Flipped (Better With Prosecco Book 1)

by Lisa-Marie Cabrelli

  Hazel sat, dirty and shivering on the greasy tiles with her arm thrown over the toilet as though it were an old pal. She loved this toilet. It was cold and very close to her. It would never desert her. Granted, she would need about five showers before she ever felt clean again, but the icy porcelain on her head at this moment was worth the risk of cholera, or whatever horrible disease one could get from disgusting toilets.

  But she couldn’t stay here forever. She couldn’t stay here, and she couldn’t go to Italy, and she couldn’t go back to work. She started to feel teary again, the vodka that remained in her stomach was making her head spin and her sadness swell. She was sad, this was sad. She couldn’t sit in a dive bar bathroom with a toilet as her best pal for the rest of the day. She had to take action. She had to figure out what to do next. But right now her fuzzy mind wasn’t cooperating. She needed five showers. She needed a plan. She needed $20,000 for the equity buy-in because she couldn’t lose this partnership. Samuel was guaranteed to screw up the project, then Liz would do her magic, and Blackwell & Crawley would offer her the partnership! Right?

  She turned to her best porcelain pal for approval, and suddenly there were two of them bouncing up and down in front of her. They must be nodding.

  6

  Dean

  “Crap”, Dean said as Adam turned the car onto his street. His cute, little, Santa Barbara bungalow was crawling with reporters and fans. “Keep the windows rolled up for me, will you, Adam? Now is not the time for fan relationship management.”

  Adam’s face was grim under his $400 Ray bans. “No, I’m with you today, buddy. This is worse than I thought. I guess some news got out. I wonder if they got the real story? I hope not.”

  Dean was irritated with everyone right now, and Adam’s words weren’t calming him down any. “I’m not sure why everyone is making such a big deal out of this. I’m totally fine. So I was maybe overly tired and the heat got to me. I’ll be fine tomorrow. I should call Ed and tell him I’m fine. This is getting out of control.”

  Adam pulled up to the secure gate in front of the driveway to the bungalow, and the crowd swarmed. Paparazzi in front, as usual, the cockroaches. Dean put on his best “Dean Mclean” smile and waved calmly from his seat. He could hear the clicking camera shutters through the windows of Adam’s Rolls Royce.

  “Don’t call Ed,” Adam said, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the driveway as the gate swung closed behind them. “It’s just a timing thing is all, Dean. I’ll handle it all. It’s just that Ed was feeling nervy about that age survey thing. He got kinda shook up by your collapse. It looked pretty serious, dude. It looked like you had a heart attack right there on set. Ed is just concerned about the franchise.”

  “You mean the franchise that only became a franchise because of me? I hear you loud and clear, okay? You don’t want me talking to Ed. And I trust you. I always have. But I don’t want a break. I don’t need a break. I want to get back on set. Okay?” Dean heard his voice getting louder and tried to dial back a bit. This wasn’t Adam’s fault. He was angry at himself and at his body and brain which were conspiring to betray him. “Sorry.”

  “Okay, buddy. I hear ya. Just let me work this for a few days and then I’ll bring you in. The truth is that you’re not looking so hot right now. If Ed’s spooked, I want to keep you away until I can calm him down.”

  Adam’s relationship with Ed was as strong as Adam’s relationship with every industry guy that he’d ever met, meaning it was as solid as steel. Dean didn’t know how he managed to do it, but he could charm everyone.

  Dean walked into his house, taking a huge sigh of relief, threw his bag on the floor and headed straight out to the back patio. The view would calm him. He crossed through the expansive wall of glass doors that stretched across the rear of his great room and stepped out onto his pool deck overlooking the Pacific Ocean. When he had purchased this bungalow after the runaway success of Rolling Thunder One, Adam had called it his “starter home.” In his mind, there was no way that Dean would stay in this tiny, two-bedroom, beach cottage when he was about to be rolling in cash. He had already signed his contract to make movies two and three, and the number of zeros on the compensation page had almost made Dean fall off his chair. Anyway, Dean knew as soon as he set foot inside this house that he would never give it up. He’d had enough of moving. The word “home” for him had always been some distant fantasy. It was something that you read about in books and saw on TV, but it didn’t exist. It was the thing that he craved more than anything else. As soon as he had crossed the threshold of this house, all of the zeros printed on those contract pages were just a means to an end. He had everything he’d ever wanted. He had a home.

  Just lately though, Dean had felt a small creeping of discontent. Was a home really a home when you lived in it alone? Was a life well lived if you weren’t sharing it with someone? That was when he’d decided to ask Isabella to move in. He’d pictured quiet, cozy dinners by candlelight, the sound of the waves as the only accompaniment for their deep and intimate conversation. But Isabella had made dinners at home a catered and companied affair. He’d pictured long Saturday afternoons by the pool with a New York Times, a bagel and freshly squeezed orange juice made from the tree in the front yard. But Isabella disappeared on Saturdays to spend the day at the gym and the spa. He shouldn’t complain. Isabella was trying to launch a career, and he’d sworn to do his best to help her. The dinners were essential to expanding her network and the gym and the spa, well that was her job wasn’t it, to stay beautiful? And Isabella was beautiful, no doubt. Any man would be lucky to have her.

  And there she was. Lounging poolside, a drink in her hands and an umbrella tilted strategically toward her body, for maximum shade but minimum obstruction, just in case the paparazzi happened to wander by on the beach. That was Isabella’s favorite past time. Paparazzi baiting. She heard the slide of the glass door on its track and rolled over toward him, whipping off her sunglasses in mock surprise.

  “Is it you? Is it my long lost movie star boyfriend who decided to abandon me by spending the night in the luxury of the hospital?”

  Dean crossed to her lounger and dipped under the umbrella to kiss her. “Where were you?”

  “Where was I?” she wrinkled her brow in confusion as much as her Botox would allow. “Where was I when?”

  “Where were you last night when I was in the hospital?”

  “I was here? Where else would I be?”

  Was she serious? Unfortunately, the blank expression indicated that she was. “How about in the hospital? Making sure I was okay?”

  “Oh pfffft… we knew you were fine. The doctors told everyone before they even put you in the ambulance that you didn't have a heart attack.”

  “The doctors said…” Dean turned to Adam who had followed him out on to the pool deck and was typing frantically into his phone. “I thought you said Ed thought I had a heart attack.”

  “Hah!” Isabella scoffed and took a sip of her drink. “The doctors said you had a panic attack. Ed kicked everyone off set and said that he couldn’t have a basket case on his movie and that he was recasting.” She nodded toward Adam. “He calmed him down. Persuaded him you just needed a break and everything would be fine. But Ed said if anyone found out the real reason they were taking a break, then you were off the movie, that he was getting enough crap about how old you were as it is.” Isabella stood and wrapped her arms loosely around his shoulders and kissed him on the nose. “I don’t think you’re old, baby. Don’t listen to these horrible movie dudes. Just get back on set so I can have my part back” She smacked his butt hard and giggled. “Just kidding.”

  Dean felt the profound lethargy he’d been dealing with for the past few weeks creep back and roll over him like a black cloud. To his surprise, even though his best friend and girlfriend were standing right next to him, he suddenly felt very alone. He turned to Adam in confusion. What was really going on here? “Wait, Adam. This isn’t what you told me. You said he was f
reaked out because he thought I had a heart attack and that’s why he closed the set. You said we had to hide the story to keep the tabloids away - not because my job was on the line.” He sat down hard on a wicker patio chair. “This doesn’t sound like Ed. Is that really what Ed said?”

  Adam crossed over to Dean and shot Isabella a dirty look as he passed. She was lounging comfortably again, and Dean caught her throwing her arms up in a “What?” expression. “Buddy. I didn’t want you to know that it was this bad. I gotta say that Ed and the rest of the producers seem to have a vendetta against you. They want new blood. They wanted new blood before we even started shooting. I’ve been playing politics in the background and shielding you from the worst of it. I’m sorry I haven’t been totally up front with you. I just didn’t want you to worry.”

  He suddenly felt bad. Here he was feeling all tired and irritated with the two people closest to him when all they were trying to do was what was best for him. Hadn’t they always? It was the hospital stay that was getting to him. He hated the hospital. “Man, Adam. I didn’t realize that’s what you’ve been dealing with. I didn’t see it at all. Ed’s been awesome, and I thought the shoot had been going well.”

  They’d been shooting for three weeks. Three weeks and Dean hadn’t seen any indication that there was anything awry. Not for the first time, Dean realized how lucky he was to have Adam around. He was always so much better with people than Dean could ever hope to be. But what now? Would he lose this movie? The panic pulsed against his ribcage.

  It was difficult to explain to someone what “home” could mean to a person when you had never had one. Dean had spent his life shuttled from foster home to care center, to foster home. A rotating cast of parents, a new school every few months, and as a teenager, a new job to take on in every new location. Some kids in the system thrived under the challenge and became expert chameleons, brilliant at becoming the exact kind of person the family needed, the school wanted, the job required. Adam was a chameleon. As adults, these chameleon kids tended to be drawn to the environment in which they had always thrived. A community that would continue to challenge them and sharpen their chameleon skills. Adam had headed to Hollywood.

  But some kids went the other way. They wanted to be free of the constant struggle, to keep to themselves, and they always searched for the path of least resistance. These were the non-chameleons. As adults the non-chameleons just searched for “home” - and home meant quiet, easy and always there. The Rolling Thunder movies, the beach cottage, Adam, all these things meant home for Dean. If he lost these movies, he lost something much bigger than a job, and the idea terrified him. As he had so many times in his life, he turned to the chameleon.

  “Ok, Adam. I trust you. You know I can’t lose this movie. Just tell me what to do.”

  7

  Hazel

  “I know what you did, Samuel. I’m going to expose you, and you, you suck.”

  Hazel had started dialing Samuel the moment she flung her apartment door open. Now she was pacing her tiny living room, trying to avoid the sharp edges of her glass coffee table as the floor swayed beneath her feet.

  It felt like a miracle that she’d managed to get home at all. The Uber guy had been shooting worried glances at her every thirty seconds of the fifteen-minute drive from downtown to her cozy Riverside apartment. That didn’t surprise her, if she looked as disgusting as she felt.

  “Hair of the dog,” Frizzy had said, as she’d handed Hazel another shot and hoisted her from the bathroom floor. “And thanks for your quality aim, honey,” she said, pointing at Hazel’s newly anointed best pal. “You’re a classy chick.” Never could Hazel have guessed this morning that by this afternoon she would be sitting on the floor of a toilet stall in a dive bar doing a vodka shot, but this is what her life had come to. And it was all Samuel’s fault. Hence the drunk dialing as soon as she came through the door.

  “You’re drunk!” Samuel sounded more amused than he had any right to be, considering that she had just threatened him.

  “You stole my stuff, Samuel. I don’t know how you got it, but I’m gonna find out, and I’m gonna get you fired, you little... measly, mustachioed, momma’s boy. You... big bag of bullying bullcrap.” Wow, she never knew she was a drunk alliterator. Could that be useful?

  “You’re drunk, Hazel, which is probably a state you should visit more often. You know what your problem is? You are way too uptight. You’re like that needy kid in class who knew the only attention they were gonna get was from the teacher, so they made it their life’s mission to be perfect. It’s a shame really, because you’re pretty hot. But hot won’t do you much good when you are as boring and perfect as you are. I couldn’t believe you were late this morning! That was hysterical.”

  “I’ll get you, Samuel. You’ll regret stealing from me. I’m smarter than you, remember?”

  Samuel barked a laugh. “Good luck, Miss Goody-two-shoes. Have at it.” And the phone went dead.

  Hazel made her way to the bathroom and peeled off her clothes. She would feel better after a hot shower… or five. Then she would get into her pajamas and write to her dad. Her dad always helped her figure things out. After the shower Hazel felt a bit more lucid. Her head was still spinning, but she felt like she could get her thoughts together for a letter. She sat down at her desk.

  Dear Dad,

  Don’t panic. I’m a little off course right at this moment, but I’ll figure out a way to get back on. I had a little problem at work this morning. Don’t be too angry at me, but I lost the project. You know The Project. The one that was going to get me the equity partnership. The one that was going to make all of our worries about my career and money and taking care of Mom disappear. I’m going to fix it, though. I just need to figure out how. Any words of wisdom, just send them my way.

  Love, Hazel

  She folded the single sheet of paper and popped in into an envelope, already addressed to “Dad.” Pulling open her bottom desk drawer, she lifted the top off of an old shoebox (she had eight more of these boxes in her closet), carefully placed the letter on top of a pile, and pushed the lid down firmly. She’d need a new box soon.

  Hazel hadn’t told a soul that she wrote letters to her dead father. She was well aware of how weird it was, thank you very much, but it helped her. And since her dad had died when she was five-FIVE-Hazel had had a lot of years to accumulate these advice-seeking, soul-baring epistles.

  Indigo had always been very relaxed about the mothering thing. She hadn’t been neglectful or cruel, she just hadn’t been particularly motherly. Indigo had been hopelessly lonely after Hazel’s father had died in a horrible car accident. She was pregnant with Hazel’s sister Sylvie at the time and worried about everything. She had wanted a little buddy to keep her company and a shoulder to cry on. Hazel had tried desperately to give her both. They’d had fun. Sure, they had moved a lot, and they’d played a lot of games that included candlelight and blankets. Hazel didn’t ever have new clothes, only ones from Goodwill, and most of the time they ate leftover fast food from the restaurant where Indigo was currently working. But it had been fun. Hazel, her mom, and her baby sister were on an adventure together. Indigo had told her stories about her big, strong, smart Daddy. How proud he would have been of her. How pleased he would have been that she was such a help to her Mama.

  It wasn’t until Hazel turned thirteen, and had to go to middle school, that she realized how unusual her life circumstances were. None of the other thirteen-year-olds had under the table jobs washing dishes or went to work every night with their mom, let alone a little sister sleeping soundly in her car seat within view of her mom’s position at the drive-in window. None of the other thirteen-year-olds bought their clothing at the Goodwill. Indigo had been wrong when she had told Hazel that corduroy was making a comeback. None of the other thirteen-year-olds brought cold burgers, still in their paper wrapping, for their lunch every day. And they weren’t as impressed by Hazel’s extensively colored-in travel map as Ind
igo had told her they would be.

  After the first six months of middle school, Hazel didn’t want to be Hazel anymore, and she wanted a different Mama. She wanted a parent like the one that picked up Emma and Christy from school every day in a BMW. She wanted a parent who gave out report card gifts like Ariella’s Mom, or who came in to school on Career Day to talk about being an architect like Jordan’s Dad. She wanted her father.

  According to Indigo, Robert Blakemore had been everything that a father should be and more. In her darkest moments, the absolute worst ones, (like the time Indigo left Hazel to look after the baby when she had a major book report due the next day) Hazel had flirted with the daydream that it was Indigo who had died in that car crash and not her dad.

  So she’d started writing to him. At first, she just wrote for help or advice, or to complain about Indigo, or to cry about her classmates’ teasing. But then she started to get all weird about it. She started thinking that maybe, just maybe, these letters, these prayers to her father, were making it up to Heaven somehow. And, if that were true, he was probably getting pretty tired of hearing whining and moaning. How could she expect him to be proud of her when all she did was complain? Her thirteen-year-old brain had decided that she needed to be someone in these letters that her father could be proud of. She would show him how well she took care of Indigo, how good she was with the baby, how well she was doing in school, and one day, if she ever got the chance to meet him in Heaven, his first words would be, “I’m so proud of you, honey!”

  She had never stopped writing. She’d meant to. As an adult, she understood that writing to a dead father was probably some expression of her emotional dysfunction, but it made her feel better. It kept her focused and driven, and it kept her dad close to her heart, and that’s where she needed him.