“What’s wrong?” Lauren asked, reading the look of fear on Gillian’s face.
“It’s gone. Someone’s stolen the evidence.”
Chapter 27
Lydia had spent the preceding days having her hair extended, cut, colored, and styled, her skin exfoliated and Botoxed, and her body tanned, buffed, and massaged, all in preparation for her press announcement of Lights, Cameras, and Action! The Story of Fame, Fortune, and Fatality.
Working with her publisher’s publicist they’d arranged a news conference and invited more than thirty media outlets, from USA Today and the Enquirer, to Entertainment Tonight and CNN. The turnout was spectacular. They all smelled blood amid the scintillating story of glamour, sex, celebrity, betrayal, and money. And the timing couldn’t be better with the Academy Awards now only six weeks away, and the media whipped into a frothy frenzy over Gillian’s photo escapades.
“Thanks for coming,” the publicist said to the crowd of bloodthirsty press hounds. “Lydia Patterson will read the press release and then take a few questions.”
Though Lydia had been involved in lots of press conferences in her life, this was the first time she was on the other side of the podium. Nervous, but excited, she stepped up to the mike. She’d spent days employing every beauty trick she’d ever heard about, and hours trying on outfit after outfit, but she still looked, well, mousy. All of the money, pampering, and designer garb in the world would only do so much for her. She was a glamour girl trapped in and desperately trying to get out of a librarian’s body. It was true, you couldn’t make silk from a sow’s ear, or to paraphrase President Obama, a pig wearing lipstick was still just a pig.
“Thank you all for coming,” she started. “As you read in the prerelease, Lights, Cameras, and Action! The Story of Fame, Fortune, and Fatality is a biography of the titillating, and often calculating, life of Gillian Tillman-Russell. As most of you know, I worked for Mr. and Mrs. Russell for a couple of years and felt that her story was important enough to write about for several reasons. First, I hope that it will paint a real picture of someone who is relatively new to the public but who has also captured their imagination like no one in recent memory. Second, I wanted to explore how she became who she is. Hers is an exciting, but cautionary, tale of fame, fortune, and the fast lane. Third, as you all know, several years ago, one of Gillian’s best friends, and a friend to many of us, the publicist Paulette Dolliver, was murdered in a tragic car accident off of Mulholland Drive. You may also remember that Gillian’s husband, Brandon Russell, who was being investigated by the federal government for money laundering at the time, was considered a suspect. In this book I also explore that connection and how it relates to who the real Gillian Tillman-Russell is. The exotic beauty we’re all getting to know, or the tantalizing temptress shown in the barrage of recent sex photos, whose legitimacy she refutes?” Lydia ended with her cliff-hanger.
After letting the toxins soak into the room she added, “My publisher and I expect the book to be released the week of the Oscars. Thank you all for your time.”
Before she finished the word time, cameras were flashing like fireflies, hands were raised one after the other, and her name was being shouted out by reporters anxious to ask her questions. It was the moment she’d dreamed of, being the center of attention, a star, and a celebrity in her own right, and she loved every minute of it.
“Lydia, Lydia. Does the book prove that the pictures are real?” a reporter from the Enquirer asked.
“She denies that the photos are real, but our forensic experts conclude that they have not been altered in any way. And yes, we will provide the evidence in the book.”
“Do you delve into her mother’s past?”
“In the book, I chronicle Imelda von Glich’s journey from Waynesboro, North Carolina, to European royalty, all courtesy of one rich husband being followed by an even richer one. As a journalist, I’m not passing judgment, and only point it out because Gold Diggers also happens to be the title of the film for which Gillian is nominated for an Oscar. Next question.”
A New York Post reporter asked the million-dollar question. “Did Brandon Russell really kill Paulette and was Gillian complicit in it?”
This was what most of those gathered here really wanted to know. Lydia had consulted with her publicist, her lawyers, as well as her publisher, to make sure that she gave an answer that would entice the media without overpromising or baiting a lawsuit, so she said, “My investigation has uncovered new evidence that the authorities will have to evaluate to make that determination.”
The room erupted into unbridled chaos! The press became ravenous as everyone gathered anticipated the serving of a blockbuster news-breaking story, which would feed lots of news pages and consume tons of airtime. It was nothing short of thrilling for members of the media and simply orgasmic for Lydia. At that moment, the publicist stepped forward and ended the press conference. They’d all agreed to end on that prickly but pivotal question. Always leave them wanting more was Lydia’s motto.
Brandon sat in his office unable to move for several minutes. The rapid-fire thoughts that ricocheted through his mind had simply shorted a circuit. He was unsure which emotion or issue to deal with first. He felt pissed off, betrayed, and afraid, and had to think about what to do to resolve each. His phone began ringing immediately. Though he didn’t answer any of the calls, caller ID informed him that among others, he’d received calls from the press, his attorney, various colleagues, family members, a few friends, and even a few fauxs.
Still in a stupor, he got up and went to the wet bar, and poured himself a double shot of Louis XV to steady his nerves. Over the last few years he’d allowed himself to believe that the money laundering charges were behind him. Even though he hadn’t gotten the flash drive from Paulette before she died, he still chose to believe that the loose end had died right along with her. He’d hoped that she’d had it in her bag and that it, along with much of the car, had gone up in smoke. Now he couldn’t help but think that Lydia had it, otherwise what new evidence could there be that would implicate him? But how could Lydia have gotten her hands on it?
Out of nowhere a snatch of a conversation replayed itself. It happened shortly after Paulette’s death when Reese returned to L.A. from New York. She came by the house one day, and Brandon saw her briefly before Gillian came down. She’d asked him if he’d received the package. Before he could ask what package, Gillian walked in and quickly said, “Reese, darling, it was supposed to be a surprise.” He could feel a session of mental telepathy playing out between the two friends.
Later on, Gillian explained that she’d talked to Reese about ordering a Loro Piana cashmere bathrobe for him and that’s the package she was referring to. Sure enough, a week later one did arrive in the mail. But now he was wondering if maybe Reese had found the drive among Paulette’s things and sent it to him through Gillian. Then, of course, Lydia could have taken it from his wife.
He was beginning to wonder if he’d ever really known Gillian at all. In retrospect, she seemed to be quite capable of deception and duplicity, but then again, she was an actress, wasn’t she?
Chapter 28
Even though Rowe was not as pale as before the blood transfusion, he was still extremely weak, and so far, there wasn’t a bone marrow match in sight, and time was slipping by. On Reese’s more morbid days, she imagined that she could actually see his life also slipping away. Reese had never felt more powerless, and utterly unable to do anything to help the son for whom she’d vowed to do anything.
“Mommy, am I gonna die?” he asked, wearing a solemn expression that was way beyond his tender years. Over the weeks Rowe had grasped the gravity of his situation from the sad-faced adults who hovered around his bed.
“Of course not, baby. You’re gonna be fine. Dr. Young, me, and your dad are gonna make sure of it.”
Reese only wished that she felt as certain as her answer. In truth she felt helpless, so at his bedside, she did all that she could,
which was limited to holding his hand, rubbing his head, and continuing to pray for that miracle that so far had evaded her. When she was honest with herself she was forced to admit that there was something else that she could do for Rowe.
She could face up to her past, try to contact Rowe’s real father, and let the chips fall where they may. Testing him for bone marrow matching was probably Rowe’s best chance of survival, given the tight timing and the randomness of the national database search. That plan seemed easy enough, but in her world nothing was ever so simple. Reese felt as if she were on the receiving end of one of God’s most outlandish jokes, only Rowe was the punch line, and there was nothing funny about it.
She only wished that that one drunken encounter had never happened. They had been sober enough to slap on a condom, but when it was over, they both realized that it had burst.
In an effort to seal the deal with Chris, Reese had been flushing her birth control pills down the drain for months, secretly trying to get pregnant. So when the home test finally read positive, she jumped for joy and didn’t give another thought to the broken condom. Her mission had been accomplished. She and Chris were married a month later.
The all too familiar trip to and from the hospital was beginning to be a grind. She left the house every morning praying and hopeful that somehow Rowe’s condition had improved and that Dr. Young had been wrong all along and that she could bring her son home. Yet each night she returned home alone to face the dire fact that he wasn’t miraculously getting better, and, in fact, was getting worse.
She parked the car and dragged herself into the house, ready to collapse into her bed, so that she could wake up and do the same thing the next day.
“Any update?”
Reese turned around and was surprised to find Chris entering the hallway from the living room. If she had not been so preoccupied she probably would have noted the clench in his jaw; a definite warning sign.
“I didn’t know you were here.”
“Gretchen let me in,” he said. “So, what’s up?”
“No change, really.” She dropped her bag on the side table and headed toward the kitchen, hoping that Chris wouldn’t get settled and would leave soon. She had been trying to avoid him since he came to town, figuring that the less they saw of each other, the better the chances that her secret would remain just that.
“Are you sure about that?” Chris asked, following behind her, barely managing to hold back the rage that had been mounting within him for two days now. The day after learning that he wasn’t Rowe’s father, he holed up at the Four Seasons to avoid the risk of running into Reese at the hospital. He knew that he couldn’t be responsible for what might have happened, and he didn’t want that negative energy anywhere near Rowe.
Reese kept walking toward the kitchen and responded to Chris without turning around to face him. “The blood transfusion helped, but without a bone marrow transplant Dr. Young doesn’t expect much change, at least not for the better.”
“Then why don’t you do what any responsible mother would do and have his real father tested instead of playing this game of Russian roulette with your son’s life?”
Reese stopped in her tracks. Her old and tried survival instincts told her to lie and deny but her better instincts told her that those tired tactics would only make matters worse.
Chris walked around to face her. “You don’t have anything to say?” Though he hadn’t raised his voice yet, his anger was loud and clear.
“Chris, I’m sorry,” Reese said, lowering her head. Nothing in her life of winning at all costs prepared her for this stark moment of truth.
“Is that it?” he asked, his arms outstretched, his brows raised in disgusted disbelief. Heat rose from his face as blood cursed through his veins, spreading the raging anger that was becoming uncontrollable. “After lying to me and Rowe for all of these years, even marrying me so that you wouldn’t have a ‘bastard child’ when it wasn’t even mine! As if that’s not enough, you’ve cashed my very generous child support checks every month for over two years, knowing that I was supporting another man’s child.” He shook his head in disbelief. “But you wanna know what’s worse than all of that? The fact that you are so fucking selfish that you won’t even tell the truth to save your own child’s life. I’m sure for fear of losing the only thing you’ve ever really cared anything about: the almighty dollar.” He looked at Reese as if she were the lowest form of specimen to ever slither the earth. “You disgust me,” he finally said, as he turned to walk away.
When the door slammed shut, and the reverberations subsided, tears began a slow, familiar trek down Reese’s face. She felt like the same desperate eighteen-year-old from Queens who’d plotted and planned her way into becoming an NBA wife.
After the car accident, Reese had wanted to change, and had tried very hard to make up for some of the damage that she’d done to herself and to others, knowing that some things could never be repaired. Her biggest regrets were not being a better mother to Rowe before the accident, using Chris for his money and status, and then trashing him in the divorce for even more of his money. To make up for those sins, she’d embraced her son and become a better mother, but she still wasn’t putting him ahead of her own needs, otherwise she’d have started searching for his real father right away. As much as she wanted to face up to her responsibility and do the right thing by her son, she also wondered if she and others she cared about could survive the fallout once Rowe’s father’s true identity was known.
Though her stripes were a little different, Reese realized that old habits died hard, and that she was still the same old gold digger that she had been three years ago.
Chapter 29
“My God, the wicked things you do to me!” Mildred panted, breathlessly. As always, Max left her feeling completely and lasciviously ravished. Being the controlling person that she was, she loved the chance to let go and be dominated by a strong, sexy man. It was just unfortunate that it wasn’t her husband doing it, and even less fortunate that this man who did was her own daughter’s ex-husband. Yet she still flushed like a hormonal teenager whenever she thought back to the day they met, eight years ago.
It was early June and Lauren had just graduated from Harvard. After the ceremony Lauren and Nathan left for New York, while Mildred headed to the house in Martha’s Vineyard to check on renovations. Before she got there, her rental car sputtered to a stop along a deserted road. Truly exasperated at both her butler and her husband for not figuring out how to refuel her rented car’s tank mid-trip and across state lines, she got out of the car, put one hand firmly on her hip, whipped out her cell phone with the other, then prepared to read someone the riot act, but before she could press send a silver Lamborghini cruised to a stop right alongside her incapacitated convertible.
Inside sat a man straight out of a Dolce & Gabbana ad. His creamy complexion, kissed and then licked by the sun, glowed magnificently, and his teeth flashed whiter than freshly whipped cream. He was so attractive that Mildred immediately snapped her phone shut before he ever said one word.
“It looks like you could use a hand,” he said smiling broadly.
“Maybe I could,” Mildred tossed right back at him. Her flirt gene kicked in hard after years of dormancy. It mattered not that the sexy man in front of her was young enough to be her son.
“I’ll pull over and see what I can do for you.” He all but winked, so confident was this man in his proven ability to melt the hearts, minds, and panties of the opposite sex.
His engine purred to a stop in front of her car, and he hopped out and strolled directly up to her, stopping merely inches away. “So, what can I do for you?” he asked, suggestively, wielding that seductive smile like a black belt.
The sexual energy was so intense that Mildred’s breath came in quick fits and slow starts. She took a deep one and answered, “I seem to have run out of gas.”
“I think I can take care of that.” Ever cocky, he closed the few inches between them, h
eld her face in his hands, and introduced his lips to hers as if administering life support. It was love at first suck. They locked in an embrace that left Mildred panting for more.
He pulled her into the woods just off the road, backing her up against a large sycamore tree before turning her around and pulling up her delicately laced sundress. Before she could protest—not that she really would have—he was balls deep inside of her, and she was making sure he stayed there.
Up until that moment, Mildred had only known the kind of perfunctory sex necessary to get married and have babies, and had believed it was overrated and that a female orgasm was about as real as the Loch Ness monster; an insidious myth perpetuated over time to ensure the population of the planet Earth. So, she was turned inside out well before he laid her on the ground and tried to plow through to China.
When he finally rolled off, she turned to him and purred, “Who are you?” as though he were an action hero in a Hollywood thriller.
“I’m Max,” he said, zipping up his pants. “Maximillian Neuman, the Third.”
Here they were eight years, two marriages, and one death later, still hot and heavy as ever. She reached over and massaged him lovingly, enjoying his weight and girth. With Nate away and the staff dismissed for the rest of the day, she relished the long, sweet afternoon to come and come, and come… They’d polished off a bottle of Krug and were working on the second. There was no rush. She took a swallow and held it in her mouth, before slithering southward where she consumed him right along with the fine bubbly. It was now time for round two.
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