Accidental It Girl (16 page)

“So you do this to every photographer who catches you cheating on your girlfriend?”

“No, unfortunately, I didn't think of it until recently. You're a test case.”

“You
asshole
! How can you be cocky about this? You're sick, you know that? You're a slimy…disgusting…stalker!”

“I'm a stalker, am I?” he asks, calm and poised.

“Yes!”

“What's the difference between me doing it to you and you doing it to me?”

“I'm not a
celebrity,
you idiot. That's what!”

A twinkle appears in his eye. He shakes a finger at me and says, “Ah, but you're
dating
one.”

A deep, guttural groan rolls off my tongue. “You're totally fucking crazy, you know that? You've sunk so low your publicist is going to need an earthmover to resurrect your career.”

“I don't think so.”

“Oh, yeah? What's to stop me from taking this public?”

Ethan Wyatt looks at me with rancor. “How do you like it so far? The lack of privacy, the fear, the rumors and suspicion? Have you lost any friends over it yet? Has it affected your career? Do you want to lock yourself in a room and never come out?” He pauses dramatically, then lowers his voice to a deep, menacing whisper and says, “Now, imagine that
Star
magazine finds out you're the subject of celebrity stalking.”

A wave of nausea forces me to swallow hard. I can't think of any comeback to that. He's right. He's got me, damnit. I am totally screwed. Shit, what if this
never
ends?

“Don't you have a job or something?” I ask him scornfully, grasping at anything that might make him stop this madness.

“I have a lot of free time—”

“Obviously,” I huff.

He arches one eyebrow, giving his face a sly sort of glamour, and continues wistfully, “Three months on, three months off. Actors are kind of like deep-sea fisherman, journeymen—”

“Serial killers guided by the zodiac,” I add bitingly.

He replies by conjuring up the sucking noise made famous by Dr. Hannibal Lecter and his fava beans.

I gasp. “Are you bipolar or something? That is the mental illness of the moment, isn't it? Are you feeling
manic
?” I turn to him with as much condescension as I can muster under these conditions and gloat, “Oh, no. I've got it. This has something to do with the messy transition from Scientology to Kabbalah as the Official Religion of Hollywood™, doesn't it? Are you wearing your red string?”

“You are
fascinating
!” Ethan exclaims, while looking at me like something he just scraped out of a petri dish.

“Well, can I fascinate you straight out of my life?” I ask, shooing him with my hands.

Not reacting to me, but as though continuing with his own train of thought, he says, “You're so…
clever
.” A startlingly open, easy grin arches from ear to ear. “I hadn't expected that.”

The sweetness of his tone is annoying, and just the slightest bit appealing. His eyes are really quite beautiful—the perfect shade of blue—sharp and somehow cool at the same time.

“How did you find me?” I ask, as the agony of defeat begins to make my head ache.

He smirks. The muscles in his jaw relax, creating an alluring sort of pout. His eyes sparkle with a cunning charm. He leans across the car and coos, “I wonder if you can help me. A girl I…ahem…met, left her cell phone at my place. I'm so embarrassed, I don't have a clue where she lives. I'd like to get it to her before I leave tonight for
Paris
.”

Holy shit, he's good. He could bewitch Ellen DeGeneres into batting for the other team.

“You're, like, a sociopath, right?” I say to him.

He leans back to his side of the car and smiles. “No. But if I want something bad enough, I'll get it.”

“Oh, so you're not a sociopath, just a typical fucking actor.” I can't believe this. “So, what'd you do?” I ask. “Charm yourself into the pants of every editor at every major tabloid?”

“I would have. But it turned out to be completely unnecessary. I made a few calls through some publicists I know, got a few editors' numbers. I gave them some solid leads, they trusted me—I fed them
you
.”

“Well, stop feeding. You've had your fun. You have your
revenge
. Now. Leave. Me. Alone!”

“I don't know, I'm having a pretty good time. I guess you'll just have to wait and see. Which reminds me, your annual Pap smear is Monday.”

Humiliating. Humiliating.

The thought of this nightmare continuing makes my blood boil over. The baseball bat shakes in my hands. “Leave me alone…or else!”

I jump out of the car as Ethan Wyatt laughs. “Or else what?” he clucks, as I slam the door.

I march toward my apartment building, trying not to trip and fall in my now sticky slippers.

As I press my hand to the front door, I hear the
click-click-click
of cameras.

Oh, God—I forgot about them.

C
lose the curtains!” Stomping through the front door, I shout to Brooke. “Close them all!”

I toss the bat on the couch and march over to a window, but my attempts to untie the drapes and pull them closed are futile. My hands are shaking too badly.

“He is pure fucking crazy! Off his damn rocker!” It's difficult to grasp. My mind is reeling at the very idea that Ethan Wyatt—
Ethan Wyatt!
—is behind all of this. I really didn't think he was that crazy. I mean, it is
crazy
.

I continue to fumble with the curtain ties until Brooke delicately moves my hands and takes over.

“Who's crazy, Sadie? Who's doing this?” The curtain swings closed as the tie comes loose. I feel myself being pulled away from the window and ushered to the couch. “Who was in the car, Sadie?” Brooke asks in a frightened whisper.

Looking at her, I feel several tears break free and stream down my face. “Ethan Wyatt. Ethan Wyatt was in the car.”

Brooke is stunned. Her mouth hangs open like that of a cartoon character, or a soap opera diva in that bizarre pause just before they cut to the commercial. I would laugh if her face wasn't so perfectly descriptive of the thoughts running through my mind. I sink deeper into the couch and throw a pillow over my face, waiting for Brooke to come back to earth.

After almost a full minute, I hear a tentative, “Ethan Wyatt…the
movie
star?”

I nod my head and the pillow in time.

Brooke prods again, “Are you sure?”

Lifting the pillow just enough to be understood, I reply, “Oh yes. I sat in his car and the psychotic, demented, self-absorbed, childish stalker told me so himself—with pride.”

“
Ethan
Wyatt?
Suicide Mission, Felony Charge, Hager Saga
Ethan Wyatt? Frequently swooned over on
Fashion Police
Ethan Wyatt? Took his mother to the Academy Awards last year Ethan Wyatt?”

“Yes!”

I rise to close the rest of the curtains, but Brooke pushes me back down. “I'll do it. You shouldn't get near the windows when the vultures are circling.” My eyes go wide, and she attempts clarification. “Sorry, I mean…you know what I mean.”

Unfortunately, I do know what she means. I wonder, Are the feathered variety of vultures also cannibals?

“Where did Luke go?” I ask.

“Provisions. I told him to walk down the candy aisle and grab anything with chocolate,” she replies.

“Thank you,” I squeak, through a new wave of tears.

Just as Brooke has released and draped the last of the curtains, the door buzzer goes off.

“He must have forgotten his key,” she says, heading for the door.

I have to think of something, some way to get out of this. Or get back at him. Force him to stop. I can't live this way for long. I'm positive that mere days from now I will have the overwhelming desire to hire a personal yoga guru, seek the advice of a stylist, and speak frankly and tearfully with Oprah. In other words, to sum up: I can feel myself slowly going insane.

From across the room I hear Brooke's voice speaking in a low, concerned tone, “Oh, boy.”

“What is it?” I ask, panicking. “What's wrong?”

“Sadie…” she whispers. “Sadie, I…”

Brooke tiptoes back into the living room. A little wrinkle has appeared over her brow, and her mouth is straining against itself in a false grin. Her smile looks like it was drawn onto her face by one of the cartoonists at
MAD
Magazine. She speaks. “Uh…you might want to…uh…”

“What is it? Reporters? Dogs? A giant ape?”

A loud, whiny pitch calls out from the other side of the door. Even though it's tainted and muffled by rusty metal, I know that voice. It says, “Sadie, honey, I'm here! Mother's here to help!”

O
pen the curtains!” I yell to Brooke.

“Why?”
she asks, running for the nearest window and frantically stripping open the curtains.

“Because I'm going to jump.”

Brooke lets the curtains fall from her grip as she rolls her eyes at me. “I know you guys have some issues, but—”

“Oh, is that what they're called? Issues? I always thought they were called
nightmares
.”

“What are you going to do, just let her stand out there banging on the door all day?”

“No, that won't work. She'd just camp out in the hallway. We'd be stepping over her for weeks.” I rack my brain, search the ceiling—then the floor—for some kind of solution.

Brooke lets out a loud gust of air. “I'm going to open the door now.”

Oh, God.

Brooke walks slowly to the front door. She puts her hand on the knob and gives one last look at me—as pure, unadulterated dread begins to liquefy the contents of my abdomen.

With one flick of the wrist, the door opens and the tornado slips in.

Paige spews, “Oh, hello, Brooke! So good to see you. How are you? How's she doing?” One of my mother's many talents—having a one-sided conversation with someone and still managing to make them feel like they've been heard. Witchcraft, I tell you.

“Good to see you, too, Mrs. Price-Farmer!” says Brooke as she's enveloped in a minihug and given several air kisses. “She's—”

“How many times have I told you, sweet girl? Call me Paige! Where is she?”

She
is going to hide in the little nook by the living room window and hope that the divot in the floor finally gives way and she falls through to the apartment below.

“She's—” Brooke tries again.

“I was worried about her, and I had some free time. We're not going to Barbados this year until July.” Oh, thank goodness my stalker chose May. “I felt I had to come give her support. This situation is a bit unusual, don't you think? You know, Dr. Hank says she has legal basis to sue.”

“I'm sure she'll be glad you came,” Brooke says unsteadily.

I run for the little nook and slide into the armchair by the window. The sound of my mother's heels clicking on the hard-wood floor sends a cascade of spasms through my limbs. My injured knee once again begins to throb.

“There you are!” Paige says, opening her arms wide as though I'm meant to leap up and hug her like people do in the movies.

Paige has had her hair cut since the last time I saw her. Crisp blonde waves flutter down in artfully carved layers, just barely grazing her collarbone. Long shaggy bangs are swept off to the side and behind her ear. Her makeup, as usual, is flawless. She looks at least ten years younger than her age. In fact, in the right light she could probably pass for thirty.

She's wearing her travel uniform: impossibly high Manolos, long, skinny black pants that cling to her thighs like white sticks to rice, and a fitted linen shirt with the cuffs casually rolled up to her forearms. The collar of her shirt is flipped up in the back, accentuating her long graceful neck and the gold draped around it. This little collar flip, one of my mother's signature style moves, also communicates just exactly how chic and confident she is.

Paige continues to stand in front of me with her arms spread wide. I can tell by the determined look in her eye that she could stand here as long as it takes for me to give in. This is the sort of thing mothers and daughters do—greet each other with great leaping hugs. She won't be living up to her picture of ideal motherhood if I don't play along.

I rise slowly and, before I totally have my footing, she wraps her arms around my waist and squeezes me like a Greco-Roman wrestler going in for the kill.

“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.