Absolutely True Lies Page 6

  That made more sense. It wasn’t that she actually wanted to develop a social conscience; she just wanted to look like she had.

  “Maybe I care more about your security than Mariah’s people do,” Jameson said, shrugging. “I just wanted you in a place where a shooter couldn’t get a good line of sight. Sue me for being concerned.”

  Call me crazy, but I was concerned that he was concerned about shooters and their lines of sight. Who wants to shoot a teenage girl who makes high school comedies and sings about puppy love and buying your first car?

  Daisy rolled her eyes but offered him a little smile. “You’re always so worried, Jamie,” she teased him. “It’s very sweet, but really . . . I can take care of myself.”

  “Of course you can,” Jameson said, his tone dripping with condescension. It was so pronounced that I quickly looked to Daisy, worried about her reaction. But if she took any notice of the subtext of his words, she sure didn’t show it.

  “Anyway.” Daisy giggled, turning back to me. “Are we gonna start working now? I’ve been making notes about all the stories I want to tell you, and I just can’t wait. We are going to have so much fun, I swear.”

  I was exhausted, starving, and in desperate need of a shower. The last thing I wanted to do right now was listen to Daisy endlessly talk about herself. But I knew I couldn’t refuse; my only consolation was that she’d been tired and bored fifteen minutes into our first conversation, so this session probably couldn’t last that long.

  “Sure,” I said. I wondered what the bathtub was like in my room. And if (with a big enough tip) room service would deliver bath-side. “I just need to run to my room and grab my notebook and recorder.”

  I hadn’t even taken two steps toward the door when Jameson stopped me. “Oh, that’s not necessary. Go on and get started with Daisy and I’ll have Minka bring up your things.”

  When Minka had said she was here to do whatever we needed, I doubt that meant rifling through my haphazard luggage for a digital tape recorder. But if Jameson was the one asking, I knew she’d climb thirty-seven flights of stairs if the elevator took too long.

  “Let’s go talk in the bedroom,” Daisy said, already leading the way. “It’ll be like a slumber party.”

  I reluctantly followed, hoping this slumber party would involve a few more articles of clothing.

  CHAPTER 5

  People make a big deal about celebrity feuds, but I swear, there’s rarely anything to them. The tabloids have been saying for years that I’m “at war” with the girls from that ABC Family show, but really, we couldn’t be closer. Just last year we went on a joint charity mission to Uganda and helped build a school for underprivileged kids.

  Don’t think of us as stars. We’re just young women trying to find our way in this crazy town. How can I hate the only other people who understand how strange and difficult my everyday life can be?

  By 11:00 P.M., I’d heard every story about Daisy’s ongoing friendship with the buyer from Fred Segal (important because she always knew about a change in inventory before anyone else) and the 48,000 other teen celebrities she hated because they copied her signature look, didn’t invite her to their premieres, or, occasionally, just looked at her disrespectfully.

  As for the actual story of her life, she remembered hardly anything. All of the autobiographies I’d read had detailed stories about every stage of the person’s life, from childhood through the writing of the book. The most detailed story Daisy told me was about her obsession with Julien Macdonald’s clothing line, starting with his journey replacing Alexander McQueen as creative director at Givenchy, going off on his own as a designer, through every piece that walked during his latest runway show. I didn’t have the first clue how I was supposed to translate these nonsensical words into a memoir people might buy. Also, she never put on another stitch of clothing for the entire conversation.

  “So tell me about grade school,” I asked her at one point, trying to steer things back toward a useful subject.

  “What about it?” We’d been talking for an hour and she was tying dozens of pink bows in Ariel’s fur. The other two dogs had smartly run for their lives when she pulled out the doggie brush and I hadn’t seen them since. If I’d known what article of furniture they were hiding under, I might have joined them.

  “Well . . . people will want to know everything about you, including where you went to school, when you first decided you wanted to act . . .”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged, brushing out a knot near Ariel’s right ear. “I went to school for a few years, and then I got my first show. I’m not sure how it happened.”

  I tried something easier. “Okay . . . where did you go to school?”

  Daisy shrugged again. “Somewhere in Savannah, I think.” The dog yelped and tried to jump off the bed, but Daisy held the pet’s writhing body tight against her and kept brushing. “Can’t you ask my mom this stuff? She’s got all that crap.”

  “Sure.” I nodded, making yet another note for Faith. After just an hour, I had nearly a full page. So far, Daisy had forgotten the names of every director she’d worked with and everything they’d ever said to her. As far as Daisy was concerned, only her acting and vocal genius were responsible for her rise to fame, and everyone else was just there to make money off her. She referred to the executive producer of her show on Nickelodeon as “the hot dog guy” because he’d once told her he liked Pink’s. Everyone in L.A. likes Pink’s.

  “Great,” Daisy exclaimed. “Did I tell you about the Grammy ­after-party in Hollywood last year?” She didn’t wait for me to ­answer. “I was wearing Stella McCartney and those girls from E! were so jealous because they were clearly wearing off-the-rack . . .”

  And so it went, for more than three hours.

  By eleven, I could tell her interest was waning, and I was so hungry I was ready to take a bite out of one of her yelpy dogs. When Jameson peeked his head in and said, “You ladies about done for the night?” I nearly leapt off the bed and ran screaming back to my room. My room, which I had yet to see.

  “Totally.” Daisy sighed. “We’ve put in a real day’s work.”

  We really hadn’t, but I wasn’t about to argue. “I’d say I’ve gotten enough for today,” I told him and nodded. I stood up and stretched, stifling the urge to yawn.

  “Perfect,” Jameson said, checking his watch. “I was worried we were going to be late.”

  “Oh, shoot,” Daisy said, wiggling off the bed. “Is that club thing tonight? I thought it was tomorrow.”

  “I told you three times it was tonight.” The more he insisted on talking to her like a kindergartener, the more irritated I was with him. Granted, Daisy wasn’t exactly a Rhodes scholar, but he certainly wasn’t helping things by talking down to her all the time. “And Sharla and Axel have been here and ready to go for the last half hour.”

  “Do they want me to wash my hair?” Daisy asked, frowning.

  “No, just go on out to Axel and he’ll take care of you,” Jameson replied, snapping his fingers at her. “Now scoot.”

  I didn’t want to seem too excited, but all I could think about was room service food. A hamburger and French fries, and maybe a giant piece of chocolate cake for dessert. I didn’t know anything about Sharla, Axel, or a club opening, and to tell the truth, I couldn’t have cared less.

  But Jameson was getting very good at thwarting my planned escapes.

  “You can head to Sharla first,” he told me.

  “I’m sorry?” I asked, looking behind me to make sure he wasn’t talking to someone else in the room. But the only eyes looking back at me were Ariel’s.

  “Axel will do Daisy’s hair first, then you two can switch.” Jameson seemed to survey my appearance and then frowned. “I hope the dress will fit. A six was the biggest they had.”

  He said six like it was a plus size.

  “I’m g
oing with her?” I asked, still a few steps behind. I was ignoring the implied disapproval of my weight, and also trying not to think about how many pairs of Spanx it would take to get me into a size-six dress.

  “Of course,” he said, eyeing me strangely. “We didn’t fly you across the country to leave you alone in your room all night.”

  “Oh . . . thanks.”

  “Now get on out there,” he said, patting my ass lightly.

  I think I jumped about a foot when Jamie touched me. “Um . . . I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “I’m not a Playboy bunny or a pro football player,” I responded. “So please don’t pat my ass.”

  Jamie laughed, obviously missing the point. “Oh, Hols . . . I know you’re not a Playboy bunny. I’ve dated a few, believe me . . .” He continued to laugh, even wiping a tear away from his eye. “Now get out there. Sharla’s waiting.” As I left the room, he still couldn’t stop laughing. It was great for my self-esteem.

  Maybe now is the time to mention that I hate clubs. Not just hate—loathe and abhor. I can handle the occasional bar when it’s not too loud or crowded, and I’m all about nice restaurants and charity events. But stick me in a small room with four hundred drunk people swaying to music I can feel vibrating up through my legs and I want to kill myself. I would seriously rather swallow jagged pieces of glass than spend hours getting liquored up to grind against some greasy guy I don’t know. And don’t tell me the guys are different in Miami; it doesn’t matter where they’re from, they’re always greasy, and they can never keep their hands to themselves.

  I thought about arguing these points to Jameson, but I knew they would fall on deaf ears. This was the job I had signed up for, and I had to be willing to make a few sacrifices. Besides, maybe there would be food at this club. If not, I could make do with a bucket full of maraschino cherries.

  • • •

  I walked out into the living room, where a gorgeous, model-thin black girl and a man in skinny jeans were animatedly talking to Daisy. After only thirty seconds, the man (who I immediately assumed must be Axel) already had Daisy’s hair portioned out and was curling it at lightning speed.

  Sharla spotted me and waved me toward the chair. “Come on over, Holly.”

  The last time I’d had my makeup done was for my senior picture, and that woman had made me look like an unemployed Cher impersonator, so I was a little nervous about this whole situation. Of course they made Daisy look amazing—she was naturally stunning, and at eighteen, no matter what you do to your body, it pretty much looks the same.

  “Hi,” I said shyly, climbing into the chair next to Daisy. Before I could say “nice to meet you,” Sharla was attacking my face with all sorts of brushes and powders I’d never heard of. I had to stifle a feeling of claustrophobia as she leaned so close that I could make out each and every one of her pores—a huge feat, since they were tiny and well disguised.

  “Glad to have you aboard, Holly.” Sharla smiled, revealing an enormous set of teeth that bordered on horsey.

  “Thanks for doing this,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”

  “Are you staying with us the whole time in Miami?” Axel asked, speaking for the first time. There was something that seemed intentionally haughty about his tone, and while that should have made me dislike him, I had this sudden desperate desire to earn his approval. This almost certainly meant that he was gay, as I never have this kind of visceral reaction to straight men.

  I looked to Daisy, unable to answer that question on my own.

  “She totally is,” Daisy answered quickly. “Holly will be so much fun to play with.”

  I have never felt more like a Raggedy Ann doll in my life.

  “Then please—pretty, pretty please, let me teach you how to pluck your eyebrows. We all love Frida Kahlo, but she would have been more successful if she didn’t look like a Cro-Magnon peasant girl.”

  “Sure,” I replied, trying hard not to blink as Sharla practically tore one of my eyelids out of my head to apply eyeliner. “I’ve never been very good at it.”

  Axel laughed. “You didn’t need to tell me that, sweetie. I have eyes.”

  • • •

  We left the hotel just after midnight, and despite the late hour, the paparazzi were still hanging around the entrance. I wondered if Jameson had made them aware of Daisy’s schedule, or if there was always someone from each tabloid waiting for pictures, should she happen to go out. It didn’t seem like an efficient system to me, but I also didn’t understand why people wanted pictures of her eating dinner at a restaurant in the first place.

  I will say this for Axel and Sharla—I looked amazing. I was corseted so tight inside the tiny dress that I could feel my heartbeat in my liver, but seeing my nearly unrecognizable figure in the lobby’s mirrors was worth the pain. I’ve never thought of myself as particularly heavy, but I was a little too pleased with my unnaturally narrow waist and enormous cleavage. The instant I saw myself, I decided that this designer was someday making my wedding dress. That is, if he or she knew how to work with more than a yard of fabric.

  As we took our first few steps outside, Daisy was immediately flanked by two enormous bodyguards she seemed to know quite well but whom I’d never seen before. I couldn’t even tell when and where they’d appeared, it happened so suddenly. One minute, our little group was just five, and then a moment later, we were seven. The ridiculousness of this teenage girl’s entourage was starting to dawn on me. I spend most of every day completely alone; I suddenly realized Daisy was probably only by herself when she slept.

  And if I thought the level of media attention was absurd before, once we reached the club, it was insane. There were throngs of people, packed together like sardines, as far as I could see in any direction. And since everyone seemed to have a camera, it was almost impossible to tell who was a fan and who was paparazzi. If any one of us spoke on the walk from the SUV to the club, I wouldn’t have heard it. It’s also unlikely that I would have seen it—or anything—with the endless flashes bursting in front of my eyes. From where I was standing, the club might as well have been pink-and-purple speckled.

  Three steps inside the door, so many things happened at once, I could hardly process them all. On stage, the DJ gave a loud shout-out to Daisy, prompting the crowd to go wild. At the same time, our group was herded up to a VIP level above the dance floor, and before we reached the room, all of us but Daisy were banded with red paper strips and she had a black X scrawled across the back of her hand. This relieved me somewhat, as I hadn’t been able to figure out why an underage girl was parading into a club in full view of the cameras. I figured no one would stop her from actually drinking, but I just couldn’t imagine she’d be dumb enough to do it while people were filming her.

  “What is this place?” I yelled loudly to Daisy as we settled into a large red velvet couch.

  “New club, just opened,” she shouted back. Jameson walked by us and handed her a large plastic cup with MOUNTAIN DEW on the side. “They paid us fifty grand to show up.”

  “Fifty grand?” I asked incredulously. No wonder she could afford to hire a biographer—she could cover my salary with one night’s work. If you could call this work. “What do you have to do?”

  “Nothing much,” Daisy said. “We just need to hang out for an hour or two, I’ll walk over to the balcony a couple of times and pretend to dance, and then we can go home.” She seemed to remember something, snapping her fingers for Jameson, who handed her a cell phone without a word. “Oh, and one more thing.”

  Daisy set down her cup and turned so that her back was to the main part of the room. She raised her phone and put on a bright, fun smile. I’m sure there was a photo click during some portion of this, but I certainly wouldn’t have heard it. “Selfies!”

  I hate the word selfie. It’s a tween’s word, rammed into our c
ultural consciousness and now spoken by everyone from the president to the Dalai Lama. I know it’s a perfectly legitimate word these days, but I refuse to utter it out loud. “Who are the pictures for?”

  “My tweeties,” Daisy answered, never taking her eyes away from her phone. She tap-tapped for all of one second before passing the phone back to Jamie. It was lightning-quick.

  “You already got that up on Twitter?” I asked. “You’re fast.”

  At this, Daisy and Jamie turned to each other and laughed, sharing their first moment of true camaraderie in front of me. “I don’t handle my own social media. What am I, a hobo? Or a reality star? I have people who handle these things.”

  Jamie crossed behind me, leaning in to my ear. Despite the level of background noise, I heard him pretty clearly. “We don’t even give her the passwords. Trust me, it’s for the best.”

  Her “work” now done, Daisy picked up her cup and leaned back on the couch, yawning. I used to feel sorry for celebrities who couldn’t take two steps without a bodyguard and a camera in their faces, but my sympathy died in that Miami club. In fact, I was pretty angry. I practically lived in gangland, and she was getting paid to sit on a couch, drink soda, and fake-smile for her millions of fans on the Internet. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so obligated to waste my night keeping her company.

  Axel and Sharla, already with drinks in their hands, ran over to me.

  “Dance?” Sharla shouted, holding out her hand to me. Axel hadn’t waited for us; he was twirling right there in the VIP section.

  “No, thanks,” I answered her. I thought I had refused loud enough, but Sharla grabbed my hand and yanked me up off the couch. Either I was screaming for nothing or it didn’t matter what I wanted. I looked back at Daisy. “You coming?”

  “Can’t,” she said. “Security issues. No one in their right mind would put a celeb in the middle of a dance floor.”

  Perhaps some tiny bit of sympathy should have returned, but it didn’t. Maybe Daisy was forced to be bored out of her mind for a couple of hours, but it was for money. And I was stuck in a smelly, sticky, hundred-degree club where I didn’t know anyone and I hadn’t eaten in twelve hours. I seriously wouldn’t have cared if cleaning the toilets was a requisite for Daisy collecting her fee.