Fix You (17 page)

Andrew returns to the bathroom, hustling to get ready. I hear a ding. Oh my God. It’s the elevator.

“Andrew, someone’s at the door! Andrew!” We’re about to be totally outed. Exposed in literal and figurative ways.

Andrew’s got jeans on now, and he walks out to the great room. “Stay put. You’re fine.”

“Andy!” This is a voice I don’t know. We’re doomed.

He closes the bedroom door behind him. I’m grateful for that. And I’m trying to find my jeans as quickly as I can, as silently as I can.

I can hear the conversation, and I can hear this person clomping. Whoever it is, he’s loud and wears cowboy boots.

“What’s up? How’s my man this morning?” Loud, loud talker.

“Chapped that you let yourself into my place.” Andrew’s voice is different. This is man talk. This is the sound of guys circling, snarling, marking territory.

“Seriously? I get no love from you? I brought you a tea. I even got Tucker his Frappuccino fix. Is he not up here yet?” The boots are on the move again, and they seem to be coming dangerously close to the bedroom door. Is he scoping out the place?

“Jeremy, you know he’s not. He’s the one you forced to hand over the elevator key five minutes ago before you shamelessly barged in on my peaceful morning.” Andrew’s voice is moving away. He’s in the kitchen. Maybe he’s trying to lead this Jeremy away from me.

“How was your night last night? You do anything?”

Now
I
want to growl at this guy. He’s fishing. Why? Is there something I don’t know about?

“Stayed in.” Andrew’s not biting.

“With who?” Now Jeremy sounds a little more aggressive too.

“I was here at home. Why do you care? You’re my agent, Jeremy. The last time I checked, Mom was still living in Pennsylvania.”

“We’re working on the whole package here, Andy. Just remember that.” Jeremy’s walking away from the door. I want to sneak a peek at his face so badly. Who is this guy? But I’ve seen enough movies to know that the villain finds the girl snooping behind the door and there’s a big ruckus, so I resist the urge.

I hear another voice. “Andrew? Everything all right?” It’s Tucker. He knows I came home with Andrew last night. This should be interesting.

“Hey, Tuck. Jeremy was just breaking and entering—you know, doing what he does best.”

Tucker’s voice is relaxed. “You all ready?”

“I was on my way out when Jeremy stopped in. Let’s go.”

But this Jeremy is not done. “Is this all of us?”

Does he know I’m here or just suspect something? And besides the fact that we want to keep it a secret, why should he care if Andrew brought someone home with him? What’s going on?

Tucker answers. “Did you bring someone else with you, Jeremy?” His tone is one of total confusion. So he’s an actor
and
a bodyguard.

“Never mind. I’m driving. I’ll meet you out there.” Jeremy’s boots clomp in the direction of the elevator.

I do peek now. Andrew just about gives me a heart attack—he’s standing right in front of me.

“What the hell?” I’m utterly lost.

“Long, long story. I’ll catch you up when we get a minute alone. Enjoy your spa thingy.” He kisses me. “Tucker’ll swing by later to pick you up for lunch. Be sure to wear a disguise.”

My head is spinning. I have no idea—

“Kelly, I’m kidding. See you.” Another kiss, and he’s off to the elevator.

Tucker calls from the great room. “See you later, Kelly!” He doesn’t seem fazed.

I answer him, still standing just inside the bedroom door, afraid to come out. “Okay!”

Why are we hiding from Andrew’s agent?

The only thing I can remember is the text Andrew got from him in Boise and the bitterness in his voice when he discussed it.

Something is up.

21: Lunch with Sharks

I G
ET
R
EADY
and spend the better part of the morning fretting. I’m not excited to have lunch with the skeletal leading lady, Franca. Especially if I’m pretending to be an old family friend. I’ve never enjoyed lying.

Once, my freshman year in college, I was hanging out in the dorm with my friends when these boys showed up in the main lounge. The poor souls were fraternity pledges from a neighboring college. Part of their hazing involved their fall formal. These guys weren’t allowed to ask out any girl at their school. They were dropped in front of our dorm and had twenty minutes to pick up dates to take to this dance.

Three of us agreed to go with them, but in self-defense, we decided to lie about our names and our lives. In the first hours of the date it felt fun, liberating. But when my very sweet date asked if he could call me and profusely thanked me for being such a good sport, I felt like crap as I tried to explain that my real name was not Alexis and my daddy was not Greek shipping magnate Aristotle Onassis’s younger brother.

Anyway. The point is, I suck at lying, and when I do lie, the universe always finds some way to make me feel absolutely atrocious. My karma comes on strong, and often comes on immediately. Luckily, I stay out of trouble (or maybe
because of that
I stay out of trouble) most of the time.

Besides anticipating doing a poor job at staying incognito at lunch, I’m also worried about this whole agent thing. No, I don’t want to take my relationship with Andrew public right now. I haven’t thought anything through beyond not wanting to expose Hunter and Beau to any attention. But why was Jeremy ready to toss the whole apartment looking for contraband girls? I mean, I get that I don’t fit with a Hollywood image, but that was about any girl. Did Andrew take a vow of celibacy for the movie? The whole thing makes me uneasy.

Finally, after I get a massage in the spa downstairs, the morning drags by and Tucker is due to pick me up. I’m having another moment. I have no idea what to wear. I’m in jeans, because that’s what I packed, but I worry that this is a fancy restaurant. And I’m looking plain. I’ve learned from experience that trying to doll myself up under pressure often leads to weird and unfortunate makeup issues—smudged mascara, uneven eye liner, and odd foundation lines under my chin—so when nervous, it’s best to stick to the tried and true. But it’s pretty spare. I put the basic lip gloss on, add a little liner under the eyes only, and cross my fingers that some sort of unlikely facial fungus or rash has befallen the lovely actress who will sit next to me at lunch and inevitably invite comparison.

My phone rings. It’s Andrew.

“Hello?”

“It’s me. Tucker’s on his way up.”

I ignore the panicky adrenaline starting to flow in my veins. “How was your morning?”

“Good. Lots of big drama today.”

“Were you
‘ACTING!’
?” I’m trying to be funny.

“What?” He’s too young to remember that
SNL
bit, probably.

“Never mind. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Okay.” He ends the call. This isn’t boding well.

The elevator dings. I jump, even though I’ve been warned to expect Tucker.

“Kelly?”

I grab my coat. Here goes nothing.

After a few minutes I feel a little less stressed about lunch because as we drive through town, I don’t see a single intimidating place to eat here in Santa Paula. Maybe that’s why Franca’s so unhappy. There’s no place for her to be in her element.

That’s why I’ve always loved the West. I came from a high school in Tennessee where your purse and your shoes should match your skirt. In Boise, the kids wear T-shirts and flip flops most of the time. Beau and Hunter have avoided any real pressure to look a certain way. Santa Paula seems to have that laid-back vibe too.

Tucker drops me right outside the restaurant. It’s a cute little place in a brick house. I am buoyed by this. I can handle this.

Then I walk inside. I give my name to the hostess, and she takes me to the back of the place, around a little shuttered door, into a garden room. Of course, a private room. How silly of me.

That’s when I stop short. Andrew’s there, of course, and Franca is there with an enormous Birkin bag at her side—maybe it’s her date—but there’s another guest at the table.

Jeremy. It has to be him. This man is wearing cowboy boots and a Cheshire cat grin a mile wide. I’m reminded vaguely of Tommy Lee Jones in
The Fugitive
. He’s gotten his man, except this time it’s his woman.

Andrew stands as I come to the table. Franca doesn’t. Jeremy doesn’t just stand, he bounds over to me.

Oh. My. God. I smile as broadly as I can.

“This must be the old family friend! Kelly!” He gives me a big hug. I am paralyzed. I think I know what the mouse feels like right before the boa constrictor swallows her whole. Yikes.

“And you are?” I’m not going down without a fight, damn it.

He smiles slyly. He was trying to trip me up. If I said I knew who he was, he’d know I was up in the apartment earlier. No chance, buster.

“Oh, I thought Andy told you about me. I’m Jeremy. Jeremy King.”

“Kelly Reynolds. Good to meet you.”

Andrew’s come over to my side. “Jeremy’s my agent. Kelly, I want you to meet Franca Delaney, my co-star.”

Franca doesn’t get up. She turns a little in her chair and offers her hand. Okay, not all of her hand. She’s one of those creepy from-the-knuckles-down hand shakers. I hate her already.

“Hi, Franca.” I shake her half-hand.

I think both of these people know who I am, in truth. I sit down between Franca and Andrew. He shoots me a look for one millisecond. I try not to burst out laughing. This is ridiculous.

Jeremy pulls himself up to the table. “This is a pleasant surprise. What brings you into town?”

Andrew jumps in. “Kelly’s going up to Ojai for a wedding this weekend. I wanted her to see the set, since she’s here.”

“So you’re from Pennsylvania too?” Franca has spoken.

“No, my folks knew Andrew’s from a trip they took to Florida one summer. They met there while they were golfing.” I’m totally ad-libbing here. What the hell.

“Aren’t your parents older?” Franca asks. She’s got the claws out already, I see.

Andrew looks surprised. I want to tell him girls are lethal when they’re mean. He should be glad he lives in the land of men, because girls fight dirty.

I ignore the comment. “How was the morning’s filming?”

“It was great. Your friend here was in fine form. One of the many reasons I love having him as a client.” Jeremy winks at Andrew. Andrew rolls his eyes.

“What’re you doing this afternoon?” Franca’s participating, but I can’t tell why she’s bothered to ask.

I don’t get a chance to answer, as the waiter comes to take orders. Jeremy has the Reuben, Andrew orders a hamburger, and then there’s Franca.

“I would like a Cobb salad with no dressing and no yolks in the hard-boiled eggs. And no croutons. And no bacon. And a Pellegrino.”

Oh, I want to say something catty soooo badly. Instead, I just order. “I’ll have the BLT. And an iced tea, please.” If we were being a little more transparent, I would now duck under the table to wait for the next missile Franca or Jeremy will lob in my direction.

“Wow.” That’s all that Franca can say. I want to smack her.

Andrew sits up a little taller as he hands the menus back to the waiter. “Thanks,” he tells him, then comments under his breath: “You might come back in a while to see if everyone’s still standing.”

“Andy.” It’s Jeremy.

“Jeremy.” Andrew smiles. Just barely.

“Oh, Jesus, let’s cut the shit. You’re dating this woman.” He points at me with a breadstick.

Andrew tosses his napkin on the table, pushes his chair away. “I’m done. Let’s go, Kelly.”

This is the part where I’m confused. I’m not sure why this is a deal breaker.

Jeremy puts a hand on Andrew’s arm. “Wait, now. Wait there, big guy. Let’s talk about this.”

Andrew sits back down and looks right at me. “Jeremy did a great thing when he signed me on to this movie.”

“You mean the insanely huge salary?” There’s a bite to Jeremy’s voice.

“No, I was talking about the language that says I can’t date anybody until we finish the media push.”

“Or until the end of the awards season, if you get a nod. Which I fully expect. This film has a magic to it.”

“That’s total bullshit. The whole thing is.” Andrew appears to be gripping the side of the table in order not to hit someone.

“You signed it.” Franca chimes in.

“Why?” I ask. Seems like a fair question in the middle of all of this.

Jeremy takes this one. “Well, my dear, perception is reality. And for this movie, the perception needs to be that Franca and your friend Andy here are dating. Or at least are secretly kissing and not telling.”

“People love the are-they-or-aren’t-they gossip. It sells a lot of tickets.” Franca smiles a toothy grin at me. She’s creepy.