Trashed

by Alison Gaylin

  During the drive back to her apartment, Simone tried not to think about the fact that tomorrow and the next day and the next, she would have no reason to climb Coldwater Canyon. She would have no reason to worry about Keith Furlong either, because before she knew it, she would be on her way back East again, her journey across the country deemed an official failure. Who knew if Kathy, Elliot, and Matthew would pick up her leads on Destiny, Emerald, and Nia? But odds were, the story would die. After all, none of those women moved issues like Chrylanara. Speaking of which, who would be the Asteroid’s Chrylan insider now? Would Kathy try to befriend Julie? Would Matthew charm her to distraction as Elliot dug through her trash? Or would they try for that closeness and fail and ultimately fold as New York went through with its plan of shutting down the West Coast bureau . . . all because Nigel couldn’t handle a reporter talking to the competition. Seriously, when you thought of it in those terms, Nigel’s reasoning was ridiculous. What did he say she was doing? Associating with the enemy? Please. What was this, an episode of Survivor?

  Of course, none of that made her feel any better. She’d reached the bottom of Coldwater Canyon and was driving through Studio City when her cell phone rang. She answered it. “Hi, Julie.”

  “What’s wrong? You sound awful.”

  “Huh? Oh . . . I’m just tired.”

  “Well, I hope you’re not too tired. I’m meeting Randi and a bunch of Devil’s Road people at Swifty’s tonight at nine. I want you to come with me.” She added, “Your high school crush will be there.”

  “Who?”

  “Chris Hart, silly.”

  Yeah, right, that’s what Chris Hart is known as these days. “Okay.”

  “Great. Text me your address, and I’ll pick you up in the limo.”

  “Looking forward to it,” she said, even though she wasn’t looking forward to it at all. Simone was getting tired of Devil’s Road people, tired of VIPs. Charity was right—they were a bunch of freaks. But Julie was still so hard to say no to.

  Just as Simone was pulling up to the curb in front of her apartment building, her cell phone chimed again. She glanced at the caller ID, and her heart beat a little faster. “Nigel?”

  “Hello, love,” he said. “Listen, I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve decided you’re not fired.”

  “I’m not?”

  “Have you heard today from Dirty Dylan?”

  She winced at the name. “Yes. We’re getting together tonight. At Swifty’s.”

  “Brilliant.” Simone could hear the smile in his voice. “I believe I’ve found a way to make the situation work in our favor.”

  From her apartment, Simone phoned Desert Ranch spa in Palm Springs and reserved a room under the name of Britt Gleason. Then she called the West Coast bureau of the Interloper and asked for Neil Walker. When he picked up, and she said, “Hi, it’s Simone,” he said, “I was just going to call you.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve got your Chrylan lead.”

  “So I guess I won’t be calling Dylan, then,” he said. “Too bad, because this is a very attractive business card.”

  “It is,” she said. “But this lead is much more gorgeous. ”

  “You’re killing me here. Out with it.”

  “Are you sitting down?”

  “Yes, yes. . . .”

  “Dylan’s pregnant.”

  “What?!”

  “She just found out, and she is freaking. Says she needs to get away from it all, figure things out.”

  “I can’t believe this.”

  “Believe it. She’s checking into Desert Ranch tonight, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Chris heads down there too.”

  “Are you . . .”

  “On my way, yeah.” She sighed heavily. “I promised I’d meet her. But I bet you anything Chris shows up and tries to talk her into having the baby.”

  “Jesus,” he said. “This is huge!”

  “Oh, I almost forgot. Dylan is traveling under the name of Britt Gleason.”

  “See you there,” he said.

  “Just don’t give me away.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it,” he said. “You know, one good turn . . .”

  She felt a jab of fresh guilt, and she tried to ignore that, tried to ignore everything except that she had her job back. She looked at the clock. It was five p.m. Plenty of time before Julie would pick her up in the limo. But she may as well get ready—take a shower, make herself something to eat. The shower, in particular, was sounding good. She started to unbutton her shirt, then stopped as she thought of Walker again. No doubt he was in his car right now, driving all the way down to Palm Springs. It was a good plan, yes. And the fact was, he’d threatened her first. One Chrylan lead by the end of the day. Who did he think he was? Still, she felt bad about it.

  Some things couldn’t be ignored, no matter how hard you tried. . . .

  The phone rang. At first, she thought it might be Walker, saying, I can’t believe you thought you could put one over on me. But when she glimpsed the caller ID screen, Holly’s name was on it. Simone picked up the phone. “Hi, Holly,” she said. “Sorry I didn’t call you back, but I had this problem at work and—”

  “Simone.” Holly’s voice was small. “Is there any way you can pull that story about Keith?”

  Her breath caught. “Has he been threatening you?”

  “No, no . . . nothing like that. I just . . . I’ve changed my mind. That’s all.” She sounded as if her whole body was trembling.

  Simone breathed into the phone, and said, “Holly, I’ll try. But I don’t know if I can.”

  Holly didn’t reply. She had already hung up.

  EIGHTEEN

  Swifty’s was the VIP lounge of the Beverlido Hotel, but years ago, “back in the day,” as Julie told Simone, “it was just the Lounge. Everybody used to come here—Dino, Frank, Marilyn ... but also girls like me, who wanted to get discovered.”

  “I’d say you’ve been discovered, Julie.”

  She laughed a little. “Yeah, really.”

  The two of them were sitting at a corner table—one of the most sought-after spots in the small, dimly lit room, which was, in turn, one of the most-sought-after spots in all of LA. Like everything else in the Beverlido, Swifty’s had undergone a sort of retro face-lift. With its dark wood paneling, Tiffany light fixtures, and elaborate 1930s-style ashtrays (those important enough to get in were certainly allowed to smoke), the bar was designed to make you feel like you’d stepped into an unusually glamorous time capsule. It was, as they say, art directed to death.

  On a purely professional level, Simone knew how lucky she was to get into this place—it was an eavesdropper’s dream come true. But much as she tried to enjoy the setting, she couldn’t stop thinking about Holly, how frightened she had sounded. Why? What had happened?

  Simone had phoned Nigel, asked if they could retract the Emerald story, or at least take Holly’s quotes out of it. But no, he said. According to the New York office, the article had shipped. When Simone had called Holly back, she had said, “That’s okay.” But not like she meant it. She had said it in a tiny, lost voice that made Simone think, It is not okay at all.

  Julie was talking now, something about Shirley Temple drinking Shirley Temples in this very seat.

  Simone said, “Sounds cannibalistic.”

  Julie smiled. “You’re still funny,” she said, her gaze floating around the room.

  “Not my best line, but thanks.” Simone’s eyes drifted to the pencil lead in Julie’s cheek and it hit her yet again, how surreal this all was. Julie Curtis, in her life again, and unbelievably famous. When they had first come in, Julie had pointed out four major studio execs, and on her own Simone had recognized Will and Jada Pinkett Smith, Cate Blanchett, Lynzee de la Presa and that shipping heir. Involved as they were in their own conversations, they all gaped at Julie as if she were a goddess. Or a nine-car pileup. Either one.

  Julie didn’t seem to notice. She had said it herself: If there’s one thing I
know how to handle, it’s attention.

  “Oh, good, they’re here,” she said. Simone looked across the room and saw Randi DuMonde and her associate, Nathaniel, followed by Jason Caputo, a pouting brunette who had to be a model, Blake Moss, Chris Hart, and his bodyguard, Maurice. They approached the table, and greetings were exchanged, Caputo introducing the woman as Ila. Why aren’t these women ever called Debbie or Pam?

  Of all of them, Simone was probably happiest to see Maurice. There was something so soothing, so safe in that calm, lethal presence. She recalled her confrontation with Furlong in Pleasures’s parking lot. How differently it would’ve gone down had Maurice been by her side. Fleetingly, she thought, Maybe, once I get to know him better, Chris can lend me Maurice, too. But then she remembered she was not a friend but a tabloid spy. And odds were, Julie would learn that fact long before Simone got to know Chris at all. She shuddered. She didn’t want to think about that, but it did seem inevitable.

  How would it happen? Would Julie ever forgive her?

  “Hi, angel,” said Blake. He took Simone’s hand and kissed the inside of her wrist—an uncomfortably intimate thing to do, considering he didn’t even know her last name. “What happened to your pretty bracelet?”

  Simone coughed. She looked at Caputo, waiting for him to tell his villain to put the waitress down, but he was too busy ordering Grey Goose and sugar-free Red Bull for Ila, Cristal for everybody else.

  Once the waitress left, Caputo turned to Randi. “You look like hell.”

  “How do you expect me to look?” she said.

  “Randi,” Nathaniel explained, “was at the police station for a couple of hours today.”

  Simone’s gaze snapped onto him. “Why?” she and Caputo said at the same time.

  Moss asked again, “What happened to your bracelet?” He was still holding her hand. This bothered her.

  “Clasp broke,” she said. “It’s at the jewelers.”

  Hart said, “How are you, Dylan?” and Simone was caught between probing his face for emotion, trying to hear Nathaniel explain to Jason why the police had been questioning Randi, pulling away from Blake, and attempting to see around Ila, who sat statue-still between Simone and Julie—a beautiful, placid obstruction.

  “I’m fine, Chris,” Julie said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, don’t worry, I’m—”

  “I need to talk to you,” he said. “In private.” His voice was calm, but very cold, even angry, Simone thought. Odd. Why would Chris be angry at Julie?

  “Now, Dylan.” Chris stood up and walked to the far end of the room without even looking back, Julie trailing after him like a pet. Maurice started to get up too, but Chris gestured at him to sit back down.

  Simone wanted to exchange glances with Maurice, to ask him, “What was that about?” But clearly the bodyguard was not interested in gossip. From the inside pocket of his tailored suit coat, he produced the latest issue of Forbes and started to read, as if he were sitting in a doctor’s waiting room next to a bunch of sick people he had no desire to know.

  Nathaniel said to Caputo, “. . . and the detective showed her pictures.”

  Randi’s eyes were downcast. Though she was wearing another bright red outfit—this time a high-collared knit dress that clung to her large body in a what-are-you-looking-at sort of way, with matching high heels that put her several inches over six feet, her face didn’t match the power ensemble. She looked tired, defeated, a little bit ill, even. Simone thought, Pictures of what?

  “Damn, Randi,” Caputo said. “I’m sorry. I had no idea. I’ve just been so wrapped up in the whole promotion thing for the film, I . . . God, that’s just . . .”

  Simone nudged Ila. “Do you happen to know what they’re talking about?”

  “New client of Randi’s?” she said in a thick Russian accent. “She has killed herself?”

  Simone could feel the blood rushing out of her face. “Which client?” she asked, from across the table.

  Randi looked at Simone, then took a huge swallow of champagne and glanced sidelong at her associate, as if cueing him to speak.

  “You probably haven’t heard of her,” Nathaniel said. “Her name was Destiny.”

  Destiny was a client of Randi’s. Nia Lawson was a client of Randi’s. . . . As soon as she could, Simone excused herself from the table and headed for the narrow hallway where the restrooms were located. There were four of them, all single-seaters, which was good—she needed the privacy. She waited for one of them to become free, locked herself in, pulled her cell phone out of her purse and called Holly.

  No reception. Damn. She had to do the next best thing, which was to jam her body into the corner at the end of the hallway, face the wall, and call Holly from there.

  Holly picked up after one ring, her voice no longer tiny and scared. Worse. Full of pills. “Simone.”

  “Holly, you need to tell me what’s going on.”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing . . . is going . . . I was just . . . sleeping.”

  Simone looked at her watch: nine thirty. “Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry. You’re probably making up for lost—”

  “You need anything? Because . . .”

  “Right.” Simone closed her eyes. She felt a bug on the back of her neck and brushed it away. “Just a quick question. Was Emerald ever represented by Randi DuMonde? ”

  On the other end of the line, there was a heavy stretch of silence. Holly said, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “What? I was just asking because—”

  “What are you insinuating, Simone?”

  “Nothing!”

  “I can’t believe this.”

  “Look, is this about the article? I’m sorry, Holly. I tried to get Nigel to pull it, but . . .”

  Click.

  Simone stood there for a while, staring at her phone, waiting for it to ring again. Had Holly really hung up on her? That couldn’t have just happened.

  The bug was back again. Maybe it was some kind of sign—the first annoying summer bug she had encountered since moving to LA. She slapped her palm against the back of her neck. But this time, it didn’t fly away. She realized it was not a bug—it was a finger. A thick finger running up and down the back of her neck. Simone froze. Slowly, she turned around . . . until she was looking into the face of Blake Moss.

  How much of that conversation did he hear?

  “You are not a waitress,” he said.

  For several seconds, Simone forgot how to breathe. She forced a smile. “Actually,” she said, “what I really want to do is direct.”

  He didn’t smile back.

  Simone said, “I . . . don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Dylan told me,” Blake said. “You went to Columbia School of Journalism. You’re looking for reporting work.”

  He spat out the word “reporting” like it was a bad piece of meat, but still, Simone breathed a quiet sigh of relief. “Found me out.”

  Blake cupped her chin in his hand, tilted her face up, forcing her to look into his hungry brown eyes. “Why would an angel like you want to be something as sleazy as a reporter?” The other hand stroked the back of her head, crawled into her hair. Man, this guy is not one for personal boundaries.

  “Excuse me,” she said, “but what makes you think you can touch me like that?”

  Moss bent down, bringing his face nearer—a face so famous, it seemed like a caricature—and Simone had the oddest sensation, as if she were being harassed by a close-up. “I can do anything I want,” he said. The hand that had been cupping her chin moved to her throat—the second man to take hold of her throat in twenty-four hours, though Moss’s grip was looser than Furlong’s, less overtly threatening. He slipped his index finger under her jaw. “Your pulse is getting faster,” he whispered, his breath pushing against her skin. “I can tell. You’re not as clean as you look.”

  “Get away from me.”

  Blake Moss took a step back, but
his gaze stayed locked on hers as he grinned his famous grin, that slow, predatory leer. “Soon, angel,” he said, “I will know all your dirty secrets.”

  Simone told Blake she needed to use the bathroom and went back to the table a few minutes after him. She didn’t want to walk next to him, didn’t want to be that close to him, even for the amount of time it took to walk back to the table. He gave her a weird feeling. Maybe it was all the press he’d gotten, or the type of roles he always took, or, more likely, the nonstop, inappropriate touching—but there was something about Blake Moss. . . . Every time she spent more than two minutes next to him, Simone felt like she needed a liquid nitrogen bath.

  When she got back, Chris and Julie had returned and were sitting at opposite ends of the table. Every eye in the room was on them, and they seemed hyperaware of this. They acted as if they barely knew each other, Chris saying things like, “What did the test audience think of the new ending, Jason?” and “Maurice is an awesome golfer, aren’t you, Maurice?” and “Randi, why so freakin’ quiet?” without casting so much as a glance at the woman he had told two days ago, I want you. More than anyone else.

  Every so often, Julie would smile at something Chris said, but the smile always went unreturned. It was the closest Simone had ever seen anyone come to ignoring Julie Curtis. And it was a little worrisome. She could understand lying low, but this bordered on cruelty. She glanced at Julie listening to Caputo dissing Devil’s Road’s most recent test audience, her eyes glistening in a way that wasn’t in keeping with the conversation. She was holding back tears.

  Caputo was oblivious. “But like my dad once said,” he was telling her now, “the masses are asses.”

  Nathaniel said, “I don’t think your dad invented that saying, Jase.”

  A few people chuckled, but not Randi. Randi said nothing. She stared into her champagne glass, her face perfectly still, as if she did not want to disturb the bubbles within. Simone understood, though. She knew what Randi had seen in those police station pictures. “Randi,” she said, “I’m very sorry about your client.”

  Randi locked eyes with her—blue eyes, cold and pale and as hard as ice. But for a few seconds, Simone saw in them a frailty. “She was just a kid,” Randi said. “I probably shouldn’t have signed her in the first place.”