Filthy Dirty Laundry (Filthy Dirty Laundry #1) (2 page)

Chapter
2

          Tegan Snow is sitting
across from me at her glass-top desk. It's a distracting office: the kind
designed to make you lose your focus as you're talking. It's all glass. The top
of the desk, the walls, the ceilings, everything. You can see all  the LA
skyline, the bluest sky, beach, and the lifestyles of the rich and famous. It's
hard to keep staring at Tegan: at her perfectly foundation, carefully made-up
face, with that view behind her.

         
Maybe it's a test.
I
think.
If you let your jaw drop, she knows you're terrible at focusing when
it matters.
For all I know, it could be true. I've been in this office a
hundred times, and every time I find it hard to keep staring at Tegan, to pay
attention to what she's saying. But today is harder than most times. I'm
practically shaking – my heart is beating so damn fast I feel sure she can hear
it. I want this job. I
need this job.
I'm hungry – no,
starving
–
for this job. I can taste how much I want this job. Sure, the money may not
look like much, but it's more than I've ever made any year ever, despite
working all through college, and the benefits are incredible. Health, dental. I
haven't gotten my teeth professionally cleaned in
years
, which I'm sure
by LA standards makes me some kind of horrific unhygienic troll. A
pension
plan.
Actual, grown-up people money. Just enough to pay the rent on my
one-bedroom-flex apartment (For $100 less per month than my roommate I get the
living room, which my roommate Kiley – a brash Australian brunette who's
overstayed her tourist visa in the hopes of making it big as an actress – has
to tramp through at 3 a.m. on her way home from her cash-under-the-table side
job as a barmaid) in a sketchy neighborhood (not that I'm worried. Kiley grew
up in the Outback wrestling alligators. One look at her buff figure and
masculine stance and most potential muggers go running).

          “Well, well, well,”
Tegan says. She's smiling somewhat sheepishly. I guess it's weird for her to
interview me like this, when she's known me for so long. “Let's get started,
shall we?” She takes a deep breath. I take a deep breath. Okay, we're doing
this.

          “Why do you think
you're the best candidate to be the new editor of the Celebrity section of FILTHY
DIRTY LAUNDRY magazine?”

          Standard question. One
I've prepared for. So why is my mouth so dry?

          “Uh...sorry?”

         
Jeez, Sidney, what's
wrong with you?

         
She smiles like she hasn't heard
me make an idiot of myself. “What makes you think you're the best person for
the job to fill my shoes when I leave?”

          Oh. Right. Yeah.

          My adrenaline goes into
overdrive.
Come on, Sidney,
I tell myself.
You can do this. This job
matters. Don't screw this up.

         
Suddenly, my canned answers all
sound stupid.
I am a very responsible individual who is passionate about
celebrity culture, with a strong work ethic and great attention to detail...who
really loves Jennifer Lawrence. OMG I just wish she could be my BFF.
Answers
that are just the same as everyone else will give. Answers that will make me
sound like a celebrity-worshipping robot.

          Answers that all the
other girls, who don't need the money, who just want a glamorous gig between
meeting The One at a bar and getting that all-important ring on their finger,
will give, before giggling and sashaying their way into the corner office.

          I don't know what
happens. My mind goes blank. And then I just start talking, and what I say is
nothing like I planned.

          “Because I've had to
work for it,” I say.

          Tegan looks up in
surprise. “What? Sorry...”

          “I live in a one-bedroom
apartment with a roommate in a sketchy neighborhood where I have to carry a
knife on my way home from work. And I still stay out until 6 a.m. watching
Jennifer Lawrence take her trash out if it means getting the story. I can't
afford a cab – I
definitely
can't afford a Bentley – but I've walked
three miles in the pouring rain just to stand outside a movie theater where
Bradley Cooper
might
be seeing
Frozen
with his goddaughter.”

          Tegan looks confused,
concerned.    

         
Stop talking, Sidney,
I tell myself.
You're embarrassing yourself.
But somehow, I can't
bring myself to stop. “You never knew, right?” I say. “I never had a story in
late. Not once. I never didn't get the quote, the scoop. Even if I had to kill
myself to do it. I never had a safety net. I made it work – any way I could. I
cornered Emma Watson in a Dean and Deluca once.”

          She smiles faintly. “I
remember. The One Direction poll.”

          “But the truth is, I
know more about celebrity culture than anyone else,” I say. “I've seen it
firsthand. The good and the bad. How celebrity can churn you up and spit you
out. How one minute you're on top of the world. And then the next, you're in
the garbage disposal getting torn up into a million pieces.”
SPOTTED: SAM
STONE, PUKING OUT HIS GUTS.
The image of the tabloid comes into my head; I
force it out.

“I'm not intimidated by
celebrities,” I say. “I'm not scared of them. I don't want Jennifer Lawrence to
be my best friend. In fact, I'm 99% sure that her Everyone's BFF persona is
just as cooked up by her PR agent as Kirsten Stewart's bitch persona is by
hers. Celebrity's...just a lie. Just a role. And I know how to get beyond it.
I'm not impressed by fancy cars or fancy food or fine champagne. I'm not
impressed by canned answers for puff pieces. I want to – I
know how to
–
get inside people's heads, to figure out who they really are. And that's why I
should be your Celebrity Editor. Because I'm about more than just figuring out
a star's favorite color. I'm about exposing the whole truth of Hollywood: from
the inside out.”

          Tegan is looking at me
with a strange expression on her face. For a second I think she's going to kick
me out of the office. But instead, a smile spreads across her face.

          “That's the most
interesting answer I've had all day,” she says.

          I keep going. “I've
been working for this magazine as a field reporter since I was just a freshman
in college. Even after USC I've been freelancing for you, with no benefits, no
health coverage, barely paying my rent, because I'm passionate about FILTHY
DIRTY LAUNDRY and what you do. I know what makes it tick. I knew what people
really
want to know about the people they idolize. I know who to get the stories
even TMZ is scared to touch.”

          Tegan nods.

          “I'm not going to lie
to you, Sidney. There's stiff competition for this job. When I came into this
job, I had a pretty fancy set of degrees and internships. And you'll be
competing against candidates just like me: Masters degree from USC Annenberg.
Internships at the
New York Times
and, hell,
The New Yorker.
Glossy
fucking experience. And Pepper Park – or whoever the new publisher will be if
they decide to sell – is going to push for an experienced, glossy hire.” She
sighs. “But if it were up to me, Sidney...if it were
entirely
up to me.”
She smiles a great beaming smile. “I know who I would recommend for the job. I
don't have the power to make the final decision. But I have the power to say
what I think. And I agree. I think celebrity journalism needs people like you:
people who aren't just seduced by the glitz and glamour of a night at the
Chateau Marmont. Who can see celebrities as people, not just icons. And who
know how to get beyond the PR machine. Pepper might pick someone completely
different. Someone more experienced. But me – I value honesty. And loyalty. And
you've certainly shown FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY both things.”

          “So...” I can hardly
believe my ears. “Are you saying...?”

          “I wouldn't have asked
you to interview for this job if I didn't think you had a good chance at being
the best person for it,” says Tegan. “And from everything you've said today, my
suspicions were right. You've always been our best freelancer. The person we
trust with the really big scoops. And I certainly hope Pepper Park feels the
same way.”

          I feel my cheeks
burning with pride. I look straight into Tegen's bright hazel eyes. All of the
rest of LA out the window falls away. “Thank you so much for...for your faith
in me, Tegan,” I say. “Whatever happens.”

          She stands up and
shakes my hand. She's the picture of confidence. Effortlessly beautiful.
Everything I want to be. 29, leaving to be the Deputy Editor of FACE in New
York, about to be married to the man she loves. I'm almost awed by her
presence.

          “It was a joy working
with you, Sidney,” she says. “To tell you the truth, sometimes the only thing
keeping me in this job, where there's so much fluff, was the sheer pleasure of
reading your celebrity stories, with  your fresh look and your unique voice. It
always feels like you really understand the people you're talking to – you're
an insider there – but somehow you're an outsider, too. Someone who isn't
impressed by them. Who doesn't just fawn. It gives you a real stand-out
perspective. Keep your voice unique, Sidney, because that's your biggest
advantage.”

          I'm in shock. Tegan's
always been nice to me, but when it comes to praise “THIS COPY IS CLEAN” is as
far as she'll go. Usually it's REWRITE PARAGRAPH THREE or NEEDS MORE QUOTES. No
praise. Just businesslike emails sent from her iPhone.

          “I'll miss working for
an incredible editor,” I say. “Whatever happens. You weren't always easy on me,
but you made my work better.”

          Tegan grins. “I know I
say 'no hugs in the workplace...'” She comes over to me. “But just this once
won't hurt? Especially now that I'm leaving.”

          I smile as she wraps
her arms around me and squeeze her right back. My heart's beating faster and
faster now, like a hummingbird's.

          “Whatever happens,”
Tegan says. “I know you'll do great in your next job.”
          “From West Coast to East, huh?” I say.

          “I'm going in to
fashion, hon,” Tegan says with a grin. “Now I finally have my chance. But you –
you're perfect for the Hollywood gossip stuff. So here's hoping you'll get a
chance to do more with it!” She grins at me. “And if you're ever in New
York...don't be a stranger, hear?”

          “I won't,” I say,
beaming.

          Tegan looks around the
office. “It sure feels empty now that I've cleaned all my stuff out of it,” she
says. “Well, I guess it'll get a new owner to mess it up sure enough. I hope
it's you, Sidney.”

          She rises, and with
that, the interview is over. “Goodbye,” she says.

          I nod and grab my bag.
My chest feels like it's about to burst open. “Goodbye”

Chapter
3

          I can't believe it. As
I make my way back into the waiting room, I'm shaking, trembling. My heart is
beating louder than ever before – there's
no way
that the girls in the
waiting room haven't heard that distinctive
thump thump thump
that means
I'm losing my actual mind. Me – the editor of the celebrity section at FILTHY
DIRTY LAUNDRY? A few minutes ago I was embarrassed about having even turned up
to interview, convinced that there wasn't a snowball's chance in the proverbial
that I'd even be shortlisted for the position. I was at least 98% sure that
Tegan was just going to laugh me out of the whole place. That I'd come out of
that interview room with my tail between my legs and my eyes downcast, too
ashamed to even make eye contact with the three perfectly coiffed candidates
who are still sitting in their perfectly silky tights without a single run in
them, cross-legged, in the waiting room.

But instead I'm practically
skipping. A red blush comes to my cheeks and I can feel them burn with an
exhilarating feeling that's between happiness and pure unmitigated
astonishment.

          Me – the best person
for the job?

          I lost it in there,
absolutely lost it. I didn't expect for a second that the word-vomit coming out
of my mouth would do anything except make Tegan raise a perfectly plucked
eyebrow at me – the poor girl, the outsider, the dumpster-diver, a girl who
doesn't
fit in with the office culture
– coded words I'd heard so many
times before. But instead, for some strange reason – maybe Tegan had a
temporary brain injury or something – my words actually impressed her. She
actually seemed to think that my outsider status was a plus, not a minus, when
it came to getting under the skin and behind the mask of every celebrity from
A-List to Z.

          And I'm breathless,
gasping. Feeling something I've never felt before. A feeling that's warm, slow,
like the feeling you get when you drink mulled apple cider in winter. Making me
toasty from the inside out. The feeling that somebody, somewhere, finally
believes in me, is finally willing to give me a chance, to
take a chance
on
me. The outsider. The stranger.

          Not a lot of people in
my life have treated me this way. My father certainly didn't. Sam Stone cared
about one thing, and one thing only, and that's being a Big Shot. An A-Lister.
A big-name boldfaced celeb. And the fact that he never got anywhere, despite
his early promise, killed him. It destroyed his marriage, his career, his whole
family, any dignity he had left after
Monroe, MD
was cancelled. He was
so bitter about never having been a Tom Cruise or a Brad Pitt that it ate away
at him. He hated himself. So how could he love anyone else? If I could afford
therapy, my therapist would probably tell me that I shouldn't expect
unconditional love from someone who saw love as something you only deserved if
you were at the top of the heap. That his cold, brusque manner was a way for
him to deal with his own demons, not mine.

But like I said, I don't have
health insurance. I can't afford a therapist. And my father's drunken rants
about the bitches and whores of Hollywood had an effect on me, whether I wanted
them to or not. Whoever said that people can only hurt you if you let them is a
big fat liar. People can hurt you anytime they like.

          Same with my mom. She
grew up thinking that her self-worth was predicated on the way she looked: or,
more precisely, on the way men looked at her when they liked the way she
looked. She learned from early teenagerdom to see herself in men's eyes and
nowhere else. She tried to raise me as best she could. But she never really
knew what made someone feel good about themselves – deep down, in that place
that no body and no pair of eyes can touch. She never really knew what it meant
to be happy.

          And today, for the
first time, I feel like I'm starting to get to know that feeling. A feeling of
hope. A feeling like I can do anything. Someone believes in me. Not because of
how I look or how big my breasts are or whether or not some rich businessman
wants to put his hand on my ass or whether or not some gossip columnist deems
me an A-List celebrity this week. Someone believes in me because of my talent,
because of my skill, because of the work I can do – work I
know
I can
do.

          Maybe Tegan Snow won't
be able to swing me the job. Maybe she'll be helpless in the face of Pepper
Park and her number-crunching higher-ups. Pepper's never been anything but
polite to me, but she's not a writer or an editor. She's a publisher, and she
cares about advertising revenue more than she cares about content. That's her
job. And if she thinks a bigger “name” will launch FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY from
the realm of buzzy start-up to bona fide major player on the magazine stage,
then there's nothing I can do but grit my teeth and bear it and keep
freelancing for whoever the new person is that Pepper choses.

          But Tegan believes in
me. That much is true. That much is something I can hold onto. Tegan believes
in me, and for the first time I truly believe in myself.

          I walk down the hallway
past Pepper Park's office on my way out the door. Somebody's in there already:
he and Pepper are hunched over her glass-top desk, deep in conversation. He is
striking – I've seen him somewhere before. I can't think where, which is weird.
He's the kind of guy whose face you don't just forget. He's tall – I can tell
even though he's sitting – about six foot tall, broad-shoulders, with muscular
forearms in which I can see the slightest hint of veins. He's older than I am
by a few years – maybe late twenties. Maybe he's some rockstar, I think.
Wouldn't be the first time Pepper takes the best interviews with the coolest
bands in her office.

          Pepper is leaning in
hungrily, staring at the guy like a tiger would her prey. Not that I blame her.
The guy – the rocker – is drop dead gorgeous. I find myself staring, too. I
want to catch Pepper's eye – just to let her know that I'm
here,
that
I'm interviewing, that I'm a viable possibility for Celebrity Editor, but she
doesn't even so much as look up at me. She's too busy staring at Mr. Handsome
over here. I can't blame her, though. I'd be doing the same thing if a guy who
looked like that strutted into
my office.
Just saying. Just saying.

           So I give up and head
out into the sunny day. FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY is located in a cottage-like
building – charming enough, and a good sign, too. Despite being a start-up, FILTHY
DIRTY LAUNDRY is making quite the profit: and it has the prestige address to
boot. It may be new, but it's fast-growing. Exactly the kind of place where you
want to get in the ground floor.

          I walk a few blocks
over to my bike. The other girls working here might have cute pastel foreign
minicars, but that's way beyond my budget. I bike to my apartment most days: a
grueling journey. I feel the air on my skin. A beautiful sensation after the
air conditioned chill of the building. I get on my bike. My leg vaults over
easily. One of the benefits of wearing comfortable clothes rather than stylish
magazine garb is that you can move around in it. Perfect for field reporting.
Today I'm wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a leather jacket, along with my
trademark flats. You can't bike in heels after all.

          I get on my bike and
start cycling along my usual route. But as I pass by the FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY offices,
a silver Audi pulls out in front of me.

          Then I feel it. Pain,
everywhere. I see the world flash before my eyes as I go flying through the
air. I whirl forward, landing with a decisive sharp thump on the windshield. My
chest, my shoulders all ache.

          “Ow...” I moan.

          Then the pain gets
sharper. Stronger. I don't know what I hit but something's gone wrong.
Something's flickering – the world around me is getting lighter, then darker.   “Oh,
God...”

          I feel a pair of strong
hands shaking me. “Hey, hey, are you okay?”

          I moan again. I know
the voice is coming from right behind me, but I don't have the energy to look
up. My head is spinning.

          “God – where did you
even come from?” It's a friendly voice, I think. Soft. Male.

          “I'm...” I'm confused
is what I am. “Where am I?” I murmur, shaking my head.

          “You're in Santa Monica,”
says the voice. “Right in front of the FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY offices. I swear I
didn't see you dart out like that – I'm so sorry...are you okay?”

          “Dunno...” I whisper as
the man turns me over.

          With a start I
recognize him. Dark wavy hair, ice-blue piercing eyes. The most gorgeous pair
of cheekbones I've ever seen. It's the man from Pepper's office. The rocker.
Figures, I think hazily. He does have a slight British accent. All the best
rockers do.

          “Rock you....” The
words aren't coming out right. “Rock you...”

          “Pardon?” The guy looks
confused.

          I'm going in and out of
consciousness, somewhere between dream and reality.

          “Hot...” I murmur
lazily. It makes perfect sense in my head.

          “HOT, yes,” he says. “FILTHY
DIRTY LAUNDRY magazine was originally called HOT Magazine. That's where we are
right now.”

          Sure, that's totally
what I meant. But my head is throbbing and I can't form words, so I'll just go
with it.

          “What's your name?”

          “Sidney....”

          I can get that much
out.

          “Sidney.” He smiles – a
sexy kind of grin that makes my stomach tense up.

          “Get in the car Sidney,”
he says. “I'll load your bike. I'm going to get you to the hospital.”

          “Can't...” I form the
words.

          “No, you have to...”

          “No insurance,” I
mutter.

          “It doesn't matter,”
says the rocker. “It's my fault. I'll pay for everything. Up front. Don't
worry. Let's just get you better.”

          I'm in too much pain to
resist.

          “We have to at least
make you sure that you don't have a concussion. Those can kill you, you know.
Like Natasha Richardson..terrible story...” He looks straight at me. “You have
anyone I can call? Family? A boyfriend?”

         
A boyfriend
?
Yeah, right. Like I have time to go on dates. And my mother will be more
worried at the possibility of me getting a scar on my perfect face to care
about the actual injuries.

          “Nobody,” I say.

          He almost looks sad.

          “I’m sorry I got you
into this, Sidney.” He takes my hand as he leads me to the car. “I will fix it.
I'll take care of everything.”

          “But I have to rock...”
I mean to say “work”, but somehow, staring at this rocker's bright blue eyes, I
lose my ability to form coherent sentences.

          “What? Rock?” He sighs.
“Never mind. Let's get you to the hospital. Now.”