Absolutely True Lies Read online

  It was a great two weeks. For the first time in a very long time, I was happy and relaxed. I went out with friends when they called and didn’t worry about having to chip in twenty-five bucks for dinner. I started to think this middle-class thing wasn’t too shabby after all.

  But by the third week, I still hadn’t gotten a single phone call from the Dixson entourage. I wasn’t too concerned on Monday, but by Wednesday night, I started to panic. Had I missed some deadline I wasn’t aware existed? Was I supposed to call them? The clock on my microwave said it was past ten, but around here, business gets done pretty much twenty-four hours a day, so I wasn’t worried about calling Jameson. My thoughts were validated when he answered on the first ring.

  “Hols?” he asked, concerned. “Everything all right?”

  “Yeah, of course,” I said. “I was just checking in with you, seeing when I can start working with Daisy.”

  “Oh, right,” he said like he’d forgotten to pick up the dry cleaning. “We’ve been swamped. . . . You understand.” Jameson paused for a moment, but I didn’t respond, even with the normal platitudes. I didn’t understand Daisy’s life—that’s why I needed to meet with her. I heard paper rustling before he continued. “I suppose we have a few hours tomorrow afternoon. How’s that sound?”

  “That’s just fine,” I replied, nodding like an idiot as though he could see me through the phone.

  “Great, we’ll see you then, Hols.” And then he hung up.

  While I really liked the Dixson ladies, I wasn’t altogether sold on Jameson. Maybe I was judging him too harshly, but to me, he seemed like one weird dude. He’d hung up on me after five sentences without telling me where to meet them or at what time. I assumed he meant the house, but how could I possibly know that? I was waiting for him to tell me that he’d been sending me messages telepathically since our first phone call, and that it was my fault I hadn’t received them.

  Hey, in this town, you never know.

  • • •

  At six the next morning, there was a loud knock at my door. I briefly thought it was the first and my landlord had come screaming for the rent, but then remembered it was the middle of the month. While it always seemed like I just wrote my rent check and it was still miraculously time for the next, for once, I was off the hook for another couple of weeks.

  I sat up, groggy and confused, and tried to decide if I should answer the door or just pretend I wasn’t home. But the knocker didn’t give me much of a choice; the banging just went on and on. I got up and threw on a sweatshirt, knowing the Vietnamese woman who lived two doors down would come out swinging a rolling pin in a matter of seconds.

  I was surprised to find Jameson’s messenger on the other side of the door. Especially since my building has a security door that someone had clearly forgotten to close—again.

  “Hi,” I said, bewildered.

  “Man, sorry I’m late,” the kid told me, rubbing his eyes tiredly with one hand. The other was occupied with a large manila envelope that I guessed he was coming to deliver to me. “The traffic coming out of Bev Hills is already a real bitch.”

  He held up the envelope and shook it before passing it to me. I stared at him for a second, trying to make sense of the weirdness that seemed to be taking over my life in the last few weeks. He was late coming over here? Unless he was supposed to show up last night or at 2:00 A.M., I wasn’t sure how that was even possible.

  The kid looked me up and down quickly. “You’re going like that?”

  Clearly, I was missing a major part of this equation. “The only place I’m going is back to bed, and I assure you, it’s a really relaxed dress code.”

  He looked at his watch, then up at me, smirking. “You do know your flight leaves at nine A.M., right?”

  The kid was joking. He had to be joking. “Flight?”

  He nodded toward the envelope. “Mr. Lloyd said you’d need the tickets by five A.M., but I forgot you lived in the tenth level of hell.” He yawned loudly. “It took me over an hour to get here.”

  I’d been awake for three and a half minutes and today already sucked.

  “Dante’s Inferno only has nine levels.”

  “Who’s Dante?” he asked.

  Confused and a little irritated, I closed the door in his face. Then I promptly ripped open the top of the envelope and shook the ticket into my outstretched hand. I felt like I was playing some strange lottery where I switched places with a crazy person and took over their life for a few days. I inhaled deeply to restore my inner calm before I could dare look down at the ticket.

  And the winning city was . . . I squinted at the small print—Miami? I was flying to Miami and Jameson hadn’t bothered to tell me? I was shocked enough by the realization that I had to fly to my meeting with Daisy, but I assumed I was going someplace like Vegas or San Francisco, only a few hours away, where it just happened to be more convenient to fly than drive. But no, I was apparently traveling three thousand miles to have a conversation.

  As I read through the information, I also noticed that there was no return ticket. Not only did I have to leave for the airport twenty minutes ago, I had no idea what—or how much—I was supposed to pack. For a few seconds, I was really, truly irritated with Daisy Dixson and her publicity machine for their lack of consideration. Then, just as quickly, I realized that the oversight may not have been intentional. When you have millions of dollars, maybe this is just the way you roll. Bored with your everyday life? Head to Miami for a couple of days and see what happens. I could either spend the day cursing my new employers or just shut up and deal . . . and perhaps have a good time doing it.

  I spent the next ten minutes showering and packing at tornado-­like wind speeds, throwing everything I could grab into a duffel bag I used to use for the gym. As it had been two years since I’d actually bothered to go to the gym, I figured I should find some new use for the bag. I was in such a hurry that as soon as I was finished, I had absolutely no idea what I’d even packed. For all I knew, the contents could include an evening dress, no underwear, and a parka. But none of it would really matter if I couldn’t make the flight on time, so I tossed the bag over one shoulder, left Smitty with a neighbor, and drove the 10 freeway like a bat out of hell.

  I was lucky in that rush hour had barely begun and traffic wasn’t nearly as horrific as it would have been an hour later. All it took was a little reckless driving and illegal use of the carpool lane and I somehow made it to LAX in twenty minutes, and with only four people swearing at me or giving me the finger. That I noticed, anyway.

  By 8:30, I was happily in my first-class seat, drinking a mimosa and having already forgotten the insanity of the morning so far. I was even starting to look forward to my impromptu work trip to Miami. After all, I was traveling with the rich and famous—how bad could it be?

  • • •

  The flight landed just before 5:00 P.M., and by 5:15, I found myself weaving through throngs of travelers in cheap Hawaiian shirts and flip-flops to get to baggage claim. I was still so Zen from five hours of expensive champagne that I didn’t pause to consider the practical elements of this trip. The first of which were, where was I going from the airport, and how was I supposed to get there?

  In light of who I was working for, I think I assumed that a car would be waiting for me at the terminal, but I waited nearly an hour and no one appeared. After a while, I must have looked like quite the idiot, sitting at the curb, watching as people came and went. Eventually, even the airport police began circling me suspiciously, perhaps thinking that my pink Nike workout bag held some sort of explosive device. Just as three cops huddled together and stared at me, whispering among themselves, I pulled out my cell phone and called Jameson.

  “Hols!” He answered on the first ring. The guy must have had his Bluetooth surgically implanted in his ear. “How was the flight?”

  “Just fine,” I told him. My c
hampagne buzz was wearing off, and the ninety-five-degree, sticky heat was starting to get under my skin. “I’m at the airport now.”

  “What are you still doing out there?” he asked me. “Get yourself a car and come play with us.”

  “And where exactly would I be going?”

  “We’re at the Fontainebleau, in the Presidential Suite. Just come on up when you get here.”

  And, as always, Jameson just hung up. I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it for a second, willing some sane, normal person to call so that I could have a sane, normal conversation. No one called. I wasn’t even sure I knew someone who fit that description.

  I heaved myself off the curb, then started back toward baggage claim in search of a car rental agency. It would be fine, I told myself. Surely they would pay me back for the car. What was a few hundred dollars up front?

  • • •

  It was seven o’clock by the time I reached the Fontainebleau and I was starving. I’d considered pulling into a convenience store along the way, but I thought better of arriving at the Presidential Suite with Cheetos breath and neon orange fingertips. Besides, I figured the Dixsons had to eat dinner at some point.

  While I thought it might be a challenge to even get to the Presidential Suite (we’ve all seen those movies where a starstruck teenage girl tries desperately to break into her idol’s hotel room), the Fontainebleau knew I was coming and whisked me upstairs before I could so much as utter the name Daisy Dixson and start a panic in the lobby. And I assure you, there would have been a panic. I was barely able to pull into the valet stand without accidentally running over some paparazzi. And the tween girls just “hanging out” in the lobby, pretending to read, weren’t working too hard to hide the real purpose of their visit. So I was appreciative when my name alone was enough to get things moving.

  I was promptly assigned a personal attendant named Minka, who looked to be about my age but acted like a German efficiency specialist and didn’t appear to particularly like me. As she barked orders at a frightened bellman, she kept throwing me less than cordial looks. A few times, I think her nostrils actually flared. I had no idea what I’d done to incur her wrath, but I couldn’t wait to get away from her. As my duffel bag was spirited away, Minka prodded me toward the elevators with a firm hand pressed to the small of my back. I wasn’t sure if I was being handled or about to be taken hostage.

  “We’ve placed you in an oceanfront balcony suite in the Versailles building, per the request of your . . .” She threw me a look, faltering in her businesslike façade for the first time. “Your . . . fellow guest.” The woman cleared her throat and continued resolutely. “I hope you know that privacy is very important to us here at the Fontainebleau. Your party absolutely will not be disturbed by either photographers or fans.”

  “Oh . . . thank you,” I replied, figuring that’s what I was supposed to say. I was expected to worry about these things, right? I was starting to wish there was a manual to consult for these kinds of questions, just so that I wouldn’t get caught looking stupid. After this experience, perhaps I’d write one: Diving into the Celebrity Pool, a How-to Guide.

  “Should you need anything at all, please do not hesitate to contact me,” she charged on. Despite her words, I got the feeling she had no interest in ever hearing from me again. We approached the elevators, but Minka shook her head and steered me to the left, down a small hallway. I was almost blinded by the Florida sunshine streaming through the windows and glinting off the hotel’s endless marble surfaces. I found I had to shade my eyes just to keep them open. “We will have an attendant or concierge on duty twenty-four hours a day to service your needs.”

  Her last sentence was enunciated so strangely, I couldn’t help but throw her a look. Service our needs? I had a feeling there was more implied in her words than I wanted to know. Maybe that was her issue, I thought. If celebrities stayed at this hotel all the time, maybe their bad behavior caused all sorts of problems for the staff. But Daisy was an eighteen-year-old born-again Christian; aside from failing to curb her dog, I couldn’t imagine her trashing a hotel suite.

  We reached a smaller elevator and Minka nodded for me to enter. She placed a key into a slot at the top of the row of buttons, then turned it. The elevator doors had barely begun to slide closed when she snapped her head to the left, Exorcist-like, to stare me down.

  “Are you related to Miss Dixson?” she asked, being far more forward than I would have thought proper for such a “private” hotel. I could feel her appraising my relative worth, measuring it against her own. Suddenly, I was a little afraid to be alone with her.

  “Um . . . no, I’m working with her,” I replied politely, hoping we could leave it at that.

  Minka looked me up and down and frowned, apparently finding me unworthy to have such access to a person as famous as Daisy. “Well, you’re not her personal trainer,” she said with mild disapproval.

  “Maybe I’m her personal psychic,” I shot back, perhaps a bit too defensively. “What does it matter to you?”

  “Of course,” Minka responded snidely. “I’m sure you’re quite . . . indispensable to Ms. Dixson.”

  If we hadn’t reached our floor at that very moment, I might have slugged her. But the elevator dinged and the doors glided open, and I stepped out into the hallway, hoping to soon be rid of my shadow. Minka dropped my room key into my palm, unwilling to make actual physical contact with my bare hand. I wondered if she was germaphobic or just a bitch.

  “You will need to swipe your key card in the elevator to reach both this floor and your own,” she told me, continuing on to the suite door and knocking loudly. “It’s Minka from the hotel staff,” she called. “I have Ms. Gracin here for you.”

  I could hear Daisy’s yappy little dogs begin to chirp long before I heard footsteps approaching. Jameson flung the door open.

  “Well, hello there, Minka,” he said, offering her a wink. The three dogs swirled and yapped at his feet, but Jamie didn’t acknowledge their presence.

  “Hello, Mr. Lloyd,” she replied, blushing and looking away.

  Jameson threw me a look and nodded in a way that made me feel he was calling attention to his prowess. “Thanks for taking such good care of our girl.”

  Minka flushed a deeper shade of red, then giggled. Honest to God, she actually giggled. “My pleasure. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.”

  I was pretty sure I knew what she was willing to do. It also explained her immediate and intense dislike for me, but little Miss Minka needn’t have worried.

  “Yep, thanks for your help,” I said loudly, pushing past Minka and stepping into the suite. “You’ve been fantastic. Bye.” I deliberately closed the door, waving as her scowl disappeared into the hall.

  “Hols, glad you made it,” Jameson said, shaking my hand. He frowned. “You really look like shit.”

  “Thanks,” I said, looking around him to take in the largest hotel room I’d ever seen. It was beautifully decorated but in a way that didn’t lend itself to any particular style. There were couches and lounge chairs that didn’t appear to be the slightest bit comfortable, but which I’m certain were designed by someone of note. Someone who could charge the GDP of a small country for his or her services.

  “Oh my God, oh my God, you’re heeeeeere!”

  The squeal came from the balcony as Daisy dashed inside and made a beeline for me. Although it was nearing seven-thirty, she was clad in a bikini so tiny a gynecologist could have done an exam around it instead of having to take it off. She bounded toward me, and I tried really hard not to get an eyeful of her enormous boobs as they shimmied and bounced with each step. I’m totally not into women, I swear, but at that moment, she was almost more boob than woman. It was hard to look anywhere else.

  “Thank you soooooo much for coming!” Daisy exclaimed, throwing herself at me. I tried to hug back gingerly,
but she just pressed herself more firmly into me. I was creeped out not only by her relative nakedness but also because this was the most flesh I’d encountered in the last eighteen months.

  “She’s been talking about it nonstop,” Jameson said, smiling. “I’m so glad we decided to bring you out.”

  “Glad to be here,” I responded. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m surprised to be here . . . but glad. I certainly wouldn’t have imagined this yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry we all have to stay here,” Daisy said, throwing her agent a dirty look.

  “Daise,” Jameson chided, “the Fontainebleau is a five-star hotel. You love it here.”

  The scathing gaze he got in return clearly said, You don’t know me as well as you think you do, buddy. “No one stays here anymore,” she replied petulantly. “It’s so wasteful, Jamie, and so over.” Daisy turned to me and explained, “These hotels are all about decadence and luxury, and regular people just can’t afford to live like this anymore.”

  Anymore? I didn’t need to ask the price of this particular suite to know that no one in my family, even if they’d saved up for five years, could have ever afforded to stay here. Although it was slightly moving that Daisy was at least trying to be socially conscious. It wasn’t her fault that she was bargain-challenged.

  “Very thoughtful of you.”

  “Nowadays, everybody’s into bungalows,” she continued, nodding. “Mariah totally won’t stay in a hotel unless there aren’t any available bungalows.”