“I just thought we could, you know, enjoy the privacy,” I whisper huskily.
“We’re in public, Alex.” Sean seems baffled. “Anyone could walk out here.”
“Okay, let’s go down to the water.” I go for a lighthearted giggle, trying to seem carefree rather than letting him see how important this moment is to me.
“Wait, stop.” Sean is a brick wall when he doesn’t want to be moved. Once I’m not leaning against his body weight, he lets go of my hand. “What’s this about?”
“What do you mean? Nothing. I was just having fun.” Still trying to keep it light. Fake it till you make it and all that, right?
“Well, it’s not fun to me. What is it with you lately? Like our sex life isn’t enough for you? We have to do it on a gross public beach? You won’t be happy till you get sand everywhere?”
Well, him saying it like that has definitely cooled my ardor to this idea. “Sorry, Sean. You’re right. I was just trying to mix things up a bit.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why? Obviously, you know… to keep things interesting. We’re young—we should have wild, crazy sex stories to tell our grandkids someday.” He makes a gag face. “Well, not that, but you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do.” He sighs, in a way that somehow seems very important. “Alex, I think you’re not ready for a committed relationship yet.”
“What?!” I’m caught completely off guard.
“Let me finish. I’ve actually been thinking about this for a while. I think we’ve both been pressured by your parents, and so settled down that maybe we’re both missing out on the fun stuff.”
“I don’t feel pressured by my parents.”
“I do.” And the honesty of that hurts. A lot.
“Then why don’t I let you off the hook right now. You do not have to date me because my parents want you to. They love you. They’d want you in the company no matter what.” My fury is rising up to cover my embarrassment and hurt. “So don’t worry about me, I’m fine. I definitely don’t need to be held back by a boyfriend who doesn’t want me.”
“Alex, that’s not it at all.” He interrupts my tirade. “I said this wrong, God. I do want you, Alex, I love you. I just think we should take a break for a while. You can try the single life, see what else is out there. And then we’ll see if this is really the relationship we think it is. Maybe then we can settle down and get serious, you know?”
“Yeah, um.” I am forcing myself not to cry. I can feel big ugly tears trying to push to the surface. Facing out to the water, I dig my nails into my palms and catch my breath. “Actually, I have something to tell you, too.
“Hillary P. offered me a job. To keep working for her.” I start making a mental list of all I have to do this weekend to get ready to go, and with the TCA event on Sunday. (After humbly admitting to Hillary’s assistant I didn’t know what “TCA” meant, he explained in a superior tone that it was where all the media got together in one place—a day of interviews. It wasn’t until later that I realized he doesn’t know what the initials stand for, either.) That was added to my calendar last minute, that means I have just Saturday to pack before leaving first thing Monday morning.
“Really? That’s amazing, honey!” He leans over as if to kiss me before quickly pulling back. Not soon enough for me to misunderstand what just happened. I wonder how cold the water is. I could totally pull a Shirley MacLaine right now and dive into the tide with all my clothes on. Maybe it’s the wine I’ve had tonight, but I’m enthralled in visualizing Sean freaking out, yelling at me to get out of the water. Then I remember that I’m not in the ocean having a nervous breakdown, I’m standing on a romantically darkened balcony being broken up with. And my ex-boyfriend is still talking. What is he talking about? “I didn’t know she was staying here. I thought you said she was going back to New York.”
“She is,” I say, remembering my news and now, of course, thrilled to have a reason to get the hell out of town. “Hillary wants me to go with her back to New York.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. I mean, to have to turn her down.” I stay silent. Not the first time he’s been wrong tonight. “Nice to be offered, though, right?”
“Actually, I said yes.” I’m trying not to sound like a rejected girlfriend. This decision was completely independent of the bomb he just dropped, and he needs to know that. “This is a big opportunity for me, and I’m really excited about it.”
“You decided to move to New York City without even talking to me first?”
“Well, obviously it’s not your business now. Is it?” He gives a disbelieving snort, which I decide is an incredibly unattractive sound. “You know I’ve been wanting to get out of my parents’ house for a while now, and this is really—”
“Oh, so that’s it? You’re not doing this to punish me for saying we need to take a break?”
I look at Sean, not extremely surprised that he could be so egocentric. “Yes, shockingly, this is really just about me and my career.”
“You mean your latest career? Last year you were going to be a bartender. And the year before that you tried applying for a nursing program. How long is this going to last, before you move on to the next?”
I have to catch my breath for a second at his brutal words. I’ve got to get out of here.
“I’m done with this conversation, Sean. You’ve made it clear we’re not together anymore. So I really don’t have to explain myself to you. Good night.”
CHAPTER NINE
After an insane Saturday filled with packing up my LA life and soothing my family’s concerns, I’m actually happy to be working on Sunday. It seems like a pretty easy day ahead. I show up at Hillary’s Beverly Hills hotel room at six a.m., following the instructions from Hillary’s assistant’s email exactly. I knock lightly on the door… after all, it is six a.m. I glance around the empty hallway, hoping not to wake her neighbors. No answer. I wait a couple of minutes, wondering if Monica is already inside. Maybe with the hair dryer going they can’t hear me. I knock again, louder. Still no answer.
I check my watch. God, it’s 6:10. I need to get in there. I text Cameron, Hillary’s assistant, to let him know I’m outside the door. After a couple more minutes, I’ve decided to go back downstairs and call the room from the front desk when suddenly the door swings open. Hillary is wearing a baby blue silk tank top and matching short shorts, a sleep mask still on her forehead.
“Good morning, Hillary,” I whisper, trying to be respectful of her obvious hangover.
She staggers back inside without replying. Judging by Hillary’s matted hair, Monica’s not here yet. I drag my wheelie carry-on suitcase full of neatly organized makeup behind me, following her into the suite. Her hair is sticking out in every direction and the place reeks of cigarettes. It’s impossible not to gawk at the huge main living room.
“Where do you want me to set up?” I start to ask, but I hear the door slam and Hillary’s disappeared into the private bedroom area. I’m setting up my stuff on the big dining room table when Monica lets herself into the hotel room.
“What the hell?” she asks by way of a greeting. “You should have started her fifteen minutes ago.”
“Hillary just let me in,” I reply defensively. “I was standing outside for ten minutes knocking.”
“I didn’t hear you,” I hear from behind me. I spin around to see Hillary standing in the doorway, now wearing a hotel robe. “I’m so sorry I kept you waiting, Alex,” she says in an exaggeratedly apologetic voice, “but there’s no need to go spreading tales about it.” Definitely feeling reprimanded, even though she said it in a casual tone, I rush to apologize.
“I’m sorry, Hillary. I didn’t mean it like that.” Feeling Monica’s satisfied smile, I make a mental note that she definitely doesn’t have my back. While Monica sets up her irons and fills her water bottle to wet Hillary’s hair, I get to work on cleaning off the leftover makeup she clearly slept in.
ONCE THE SUV drops us off a
t the Langham Huntington, a five-star hotel in Pasadena, the morning is officially started with a briefing from Hillary P.’s publicist, a large woman named Rosalind Meeks. She chats with Hillary about everything from the weather to her latest TV binge until Hillary asks her for talking points for her interviews. I try listening for a few minutes, in case I need the information, but the glazed-over look in Monica’s eye is a big hint that this conversation doesn’t include us. So I turn my attention to soaking up the hotel around us. It’s such a great piece of LA history. I almost share with Monica my story about our field trip to Pasadena in second grade to tour the famous Huntington Gardens, but she doesn’t seem the type to appreciate it. It doesn’t matter anyway, because we’ve arrived at the first interview area and within seconds of being in the tiny hotel room with no A/C, I immediately feel the walls closing in.
I take deep breaths as I touch up Hillary’s pale lip gloss. While she chats up the Denver-based reporter, Monica and I do our last looks before the cameras start rolling. Luckily Hillary has held up really well since we left her suite, so I don’t think twice about excusing myself.
“You look great, Hillary. I’m just going to step outside for the interview,” I let her know quietly as I put my brushes back in my set bag.
“What? Why?” she asks, clearly surprised; she’s suddenly giving me her full attention. I feel like an insect under a microscope.
I glance around me. “It’s pretty packed in here.” Just seeing the limited space offered makes the room more suffocating to me. “I don’t mind waiting outside.”
“I mind,” she declares, dead-eyeing some intern-looking person next to the audio guy. “There’s plenty of room.” And that’s the end of the conversation. She gestures vaguely to the tiny corner where the camera guy has all his equipment stashed.
Okay, fine. I can do this. I plop down on the floor with my back to the corner, trying to give myself the most open view possible. My stupid battle with claustrophobia is not going to get the best of me. I have a job to do. While Hillary smiles for the cameras and chats with the reporter, I stare at my phone, playing Candy Crush to distract myself from the close quarters.
I survive the first few interviews like this, but each room seems to be getting exponentially hotter and tighter, and I know it’s not just my imagination because Monica has huge pit stains on her T-shirt, and the crew guys complain about it every time an interview stops. We’re not even at the lunch break yet, and it’s getting impossible for me to breathe in the endless series of closets we get shut into. Finally, I decide to get ahead of this before I end up making a scene by puking or passing out during one of Hillary’s interviews.
Before we head into the next torture chamber, I stop Hillary in the hallway. “Let me do your touch-up here. I’m going to use the restroom. Can I get you anything? A coffee?” I’m no dummy, figuring an offer to bring her back something might prevent Hillary’s death stare.
“Oh, there’s a bathroom in here I’m sure you can use,” Hillary says from her upside down position as Monica sprays her hair into fullness. She flips back upright to smile at me. “Don’t worry about the coffee, it’s more important to me that you’re with me. Cameron is bringing me a latte later.” Rosalind gestures her into the next lockbox masquerading as a hotel room. With much less ceremony, Monica and I are shooed in after her.
By the end of her fifteen-minute window with the CNN entertainment reporter, the only thing keeping me from a full-on claustrophobic breakdown is my desperate need to pee. Maybe that’s some sort of therapy I could recommend in the chat rooms I lurk in on sleepless nights.
“See,” Hillary says, patting me on the back as she walks out, “was that so bad?” I look at her, not understanding. “You don’t like tight spaces, right?” She nods sympathetically at my confused expression. “It’s okay, I saw it right away. You don’t have to hide that kind of thing from me.” And then she leans in close to me. I can’t look away. “I can help you overcome it. This is your job now. Right? Use me to help you focus on something besides your fears. I really want to help you.”
I think I nod in response, but I’m not sure. It’s like being hypnotized. Hillary P. is going to cure me of my claustrophobia? It’s hard not to be in awe of her arrogant godlike confidence. And then she’s off. Cameron appears out of nowhere, latte in hand, and wearing fabulous Gucci sneakers, he sweeps Hillary into the next doorway down the narrow, windowless hallway.
By lunch, the tank top I wore under my sundress is drenched in sweat. I cannot breathe for the entire time we are in the horribly stifling hotel rooms. And the answer is a definitive no. Focusing on Hillary as if she is the messiah has not miraculously cured me of my condition. I finally ask one camera guy who’s dripping in sweat why they can’t turn the air on. After giving me a pitying look, he explains that the A/C makes too much noise for audio. It would ruin the interview.
No big loss, I think privately, as Hillary has basically regurgitated the same stories, answering the same six questions with the same fake smile, for the last five hours straight. And thanks to Monica and me, she continues to look picture perfect. Every time a tiny bead of sweat appears at her brow, I am there to mop it up. I’ve retouched her lip gloss thirty-seven times. I’m counting to keep myself from going insane in the impossibly tight quarters. Monica has given herself away as a cyborg who clearly doesn’t need oxygen. I eye her suspiciously as she sits, calmly smacking her gum without a care in the world.
Once Hillary is safely eating her minuscule lunch, I hear Rosalind, the publicist, tell her she has twenty minutes of downtime, and I make a break for the great outdoors. I practically hyperventilate gasping in the fresh air. But after a few minutes of deep breathing, I’m finally able to appreciate the view from this patio. Below me is the breathtakingly expansive rose garden, with a huge stretch of grass beyond. I would love to go feel the grass under my bare feet for even thirty seconds; it would make me feel human again. But already I know better than to be more than a minute away from Hillary.
“Pretty spectacular, huh?” His bark of laughter at my reaction tells me that I didn’t cover my surprised shriek as well as I thought I did. His charm immediately distracts me as he puts his hands up in the air as if approaching a wild animal. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I don’t think anything could have prepared me for Billy Fox appearing beside me in the cool shade of the huge bougainvillea. It definitely must be my overactive imagination detecting his subtle masculine aftershave on the breeze.
“Hi,” I reply, because I can’t think of anything better to say.
“You’re Hillary P.’s makeup artist, aren’t you?” How can he possibly know that? But before I can ask out loud, he fills in the blank for me. “I remember you from the show last week.” Since I still can’t think of one damn thing to contribute to the conversation, he continues, “I was a guest? On Friday’s show?”
“Oh. Right.” I finally rally to respond. “That looked like fun,” I say moronically. “Making donuts.”
“Yeah, it was,” he replies, now looking at the view instead of me, which helps me think rationally again.
“What are you doing here?” Wow, Alex. Way to come up with a real conversation starter there.
“I’m doing some press interviews for the final season of Wrong Doctor.”
“Oh, really? You’re ending it? I’ve been meaning to watch. Everyone says you have to start from the beginning.” I thought about lying and claiming to be a fan, but it seems like the kind of show I wouldn’t be able to get away with vague details about. Emma isn’t the only one who’s obsessed.
“I’m really happy with how it turned out.” He seems not at all offended by my honesty, which is nice. I side-eye his handsome profile as he leans against the railing, facing out toward the view again. “You’ll have to let me know what you think.”
“I will.” And then, all of a sudden, I decide, why the hell shouldn’t I flirt with him? I’m officially single. He’s the hottest
guy I will probably ever have the chance to talk to. I’m never going to see him again, so why not? “So you gonna tell me how it ends?” I say lightly, and shift my weight so my right arm brushes his as we both lean on the railing looking out at the roses.
“If I did that you wouldn’t have any reason to watch,” he teases. I’m definitely getting signals from this guy. And after what went down with Sean the other night, it feels good to have a guy look at me like this.
“I already have a pretty good reason to watch.” Yes, that’s officially the cheesiest thing I’ve ever said. The blush starts to rush in from my earlobes to heat my cheeks. And in response to either my horrible come-on or, more likely, my now embarrassed red face, I get to experience his adorably sexy laugh up close and personal.
“Okay, that’s it. I have to know your name.” He is giving me 100 percent of his attention now and my insides are melting from it. While I would love to keep the banter going, I really just feel grateful that I remember my own name.
“Alex. I’m Alex.” And before I can do something stupid like reach my hand out for a handshake, my phone starts the Darth Vader theme music. There’s only one person that could be. I silence it in my pocket without breaking eye contact. But as it turns out, my sense of self-preservation is so strong I’m about to walk out on the most sexually exciting moment of my life to respond to Hillary’s summons. I stare into Billy’s handsome face for one more second, trying to memorize everything about this exact instant. And then, knowing I will forever regret it if I don’t take this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity… I reach up on my tiptoes and kiss him on the cheek. Relishing the instant of contact as much as possible without seeming like a stalker, I pull away just as quickly. “It was really nice to meet you,” I say with complete sincerity. And then, wishing I had Cinderella’s grace, or a glass slipper to leave behind, I rush back inside the green room of the Langham, back to real life.
WHEN I FIND Hillary, she’s deeply involved in texting something while Monica recurls her blond layers.
Opportunity Knocks Page 5