“You can haul your ass to Germany and get the boy back.”
“But he’ll just send me home again. He thinks he’s being chivalrous, remember? I have to prove to him I can handle it, but how? It’s not like I can go a year without cutting, and then say ‘I told you so.’ So what can I do to prove to him right now that I’ll be okay?”
“Ah, now here’s why you came to the right place. Because this is exactly the kind of sneaky shit you pick up after a lifetime in Hollywood. You just need to give the press nowhere else to go.”
“I’m not following.”
“They’re interested in you as a story. So make the story go away.”
I blink, trying to process what she’s saying. And then it all clicks into place. I leap out of my chair and throw my arms around Evelyn. “You’re brilliant.”
“Damn right, I am. Why do you think I’m a legend in this town?”
“Do you know someone who can handle the press side of things?”
Evelyn’s smile is as wide as I’ve ever seen it. “Just leave it to me.”
I do, and I watch in wonder as the pieces come together. Not two hours later, everything is on track for the first press conference of my life.
“And what makes it really unique,” Evelyn says with a guffaw, “is that everything you’re going to say is one hundred percent true.”
I spend the next hour organizing my thoughts. I’m not shy about speaking in front of a camera—I have my mother’s pageant obsession to thank for that—but I am nervous about making sure I’m clear and quotable. With lots of juicy sound bites.
When the knock at the door finally comes, and Evelyn opens it to the camera crew, I am ready. “You sure about this, Texas?”
“It’s the only thing I can think of to get him back,” I say. “And more important, I need to do it for me.”
She nods. “Okay, then. Let’s make you even more famous.”
I laugh, but have to acknowledge that she’s probably right. I also have to admit that this may not work, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that the princess is going out to kill the dragon instead of hiding in the tower.
The crew consists of a cameraman, a reporter, and a producer. I’m not interested in being interviewed, so the reporter says she’ll tape the intro later at the studio. This is just me, and I should take my time. I stand in the spot they’ve lit, wait for the cameraman to signal me, and start talking.
“My name is Nikki Fairchild, and I recently accepted one million dollars as a modeling fee for a nude Blaine original. The completed portrait now hangs in Mr. Damien Stark’s Malibu home, and it is an exceptional piece of art. It is both tasteful and erotic. And it does not show my face.”
I pause to collect my thoughts. The reporter nods encouragement, and I smile. We’ve only spoken a few words, but I like her.
“I agreed to the painting, and to the million, because I needed the money. It has not been spent, nor will it be until I am ready. But I also insisted that the arrangement be confidential and that no one except Mr. Stark and the artist know that it was me in the portrait. Somehow, though, my identity has been revealed, and Mr. Stark and I have been harassed nonstop by reporters and photographers who apparently have nothing better to do with their time. And the truth is, now I have regrets.”
I wonder, as I say that, if Damien will see this tape.
I soldier on. “Not about the painting. Not about the money. No, my regret is that I asked Blaine and Mr. Stark to keep my identity confidential in the first place. I will admit that there was a time when I was ashamed of my body, but that time has passed. I think the portrait is outstanding. And I think the modeling fee was fair. Then again, what is a fair price to paint a woman’s body? If Mr. Stark had paid me ten dollars, would the press now be calling me a cheap harlot?”