you paid, Holly. I really will.”

  I didn’t want to say this, but I had to be honest. “I’m not as concerned with fifty thousand dollars as I am with the millions that Jamie has unfettered access to. You need to shut him down as soon as possible.” As the words came out of my mouth, I knew I’d pretty much just suggested that Faith hold on to her cash for as long as she wanted. I wondered if the melted Hershey’s miniatures on Camille and Donnie’s couch would stain my clothes if I was forced to take up residence on it.

  “You’re right,” Faith replied, standing up. “I need to call Deacon and our lawyer.”

  “Where is Deacon? Shouldn’t he be back by now?” We’d flown back two days ago; he could have turned right around and arrived just a few hours later.

  “Oh, he’ll be in Europe for a little while longer,” Faith said, scrolling through her phone. “Fashion Week is coming up, and Milan’s not that far from Rome.”

  Seriously? What is wrong with these people? “In that case, you can’t wait for Deacon,” I pressed. “You need to take care of this yourself.”

  “How?” I couldn’t tell if Faith’s tone was defensive or just bewildered. “Jamie set up those accounts.”

  With this kind of oversight, I was sure Jamie had been stealing from the Dixsons for years. “Your name is on all of them, right?”

  Faith shrugged, throwing another look up at Dr. Chace. “Sure . . . I mean, my name and Daisy’s name are on all of the checks and credit cards.”

  I glanced at my watch, trying to add up how many working hours were left in the day. “Okay,” I said, wondering how this had suddenly become my responsibility. “Change of plans. Faith, you and I are going to the bank. I’ll work with Daisy this afternoon.”

  “Maybe I should go, too,” Dr. Chace said.

  I hope he knew from my expression that I wanted to stab him in the neck. “That won’t be necessary. It’s time only Faith and Daisy were in charge of the money.”

  “Okay,” Faith said, putting a shaky hand against the wall to steady herself. “But we’re going all the way back to Beverly Hills?”

  I almost asked why we would do that, but then I realized what she meant. It scared me that the Dixson thought process now came so easily to me. “No, Faith. Every bank has branches all over the area. We’ll find the closest one.”

  Chace started to follow us out of the room. “Really, maybe it’s better if I—”

  I held out my hand, preventing him from touching Faith. “You’ve done enough,” I said. “I’ll handle things from here.”

  CHAPTER 18

  When dealing with the paparazzi, it’s better to pretend they’re not really people. Because if you acknowledge that the guys and girls chasing you down the street are someone’s husband, father, sister, daughter, you have to question everything you think about humanity. I’d never cause a traffic accident and risk the lives of other people just to get a picture of a teenage actress eating an ice cream cone—would you?

  It took two hours, but by 1:00 P.M., only the Dixsons had access to the Dixson money. Although if I hadn’t been there, Faith probably would have signed over power of attorney to the personal banker who helped us. Jamie had indeed stolen the half million from them (he was nice enough to leave $219), which posed big problems for Faith and Daisy in the short term. While they technically had millions of dollars to their name, only $500,000 was liquid at any given time. This made sense to me, as a checking account earns little to no interest, but it baffled Faith. She couldn’t grasp the rules and regulations of CDs and mutual funds and why she couldn’t just pull the money out right then. The immediate solution was for the ladies to live off their black American Express cards for the next month, which, incredibly, had no limit. In front of the nice, middle-class banker, Mr. Roach, Faith told an adorable little anecdote about once buying an Aston Martin with that card. I don’t think he was amused.

  As we left, I caught Faith eyeing me with something resembling admiration. I don’t know that anyone’s ever looked at me that way before.

  “How do you know all of this money stuff?” she asked, incredulous. “I didn’t understand half of what he was talking about . . . CDs and mutual funds and interest penalties.”

  “Um, I don’t know.” How could she not know “this money stuff”? The woman was nearing forty.

  As we got back into the car, Faith whistled. “All I can say is, I hope Daisy grows up to have as good a head on her shoulders as you do.”

  The comment disturbed me, though I couldn’t figure out just why.

  • • •

  After I returned with her to Rehabilication, Faith ran off to speak with the family lawyer and I finally found time to work with Daisy. Though I didn’t exactly get a lot of work done. I more or less sat in silence while she and her new boyfriend made out for three hours. One of Daisy’s only contributions to the afternoon was giggling, “Isn’t he just so smart?” As “he” never spoke to me, I wouldn’t know.

  The boyfriend was an actor (shocking, I know); a hulking, highlighted-blond Adonis who starred on a CW show about sexy superheroes. The producers had written him out of the first few episodes so that he could get a “sobriety tune-up.” Because blond actor superhero just happened to be a not-so-recovered heroin addict.

  “It’s totally fine,” Daisy whisp
ered to me when Lee stepped away to take a phone call. “He only snorts the heroin. He’s completely terrified of needles. So there’s nothing to worry about.”

  I can’t even tell you why I stayed the entire three hours, especially since it meant my end time placed me smack in the middle of afternoon traffic. But I was desperate to get any information that might help me finish this so-called book by my rapidly approaching deadline. Though why I was continuing to work without getting paid, I also can’t tell you.

  I couldn’t return the car until the next morning, so I drove back toward my apartment, excited that my only roommate was incapable of speech. Meowing is so much easier to interact with sometimes.

  But as I turned onto my street, I saw a bunch of guys hanging out in front of my building and I was immediately nervous. It was dark enough that I couldn’t see exactly what they were doing. And while I don’t live in the worst neighborhood in L.A., the sight of ten loitering men on my street at near 8:00 P.M. definitely gave me pause.

  I had already decided to keep driving past and turn on the first available street when I finally realized what was going on. The men in front of my building weren’t the usual neighborhood suspects—they were photographers. And that could only mean someone had finally discovered my name. The only question left was whether they knew my actual job title or if they still thought I was the pregnant, alcoholic cousin.

  I’d passed through the throngs of paparazzi a number of times now, but they’d never been interested in me before. It was bad enough being along for the ride as Daisy was interrogated by shouting and flashbulbs; I didn’t think I could handle the questions being directed at me. So I kept going, turned onto the next block, and pulled over at the curb. I put in a call to Faith, who didn’t answer immediately. I had to call back a second and then a third time in quick succession before she finally picked up.

  “Sweetheart, is everything all right?” Faith asked. I could sense slight annoyance, but she kept it under control, apparently giving me the benefit of the doubt.

  “No,” I told her, more upset than I’d even realized. “There are paparazzi in front of my house. I don’t know if they really know who I am or if they’re just trying to get more dirt on Daisy.”

  “Oh, no, did you say anything?”

  The Dixsons clearly do not hang out with the right people. “Nothing,” I insisted, a little hurt that she’d think otherwise, “I didn’t even stop. I drove around the corner and called you.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line. “I don’t suppose you have an overnight bag with you?”

  “I don’t.”

  Faith sighed, sounding tired. “Okay, sweetie, I want you to drive to our house. Do you remember where it is?”

  I didn’t like this plan one bit. “I remember, Faith, but I can’t just run away. I have a cat. If I’m not there to feed him in the next couple of hours, he’ll start eating the couch.”

  “Well, you can’t say anything to those bloodsuckers,” she shot back, momentarily abandoning her southern politeness. “You have a nondisclosure agreement. We’re paying you for your discretion.”

  “You’re not paying me at all,” I couldn’t stop myself from saying. “And I wouldn’t give them a word, not a single word, with or without that contract. I’m just not used to being hunted down by parasites with cameras.”

  “You can’t stay there, Holly. Those people don’t go away.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” I admitted, my voice a little weepy.

  “I’ll take care of everything. Do you think you can handle them just this once?”

  I didn’t want to but I also didn’t really have a choice. “I guess so.”

  “Okay, you run in there and grab your clothes and your kitty cat and head on over to the house. I’m staying down here in Dana Point, but I’ll call over and talk to our security. They’ll get you all settled in.”

  “All right.”

  “It’s gonna be fine. And I promise you, Holly, I’ll get you paid just as soon as I can. Now you go to the house and get some sleep, sugar, and we’ll see you down here tomorrow.”

  I hung up and threw my phone on the seat before shifting into reverse. I reluctantly made a three-point turn, heading back toward the inevitable confrontation with the paparazzi. I managed to get out of the car with little fanfare, but as soon as I stepped into the streetlight on the corner, the yelling commenced. Someone must have had a picture of me already, because a number of the paps recognized me immediately. It only took me a second to realize that being photographed with Daisy at LAX—my second time in public with her in just a few weeks—must have made me a target. My only moment of amusement came when they all took off running toward me, trying to meet me at the street corner. As though I wasn’t going to walk directly toward them on my way to my front door.

  My good humor died when the first asshole bumped into me, almost knocking me to the ground. I had to force my way down the block as more and more of the photographers made physical contact with me. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought a couple of them were attempting to pickpocket me. When one of them grabbed the back of my shirt, I very nearly pushed him away, but before I did I had the presence of mind to consider that they might be trying to bait me. I hadn’t seen them do this with Daisy (maybe because until recently, she was still a teenage media darling), but Camille once told me that the more ruthless freelance photographers will sometimes try to get the subject to hit them. It makes for great drama and there’s always the possibility the photog can sue and earn some extra cash.

  I just trained my eyes on the ground and kept moving; with the constant flashbulbs, I couldn’t see any farther ahead, anyway. My phone rang again and I automatically answered, thinking it was Faith calling back.

  “I’m hurrying, I swear,” I said, trying not to get all shaky in front of the photogs. I knew that everything I said was being recorded and would be analyzed by a million ears.

  But it wasn’t Faith. “Holly, are you okay?” I heard.

  With the crazy noise and questions and flashes going off in my face, it took me a moment to place the voice. I even glanced down at my caller ID to make sure I was right. It was my old boss from Kragen Publishing, Susan. “Susan, this isn’t the best time,” I said, turning sideways to avoid a collision with a cameraman.

  “I know that, honey. That’s actually why I called. Why don’t you come on down and tell us your story—as an unnamed source, of course. If you’re going to be followed like this, at least you should make money on the deal. Am I right?”

  I could just make out the front door of my building beyond the sea of bodies, and I was relieved to see that it was locked for once. But I didn’t know what to do about Susan; I hadn’t a clue what she was talking about and I didn’t have the time to figure it out. “I’m sorry, what? Why would I do that?”

  On the other end of the line, Susan laughed. Or I think she did, I could barely hear. “I’m with Radar these days, Holly. I thought you knew that. When I saw those pics of you in Miami, I just knew I had the perfect source tucked up my sleeve.”

  I hastily unlocked the gate and slid through, slamming it shut behind me. Hands and cameras were thrust through the bars like it was some kind of weird prison-break attempt. As I turned to flee up to my apartment, I suddenly knew what she meant. It was no accident that the vultures had descended upon me; Susan had leaked my name.

  As soon as I turned a corner out of sight of the cameras, I pressed the phone to my mouth and said, “You did this to me.”

  “Oh, come on, Holly,” she replied. “You would have killed for a scoop like this at Westside. And that wasn’t even the big leagues.”

  At Westside Weekly, I’d written unnecessary movie reviews and talked about who looked terrible at the Oscars. It was a far cry from siccing money-thirsty wannabes with loose morals on every assistant and acquaintance with an easily accessib
le address. It would have never occurred to me to flash a few hundred (or grand, I don’t know) at anyone who could divulge celebrity dirt.

  “You’re going to have to get your scoops from someone else. I’m not going to sell out my boss.”

  Susan laughed again. “Hon, until a few days ago, it was your boss who called us.”

  Still shaky from my encounter outside, I dropped my keys into the long-dead hedge to the side of my front door. “What?”

  “Radar’s had a deal with Daisy for years. She or one of her people calls to say she’ll be at the Ivy or shopping at Saks and we send a photog out.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Actually, I didn’t know what to believe anymore. Just because Susan had plenty of reason to lie to me didn’t necessarily mean she was. And Daisy and Faith had done some pretty bizarre things; I wouldn’t put it past them to have paps on retainer.

  I finally located my keys, but my unsteady hands still had trouble maneuvering them into the lock.

  “Ask her,” Susan said. “We even have a system. If she doesn’t want to be photographed, she wears the same clothes two or more days in a row. We don’t take any more pics because it looks like they were all taken on the same day.”

  That was one of the most fucked up things I’d ever heard. “Then call her people and ask for information.”

  “No one’s talking. I think you know that. And after everything that we’ve done for her.”

  Yeah, I felt terrible for Susan and her paparazzi brigade. “Do me a favor and lose my number, okay?”

  “Holly—” was all she managed to say before I hung up the phone. I was so furious, I nearly threw the phone at the door. The Holly of a few years ago would have, but I’ve learned the hard way that when you throw breakable things against a hard surface, you have to replace them and get down on your hands and knees to pick up the pieces. I really liked my new phone. Instead, I flung open the door and let it bang against the wall.

  Smitty meowed at me and my phone rang again. For the third time. The caller ID read JAMIE LLOYD. I knew this would be good.