by Libby Street
“How are you holding up?” she asks into my hair.
“How did you get past the doorman?”
“Who, Carl? I just told him I was your mother. He let me right up.” There goes somebody’s Christmas tip. “I see that you’re not feeling yourself, darling.” She lets me go and begins fiddling with my hair. “Let’s have a cup of tea and you can tell me everything.”
It’s just Brooke, Paige, and I. Luke came home with two sacks full of treats. Hearing about Ethan Wyatt, and seeing my mother, he got the sudden and overwhelming urge to play basketball. Go figure.
“Well, this is unprecedented,” Paige grumbles into her second steaming cup of tea. She takes a delicate sip, slides her Manolo mules off, and props her feet on the coffee table. “You’re being stalked by a celebrity,” she adds, not talking to anyone in particular.
“Yep,” I reply to the wall. My eyes have long since glazed over, and numbness has replaced the frenzied bewilderment of earlier.
“He didn’t give you any indication what his goal was for this little experiment of his?” Paige asks.
“Excellent question,” Brooke exclaims, leaning toward my mother.
“To make me suffer,” I answer. That’s the problem with this kind of torture—the end point is subjective. Only Ethan knows what it will take to satisfy himself.
“I’m going to say something now, Sadie, that I know you don’t want to hear….” Oh, here we go. My mother turns to Brooke and laments, “She hates my motherly concern.” Looking back at me with a condescending flutter of her eyelashes, she chatters on. “I think a lot of your problems have to do with this job.”
I groan. “We’ve been over this—”
Without skipping a beat, Paige continues, “Your problem keeping a steady boyfriend…” Oh, my God. “And your tendency to be so…scattered. Now there’s this—”
I try again. “Could you please—”
“I just want you to be happy,” Paige says, with something that approximates sincerity.
“My job is what makes me happy.” It got me away from you, I don’t add.
“All right, darling. Whatever you say,” replies my mother. She sets her teacup down and elegantly drapes her arms on the sofa back. A shallow sigh escapes her. She delicately pushes a swish of hair from her forehead. “Short of quitting this paparazzi business and moving away…I think the best course of action is to ignore him.”
“Ignore him? Are you crazy?” Well, there it is—the first “Are you crazy?” of this little visit.
Paige taps her hand on mine. “Sadie, if you don’t know what it’ll take to make him stop, you obviously can’t do it. If he’s hell-bent on making you miserable, having him think you’re not miserable could be your best offense.”
“Oooh, excellent idea, Mrs.—Paige,” says Brooke.
But I want to strike back! To make him suffer!
Ignore him?
Really?
Ugh. I think she might be right.
I might have a shot at victory if I show Ethan Wyatt that he’s wrong about how hard it is to be a celebrity. Moreover, ignoring him might just get him to see the futility of his vengeance and give it up for good. I just have to settle in, then grin and bear it till Ethan Wyatt sees how cool under pressure I really am and his obsession dies—along with his pride.
If Paris Hilton can do it twenty-four hours a day, how hard could it be? We’re not talking rocket science here.
But, man, I hate it when my mother is right.
“I can ignore him,” I state—in a tone that clearly indicates I would have thought of it on my own eventually.
“Excellent choice,” chirps Paige.
“I agree,” concurs Brooke.
“Well, good! Glad I was here to get that settled,” Paige says, rising to her feet. “You know, darling—what would you think of getting a manicure and pedicure with me tomorrow? And you look like you could use a haircut, too.” She runs her fingers through my hair. “Maybe highlights…” she adds, as though penning a little mental note for herself.
“How long do you plan on staying?” I pose, trying to sound casual.
“As long as it takes. I’m in this for the long haul.” Yeah, what was I saying about how you never know what the goal is, or precisely when it will end?
My mother passes along her hotel information (“The Waldorf—isn’t it sad about the Plaza being closed?”), straightens herself back to “presentable” (her clothes absolutely never wrinkle), and departs, leaving behind—as she always does—a hint of rose water in the air and the trenchant impression that you’ve just been visited by a whirling dervish. The room seems just the slightest bit emptier after she’s left than it did before she arrived.
“I think you give her a bad rap,” says Brooke while rinsing out our teacups. “She’s not that bad, Sadie.”
“Yeah,” I reply. “It always seems that way at first, but did you catch that last thing?” Mocking Paige’s voice, I add, “You need a haircut and highlights…dahhhling. It never changes.”
“What if she just wants you to take a break and be pampered?” Brooke replies.
“Yeah, and what if she wants to mold me into her clone and jointly rule a despotic empire? Honestly, that’s just as likely.”
“You might think about cutting her some slack. She did help you out. Which reminds me…have you opened the box yet?”
“No.”
“This might be the time. It may come up in conversation one of these days.”
“Yeah, I guess it could. But I—”
“Ahhhhh!” Brooke exclaims, frantically dropping a teacup and wiping her wet hands on her frilly apron. “Is that my cell phone?”
A bit bewildered, I strain my ears. “I don’t—”
She doesn’t wait for me to finish. Instead, Brooke scrambles out of the kitchen and races through the living room. Speeding for her bedroom, she catches a foot on the area rug in front of the sofa and trips. Trying to keep her balance—and maintain her course—she stumbles headlong directly into her door. The thud this makes actually echoes through the apartment.
“Oh, my God. Brooke, are you o—” She flops into her bedroom and slams the door behind her. “—kay?”
Interesting. Apparently, I’m not the only person experiencing a psychotic break.
Chapter 17
Two weeks have passed since the photos of Duncan and me “having a steamy midnight canoodling session in a dark alley” (as Celeb so eloquently put it) appeared in nearly every major tabloid in the country. Ethan’s vendetta doesn’t seem to be waning, and what’s worse—he’s made significant strides in his technique. The pictures are getting bigger and of better quality. That is to say, they’re not as grainy. The quality of me in the pictures, on the other hand, seems to be on the decline. To be fair, I think that’s partly my fault.
The first few times I tried the cool-under-pressure/ignoring technique were a bit touch and go. My first attempt ended around the time I threw a newspaper at Ethan’s head. My second effort went awry in the minutes following my gynecologist asking the question “Is that strange bearded fellow in the lobby your husband? He’s making the pregnant women nervous.” The third resulted in my purchasing the world’s largest Elton Johnesque sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat à la Princess Di. I then walked around Manhattan shaking like a leaf and looking like an enterprising drag queen doing a one-person dramatic interpretation of “Candle in the Wind ’97.”
Not helping things is the fact that Duncan’s movie opened last weekend. The Speed of Light is a hit. A major hit. It absolutely decimated all previous Memorial Day records. He’s the man of the moment. And I am his accidental It Girl. My fake boyfriend is the hottest gossip story of the summer.
His face is featured prominently on The Speed of Light posters that are conveniently situated at every bus stop in the five boroughs. There’s a full-body shot of him on a massive billboard that takes up seven floors of a major office building in Times Square. There are television commerc
ials for his upcoming film, and a torrent of continuing press about the one that’s already in theaters. He’s on the cover of three magazines, in the entertainment section of the New York Times—above the fold—and Duncan Stoke has even been poked fun at on The Daily Show and The View. I’m the famous nobody allegedly dating the somebody that everybody’s talking about.
Now, I’m not saying that it’s hard, okay? I’m not saying that Ethan Wyatt has a point. I’m just saying it’s…challenging. Challenging at worst.
All right, it might be a little hard.
Even the most casual walk down the street is a test of my self-control. I cannot touch, wipe, or scratch anything on my person when outside the safety of my apartment. I cannot yawn, sneeze, or cough. I cannot wander aimlessly into porn shops or X-rated movie theaters. Not that I did a whole lot of that before this nightmare began, but at least then it was an option.
The grocery store is a minefield of possibly embarrassing photographs. The tampon aisle notwithstanding, there are also adult diapers, prune juice, and condoms. Department stores are no better—lingerie, hosiery, and china patterns could all be easily misconstrued. Eating out is a problem, too. I have to sit at the back of restaurants and order things that don’t require me to open my mouth too wide, or get too sloppy. On the bright side, I think I’ve discovered how actresses maintain their figures. Salad is pretty much the only thing manageable in small bites.
So, it’s kind of hard. But here’s the thing—my situation is different. For Ethan, this is all the bad stuff there is. The cameras scoping him out on the street are the only downside of his lifestyle. I’m willing to bet that having several million dollars in the bank is a pretty good salve for the minor nuisance of life in a fishbowl. (First off, the fishbowl would be huge.) It has to be twenty times easier for him. Right?
I’m just a regular girl. I have a very humble fishbowl…and a fake boyfriend who is currently America’s number-one grossing movie star. This means that it’s gone beyond Ethan and his silly photos; the stories that accompany them keep getting bigger and better. (By better, I mean frightening.)
My favorites so far…
One: “Stoke Plans Romantic Reunion as Press Tour Returns to New York.” This one was illustrated by a picture of me inspecting a bra in La Perla, and had a list of items said to have been purchased by Duncan for our rendezvous. Among them was fruit-flavored massage oil and a CD entitled Mozart for Lovers.
Two: “Duncan’s Gal Friday—Stoke’s Mystery Girlfriend Said to be a NYC Photographer.” This blurb was under a photo of me reading Cosmopolitan and shoving a muffin in my mouth. Pretty inoffensive, right? Yeah, except the article I happened to be reading at the time was “65 Ways to Make Him Go Ooooh.” I was genuinely curious, but not for the reasons the papers suggested. I honestly have no intention of making Duncan Stoke “Go Ooooh.”
Three: “Stoke’s Blonde Ambition.” This little gem featured a half-dozen people Duncan Stoke has “dated.” I was, of course, the grand finale of the layout—with my head cocked awkwardly to the side, one eye closed, and half of my tongue sticking out. The readers of that particular magazine now believe that I am either outrageously homely, mentally challenged, or both.
These layouts are like bad yearbook pictures, or photo albums from a year that you’d rather forget. I see the pictures of me in the papers just the same way other people see them—oddly removed from their context. Like the tabloid-reading public at large, I see that girl on the page and think, there’s a girl who eats burritos on the run and ruins her favorite shirt because she doesn’t have time to sit down for a meal. I think, There’s a girl who buys frilly underwear that in all likelihood no one but she will be able to appreciate. I think, There’s a person who, though perhaps pretty and talented on someone’s scale, is nonetheless clumsily stumbling through life. The only problem is, these aren’t just bad yearbook photos. Yearbooks get shoved in the back of bookshelves, buried under old prom dresses in your childhood bedroom. These pictures are distributed nationwide, new ones appear weekly—daily in some cases—on the newsstand down the block from my apartment. I can’t help but look at them. I try my best to think of these things as a minor nuisance, try not to think about how similar my current situation is to the one I put Ethan in. I try.
Adding to my streak of unprecedented bad luck, Paige has taken it upon herself to act as my bodyguard. My mother seems to think that because she’s taken cardio-boxing classes at the gym, she is an expert in self-defense. This came as a shock to me, as I thought everyone in the Western world had figured out that rhythmic boxing provides only a false sense of security. The boxing-to-the-beat self-defense technique is only effective against bands of frolicsome marauders who commit crimes solely when accompanied by an upbeat techno soundtrack. (One-two-three, and right hook. Step-ball-change and jab, ladies!) I suppose Paige could cripple an attacker with her stilettos. But then, that would require her to convince the attackers to put the heels on and walk around the city for an hour.
To sum up, Ethan Wyatt is winning.
“No, Todd, I can do it. I swear!” I plead into the phone. “I need to work. Please?” It keeps me sane. Todd’s been reluctant to give me the best assignments—the last-minute and very profitable kind—because my car’s in the shop. I think I’ve almost got him convinced that I can make it to the Upper East Side before Naomi Watts finishes a Madison Avenue shopping spree.
“Todd, I’ll give you my firstborn.”
“Take that back and you have a deal,” he quips.
“Thank you! Thank you! Thank—”
“Okay,” he says. “Go!”
I drop the phone on the bed and run through the living room gathering my camera equipment, purse, and a couple of PowerBars.
Paige languidly looks up from her copy of Harper’s Bazaar. “Where are you off to?”
“A job…Upper East Side…Naomi Watts…Gotta go!” I stutter breathlessly.
“Oh, I’ll just get my shoes!” she replies with a sudden cheery sort of look about her.
“No really. I’ll be fine,” I say, slamming the front door behind me.
I step out into the city and head for the subway station. It’s rush hour, the express train will be much faster than a cab.
“Sadie!” my mother screams behind me. “Hold on! Here I come!”
I look behind me to see Paige wobbling down the street. A man power-walking by her smartly gives my mother a wide berth. I have to say, though, I’m pretty impressed. That’s the closest thing to a jog I’ve ever seen anybody do in a pair of Manolo mules.
“Really, I’ll be fine,” I tell her as she catches up. “You can go back to the apartment and…sit or something.”
“No, no. I’m the muscle, darling. Remember?”
Paige and I descend the steps into the subway station and, looking behind me, I see Ethan—in his stupid disguise—right behind us. I force my mother, teetering on her heels, to race through the turnstile, and cram us both into the jam-packed train just before the doors close.
Wiggling between suit-clad commuters, I find a spot to stand. My mother takes a position nearby, but across the aisle. We barely have time to catch our breath before the train lurches to a start.
I glance around, hoping against hope that Ethan didn’t make it onto the train.
No such luck.
Looking over my left shoulder, I spot a dirty red baseball cap at the other end of the car—inching its way through the crowd toward me.
“Oh!” I hear myself exclaim, before slapping my hand over my mouth. That was somebody touching my butt.
“What’s wrong, darling?” my mother asks, clueless. Okay, so it wasn’t her.
Right, whatever. It’s a crowded subway car. It was probably just an accident. I inch my way forward the slightest bit—closer to a middle-aged woman in a crisp white maid’s uniform who’s sitting directly below me on the bench. She seems to be a low risk for groping. I clutch my camera gear and handbag close to my chest.
I s
lowly turn my head to catch a glimpse of the possible psycho and/or embarrassed commuter who got a piece of my tush.
A tall, unbelievably hot guy is just inches from my face. His rather muscular left arm is raised, hand grasping the top commuter pole. He smiles at me warmly and says, “Sorry.”
“No problem,” I say, flirting back. Not sure if he’s flirting, but I’m willing to take the chance. For some reason this random opportunity to flirt and be girly in front of Ethan sends a surge of adrenaline through my veins.
The stranger smiles some more and says, “You got enough room there?” Totally flirting—and really good-looking.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.”
I could so use a diversion right now. It’d be nice to have a date with a handsome man who, by the looks of the snappy leather messenger bag and casual yet business-appropriate attire, is gainfully employed in something other than the entertainment industry. I’d like to be just a normal girl—who isn’t being stalked—going on a date with a cute guy.
The train slows suddenly, making everyone rock forward with a jolt.
There goes his hand again.
“I swear to God, that was an accident,” the stranger fawns, his eyes imploring me to believe him.
“Sure it was,” I quip.
“Really,” he retorts. “I don’t make a habit of feeling up beautiful women on the subway.”
I’m beautiful!
“Oh, that’s what they all say,” I reply—trying not to bat my eyelashes.
“This happens to you a lot, does it?”
“Why else would I be riding the subway at rush hour?”
He laughs, and I giggle in an appropriately girly way (read: victim of goofy yet uncontrollable female reflex).
My mother whispers behind me, “Good catch. And you-know-who seems to be annoyed.”
I turn my head, all the better to glare at her and indicate with a lot of staring and blinking that she should shut up.
Turning back to the handsome stranger, I inadvertently make eye contact with the lady in the white uniform.