by ANDREA SMITH
“Ooh,” she said, flopping down on my bed. “How are you gonna get away with that?”
“You’re gonna make me a guy,” I replied. “My face will need some stubble, my eyebrows will have to go bushier. I’ll need you to bind my boobs. I’ve got a fake moustache and a male wig that is killer. The rest of me will be covered with my white starched uniform.”
“What about your hands?” she asked. “You have girl hands even if you don’t believe in manicures.”
“I’m serving food. I’ll have to wear white Latex gloves. Easy peasy.”
“This is gonna be fun. Let’s get started.”
Three hours later I was riding with three others in the catering van headed for Beverly Hills. Jerry was driving. I’d earned kudos from him for calling in a favor from Malcolm and getting us in the door at this particular event. We had to promise Malcolm a twenty-five percent stipend on any of our photos that got picked up by the papers or tabloids.
This was what we referred to as a smorgasbord event. There would be so many celebrities, politicians, and sports stars in attendance, it presented a plethora of opportunities to snap someone doing something news or gossip worthy. No press was allowed. Even ET had been shut out for privacy purposes.
You see this engagement party involved the daughter of a former sports legend. She was a well-known actress in a hit series, engaged to a professional baseball player who also happened to be the son of a former governor. See? A veritable smorgasbord of opportunities.
And the catering we were commissioned to do only involved desserts. So there would be a separate caterer for cocktails; one for appetizers and hors d’oeuvres, and another for the main entrees being served. It was quite an extravagant affair being hosted at the Soho Club in Beverly Hills. Our crew had been instructed to report to the club’s personal pastry chef once we arrived.
My name tag read Tony. And I had to say, Jazzy had done a great job with my man make-up. “You kinda look like a geek, Neely. I did the best I could though,” she commented almost apologetically as she handed me a mirror to check it out for myself. “I even gave you a scar, hope you like it,” she said grinning. Jazzy’s tenure at the studio had introduced her to several of the best make-up artists in the business. She’d picked up the skill, and was hoping to put it to use some day officially.
“Wow,” I said, turning my head back and forth to see myself at every angle, “It doesn’t resemble me, but I agree, I look like a dork. Scar doesn’t help much with that,” I replied chuckling. “Now for the finishing touch,” I continued, grabbing the pair of black rimmed glasses I’d used before while working for Malcolm.
The glasses magnified my eyes, but did nothing to obscure my vision. All private detectives had a cache of this type of stuff that could easily disguise certain features. “What do you think?” I asked her once I’d slid the glasses on and turned my fact toward hers.
“Definitely a dork. But you got this,” she said with a smile. “Wish I could be there to watch you in action.”
We arrived at the club and the security guard cleared us to unload the van with the serving dishes, utensils, hot plates, and everything else that had been packed for the event.
The inside of the huge building was all art deco, and it was actually breathtaking. We met with the pastry chef and the event coordinator and got our instructions and location to set up.
Two hours later, everything was in full swing. Alcohol was flowing, food was being served, music was playing, and people were starting to loosen up. That was when I spotted Tiffany Blume. She’d come alone it seemed.
I hadn’t seen my father in months. She’d succeeded in putting the wedge between us exactly as I’m sure she’d planned all along.
We’d tried doing the lunch or dinner thing by ourselves a few times, but that had tapered off once I’d started working for Malcolm and my schedule was so erratic. I hadn’t even told him who I was working for then and certainly not who I was working for now. We talked on the phone maybe once or twice a month, but that was it. He hadn’t even been to our new condo.
I was saddened by the fact we’d drifted so far apart, but the truth was, we’d never been all that close. Being that it was a Saturday afternoon, it was possible he was traveling back from somewhere, or maybe even out of the country. I wasn’t privy to his whereabouts these days.
Tiffany was decked out in a low cut, black cocktail dress that clung to her every curve. Her hair, now tinted a darker shade of blonde, looked like she’d had it styled to frame her face in chunky layers. She was talking to a guy that looked to be in his early forties. Dark suit, stoic and very businesslike.
“That’s Eric Fellner,” Jerry whispered, coming up behind me to refill the crystal bowl of plain yogurt that I’d been tasked with dishing out. “He’s controlling partner at Shooting Star Films out of the UK. Word has it she’s vying for a role in his next film, The Theory of Nothing.”
“Do tell,” I said, now intrigued. Jerry knew there was no love lost between me and Tiffany Blume. And he knew I’d love the opportunity to catch a front page headline picture of the bitch doing something shady or ghastly. But so far, everything between her and this Eric dude seemed normal, though from where I was positioned, I couldn’t hear their conversation. Their body language didn’t betray anything other than casual business dialog.
Just then I saw him turn from her and walk towards the main hallway. She waited a couple of minutes as if she expected him back before turning around to where the desserts were lined up on the tables and headed towards them.
She slowly walked the length of the row of tables, not stopping at the assortment of pies and cakes, but acting like she wanted to. She finally spotted my yogurt and fruit display and moved towards it with purpose. She glanced briefly at her options.
“Oh Sir,” she said, looking directly at my face and giving no sign of recognition. “I think I’ll have some low fat plain yogurt with only a spoonful of the berry topping on it. No granola. And can you mix it up to make it swirly, please? Got to cut the calories wherever I can, know what I mean?” she asked with a giggle.
I nodded, loving the fact she had no clue who I was. “Yes, M’am,” I replied in a deep voice, adding a bit of a Southern drawl to it. I dished it up for her. “More?” I asked, holding the parfait glass up for her approval.
She bit her lip and remained silent for a moment. It was if this was a major life decision tossed at her unexpectedly.
“Uh…no, I better not. That’s fine. Oh, but maybe I will have one of those Biscotti’s on the side?”
“Certainly,” I replied, grabbing a dessert plate, I placed a paper lace doily in the center, and then put the parfait cup on top of it. I grabbed my tongs and placed a Biscotti on the plate next to the yogurt. So much pomp and circumstance for yogurt and a cookie, I thought to myself.
“Anything else?” I asked as the guy, Eric, she’d been talking to came back inside the room, his eyes searching it until he saw her in front of my table. He headed right over as if someone else might swoop in and grab her before he got the chance.
Interesting. Dynamics have changed.
“No,” Tiffany answered. “That’s just perfect. Thank you.”
As soon as she turned her back to me, Eric was at her side, his hand brushing her elbow. “It’s set. I changed my flight, and got a room at the Ritz. Room 712 say, in about an hour?” he questioned her quietly.
She nodded, spooning a bite of yogurt into her mouth, her tongue dancing along her lower lip. “I’ll see you then.”
It took me less than two minutes to inform Jerry of what I’d overheard. And another two minutes to call Malcolm to see if he had a connection at the Ritz. He did. Somehow I knew he would.
“Okay,” Jerry said, “I’ll take over here. They’re going to be packing it up in about an hour anyway. I’ve got my eye on the governor’s wife. She’s in some sort of a snit with the bride’s mother. They haven’t said a word to one another, let
alone gotten within ten feet of each other. They’ve got to do the toast together, so I’m hoping to get a good shot of them when that happens.
“But you need to beat a path over there now and get the lay of the land. This is award-winning photography. This will be big if we can pull it off, Tony,” he said quietly.
I smiled and shrugged. “Grace Evangelista always comes through. Especially when it’s up close and personal. Like this.”
Chapter 16
Three days later.
October 22, 1999
Seth
I hadn’t had time to put it all together in my mind until now. Three days after the fact and it hadn’t really sunk in to my brain up until this point.
That was my fault.
It was this penchant I had for coming to conclusions after weighing the factors at play in any conflict I had to deal with in my own biased mind, and then neatly tucking them away where I’d never have to deal with them again unless I wanted to or I was forced to do so.
I tended to weigh the components as fact versus supposition a lot of the times, and that was based on my own personal judgments and opinions I’d adopted throughout my life. It made it easier for me to consider the outcome as black or white, good or evil, right or wrong. It was a flawed way of thinking I’d come to realize. And I came to that realization after Saturday night when I’d finally had the guts to ask Jazzy the question I’d wanted to ask her all evening.
But I’d procrastinated. Another flawed tendency of mine when in uncomfortable or unfamiliar territory, but hell, it was a perfectly acceptable human trait, right?
So, I had bided my time until well into the evening after we’d all partied for a while, and Jack and Blake left to make a trip to the deli and liquor store for eats and more booze. Jazzy had stayed behind to finish putting Blake’s kitchen together, and I’d volunteered to set up his sound system in the living room.
His place was small, but nice. It was on the second floor and had a large walk out patio off the dining area. From the living room where I was setting up his sound system, I could see Jazzy walking back and forth between kitchen bar and dining room table where the boxes had been placed.
Jazzy had acted funny towards me all evening. We’d only seen one another in passing since the blow up I’d had with Neely over a year ago at their apartment. It was time to mend fences. I’d known Jazzy for a while. Not nearly as long as I’d known Neely, but still, I needed to start with her.
“So, you gonna hate my guts forever because of Neely?” I asked her point blank as her head was stuck inside one of the cabinets trying to maneuver the lining paper to fit.
She popped her head out and turned to me. “What makes you think I hate you, Seth? I might not like the person you’ve turned into over the past few years, but no, I don’t hate you. I don’t hate anyone. That’s negativity I just don’t need.”
“Let’s start with that scene that I know you overheard last year at your place. With me and Neely? It was ugly, I admit it, but please, hear me out.”
“I’m listening,” she deadpanned.
“Okay, well I was thrown for a loop that day on the set. Hearing that Neely had been pregnant and then her running out of there and refusing to talk to me about it, well that was bad enough. But the fact is when I finally did catch up with her at your place—the things she said to me were pretty fucked up, Jazzy.”
“I don’t disagree with you there, Seth. In fact, I told her as much.”
That surprised me, but I continued since I had her attention and maybe even her support at the moment. “It wasn’t even the pregnancy, per se, it was the fact that Neely hadn’t thought twice about aborting the baby like it was some insignificant consequence of our lapse in judgment. She never once considered my feelings in the matter, or even felt the need to clue me in on it. She was selfish in every respect and that part is fucking unforgiveable to me. And maybe because you’re a chick you can’t understand that at all. But guys—well, guys have feelings too, Jazzy. Don’t peg us all as being selfish pricks the way Neely did!”
She climbed down from the stepladder and walked over to where I was standing. “Are you finished now, Seth? Have you said all you needed to say about that, because if so, then I want you to listen to what I have to say.”
I nodded, and crossed my arms, leaning up against the kitchen wall. “Go for it.”
“Neely is my best friend. Even though I haven’t known her nearly as long as you have, I know her inside and out. I know when she’s happy or sad; mad, scared, confused, or any of the other moods she happens to be in at the moment. I know her heart and I know her soul because, you see, we share our secrets—good and bad.”
She stopped. I figured she was waiting for me to say something. “Okay, Jazz—”
“Shut up!” she snapped. “I’m not finished.”
Apparently not.
“For you to say those things you said to Neely that night last year was one thing. But for you to stand here right now and say the things you just said to me about how you feel wronged and how you feel cheated and how Neely was selfish in not considering your feelings—well, it’s so fucked up that I want to plant my foot right up your self-righteous ass, Seth Drake! For as long as you’ve known Neely I’m here to tell you that you don’t know shit about her! Get over yourself, Seth. And then do everyone a favor and either get over Neely or get the story right. That’s all I’m gonna say about it—ever!”
She’d not given me a chance to react. She’d grabbed her jacket and purse, and flew out of Blake’s apartment like a bat out of hell.
I’d scratched my head for about two minutes, and then I’d left too. And for the last couple of days, I’d replayed it over in my head again and again until it finally dawned on me. Jazzy was right. I’d missed the most important thing she’d said to me out of the entire conversation: get the story straight.
What the hell did that mean? What part of the story had I gotten wrong? I ran a hand through my hair and released a hard sigh. Had that been Jasmine’s way of telling me I needed to talk to Neely again? Find out what part of the story I’d not understood?
Had I presumed she’d been pregnant by me, when in fact, it had been with somebody else? No. That part wasn’t possible as I recalled the day on the set when Tiffany Blume had made that remark: You’d think you two never made a baby together…
I’d ripped into Tiffany Blume that day after Neely had hopped onto a passing studio shuttle right after the paparazzi had snapped the picture of us kissing.
Thank fuck the pictures had never surfaced, because by that time, Julia and I were starting a relationship. She would have been livid and rightfully so. To be honest, I wasn’t sure what the hell had gotten into me at that moment, but whatever it was, it seemed to happen only when I was around Neely.
At any rate, I’d gone to Tiffany immediately and we’d had it out in the production office. She claimed she thought I’d known all about it. She said she thought it was the reason Neely and I had parted ways, and she thought by tossing us together in a scene, we might be able to patch things up.
What a lame fucking excuse for her apparent need to hurt her stepdaughter.
Once we’d finished filming the season, I told Julia I didn’t want to renew my contract on Lotus Pointe. Her father was able to pull some major strings that landed me an audition for the new series, Bangor. He was one of the executive producers. Even Julia had thought it would be better for our relationship if we didn’t work together. And me? I was just glad to be away from Tiffany Blume and her conniving ways.
The only way I was going to be able to put all of this to rest was to talk to Neely again. Get the whole story, the rest of the story, or the true story from what Jazzy had said when she’d ripped me a new one the other night.
I called Blake to get their address. I had free time for the next few days and I’d go to their place as often as I needed to until Neely was there and willing to talk to me like two reasonabl
e adults, because that is what we were supposed to be now.
This thing—this wedge or negativity between us had gone on for way too long. It was kid stuff, teenage angst stuff, willful pride that went before the fall, but it wasn’t us, not the way we were meant to be anyway.
It did not, nor would it ever define Neely and me and what we had been to one another for all those years. Yeah, I get that we were kids for most of those years, but the shit that really counted? The stuff that molded you into the adult you were destined to be? Well that was all determined in the formative years—and those were the years I’d spent with Neely at my side.
Neely and me swimming.
Neely and me on the beach, our feet buried in wet sand while we sculpted our masterpieces.
Neely and me fishing at the pier.
Neely and me skipping stones near our favorite hidden fresh water pond where the waterfall splashed over the rocks, and sharing our secrets and dreams.
Neely watching me run track and telling me I was the best even though I clearly wasn’t.
Me watching Neely sketch and telling her she was the best when she clearly was.
Me walking Neely to her next class and frowning at any dude who dared to check her out along the way.
Me stealing a kiss or two while Neely painted a landscape in her backyard.
Me touching her for the first time in the front seat of my car in ways I’d never touched her before.
I’d been kidding myself thinking that I could ever be totally happy or fulfilled in my life without her being a part of it in some way. It didn’t matter if we were friends or lovers, just as long as it was one or the other. She mattered that much to me.
I’d finally tossed her old letter in the trash because it was inconsequential in the grand scheme of things I’d finally come to realize. It was a very small part of the history that was us. But I’d stupidly allowed it to define Neely in a way I could never really see her and distract me from the truth.