My Double Life

by Janette Rallison

  * * *

  After two and a half weeks of dancing, learning to glide in high heels, and memorizing Kari facts with more fervency than I'd studied for the SAT, Maren decided I was ready for my first real event. I was going to a club opening. Kari had been invited by the owner—was actually getting paid to show up there opening night—but since the owner had never met Kari, Maren thought it was the perfect place to test me out before I started the mall openings/rodeo con-certs/parades she had lined up.

  Kari was only grudgingly letting me go, as she liked clubbing, but Maren didn’t want her to go anywhere until she finished her work in the studio.

  Maren set up a date for me with a male model named Stefano so I wouldn't show up alone. Going to a club without a date was something Kari would never do, even though she still sort of considered Michael her boyfriend. In her words, "We’re taking a break, not breaking up.”

  On the appointed night, Kari left her entourage and came over to Maren’s house to check out my hair, outfit, and glitterfication. Not only did I have sparkly body lotion and crystals in my manicure and pedicure, I had half a bottle of gold glitter sprinkled and then sprayed into place in my hair.

  Kari had an arrangement with Lorenzo Rafael, one of the Hollywood elite fashion designers, to wear his outfits to openings, premieres, and award ceremonies. He even paid her two hundred thousand dollars a year for doing it. It was pure advertising for his label.

  I thought this was an extremely sweet deal for her, until Maren handed me the dress I had to put on. Imagine a tan fake-leather top and matching miniskirt, with dark tan strips of fake leather hanging from the skirt—a pseudo Roman soldier look.

  "You're kidding," I told Kari when she handed it to me.

  Maren said, "Lorenzo Rafael likes to make a statement with his clothes.”

  "Yes," I said, "and that statement is: Bring out the gladiators."

  Kari looked at me and sighed. "I don’t know why you're complaining. I’m the one who’s going to be trashed in the entertainment magazines for having no taste.” Her gaze ran over the dress again. "I'll be snickered at by other celebrities and openly mocked on Entertainment Tonight. Fashion isn’t a competition, you know. It's a blood sport."

  "Can't you tell Lorenzo that you don't like this outfit?"

  She shook her head. "I don’t want to tick him off. He’s making me a hand-sewn silk gown for the Grammys. It’s going to have five pounds of beads on it.”

  Great. She got to wear silk, and I got to wear Xena: Warrior Princess.

  After I dressed, Kari fussed over my hair and makeup, giving me club etiquette tips. She slipped lip gloss, my cell phone, and mints into a small over-the-shoulder purse that Lorenzo had made to match my outfit. I would not only look like a gladiator, I would look like a gladiator with a purse. Kari handed it to me with a proud smile. “It's like you’re my little sister and you're going to the prom."

  I nearly dropped the purse. I couldn't look at her, afraid she would see the truth in my eyes. When I did return my gaze to her, she studied my features so intently my heart pounded against my chest. I waited for her to make the connection. Instead she dragged me in front of the bath-room mirror, and we stood side by side comparing our reflections.

  "You look just like me—except for your nose." She turned to Maren, who stood in the doorway watching us. "I like Alexia’s nose better than mine. What do you think? Should I get work done on mine?”

  Maren said, "You need to finish your album before you do anything so drastic. How is the latest song going anyway? Did you get the feel you wanted?"

  Kari walked out of the bathroom to the living room. She sank down into the love seat, somehow still managing to look ultra feminine, even though she’d sprawled herself over the cushions. "I'm spending time relaxing so I can fill myself with creative energy before I start on it again."

  Maren walked over until she stood directly in front of Kari. "Before you start again? You were supposed to be done with it by now.”

  "You can't rush your muse. They don’t punch time clocks.”

  I glanced at my watch. Ten minutes after nine. My driver, a middle-aged guy named Bao-Zhi would be here soon with my bodyguard and Stefano. I wasn't sure what country Bao-Zhi came from. I’d only talked to him briefly before— briefly because he didn’t speak much English. Mostly he just smiled, nodded, and checked his GPS. I think that was part of Maren’s plan to keep my identity a secret. My staff was completely made up of foreigners. That way, there was less chance of them figuring out who I was, or leaking anything about me to the press. At any rate, it was almost time to leave. "Any last words of advice?” I asked.

  Kari drew her gaze back to me. "Be careful when you’re eating appetizers. If the paparazzi get pictures of you, the last thing I want to see is a photo of me with spinach quiche stuck between my teeth.”

  "Um, okay,” I said.

  Maren reviewed my appearance one last time. "I’ve given instructions to Stefano that he’s to be attentive but not overly physical, so if you have any problems in that area, call my cell.”

  “Okay.”

  "Don’t make out with Stefano," Kari said. “I don’t want that in the tabloids, either.”

  "I don't even know the guy,” I said.

  She cocked her head as though she hadn't heard me.

  "Although if he’s really cute, you can snuggle with him. It won't hurt to have Michael get a little jealous."

  Maren pulled a picture from a stack of paper on an end table and handed it to Kari. Kari let out a low whistle. "He is cute." She handed the picture back to Maren but looked over at me. "Okay, you can make out a little. That would totally bother Michael."

  I walked over to Maren and reached for the picture. "I'm not making out with guys so your boyfriend will be jealous. That's not part of my job description.”

  I looked at the picture. The guy was stunning. "Well, maybe one kiss,” I said.

  The doorbell rang, and I shoved the picture back to Maren and turned toward the door.

  "Have fun!" Kari called.

  "Glide!” Maren reminded me.

  I slowed down and made my walk smoother.

  "One more thing," Maren said. "If you mess up and blow your cover—then you’re a celebrity imposter who crashed the club. The real Kari is home sick, and we’ve never seen you before.” And on that note of confidence, I left.