Spin A Novel

CHAPTER 25

The Prisoner’s Dilemma





I wake early the next morning feeling both relieved and apprehensive. I’m in my own bed, and I can remember every second of the last twenty-four hours (even though there are parts I’d like to forget). On the dark side, Bob is expecting my article tomorrow at five, and I still haven’t decided if I’m going to turn it in.

I don’t know why I’m still hesitating. I’ve told Rory, Greer, and Henry the truth, and at least Greer is still talking to me. And it can’t really be about Amber. Yes, I like her. And yes, she’ll be pissed and will probably never talk to me again, but I didn’t ever expect to be friends with her in the first place.

Zzzttt! Zzzttt! Someone is ringing my doorbell insistently. I glance at the clock by my bedside. It’s 7:20. I’m guessing that whatever/whoever’s on the end of that godawful sound is something I’ve been avoiding.

I pull the covers over my head and listen to Joanne’s muttered oaths as she stomps toward the front door. I may have to get that new solo apartment earlier than I thought.

The apprehension in the pit of my stomach grows when I hear Joanne’s muffled squeal, followed by the sound of the three locks on our front door being turned hastily. Joanne scurries down the hall and knocks excitedly on my door.

“Katie, get up! You’ll never guess who’s here!”

Somehow I highly doubt that.

“Coming.”

I get out of bed and run a brush through my hair. Despite my good night’s sleep, I have dark circles under my eyes and my eyes are bloodshot. It seems like I should look better than this when I face my accuser, but there isn’t any time.

I open my bedroom door tentatively and walk toward the living room. Amber’s standing under the window staring down at the street. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she’s wearing an oversized pair of dark sunglasses. In her black leggings and ballet flats, she looks tiny and birdlike.

“Hey.”

Amber pushes her sunglasses up to the crown of her head and gives me a look reminiscent of those she used to shoot Saundra in group. “Let’s cut to the chase.”

“Amber, look, I’m really . . .”

The words catch in my throat as Joanne comes through the kitchen door holding a steaming mug.

“Here’s your coffee, Amber!” she trills.

“Joanne, get out of here.”

She looks crestfallen. “But . . .”

“I mean it, Joanne. Please.”

She looks back and forth between me and Amber. Amber’s angry expression is enough to persuade her. She puts the mug down on the coffee table and walks toward her bedroom.

“You owe me,” she hisses as she passes by.

When Joanne’s door clicks shut, Amber walks toward me, pulling a sheaf of papers out of her purse. I don’t have to look at them to know what they are: the copy of my article I gave Henry to read. I hadn’t even noticed it was gone, but in my defense, I was kind of distracted.

“I’m so sorry, Amber. Will you let me explain?”

She throws the papers toward me. They hit my chest and fall to the floor, fanning out in a haphazard pattern. “Don’t bother. I don’t want to hear any more of your lies.”

“Then why did you come here?”

“I came here to tell you that if you publish that, I’m going to ruin you.” Her voice is quavering slightly, but this only convinces me she’s telling the truth, even if her words sound like they come from a script.

But you know what, I’ve had just about enough of people threatening me.

“Take a number,” I say.

“Excuse me?”

“Look, I’m sorry I agreed to go to rehab and write a story about you, OK, but I was only trying to get a job. And you were just someone who seemed perfectly happy to have her life splashed all over the tabloids. So, that probably makes me a bad person, but now I don’t have any choices left. I either hand in the article or I don’t. Either way my life is shit.”

“And what makes that my problem?”

“It doesn’t. I’m just telling you, if this doesn’t turn out the way you want it to, don’t be surprised.”

Her eyes narrow to slits. “Get the f*ck out of my way.”

I step to the side, and she breezes past me toward the door.

“I’m sorry, Amber.”

She lowers her sunglasses with a flick of the hand. “F*ck you, Katie.”

I decide to go for a run to see if my feet pounding on the pavement can help me figure out what I should do, and to get away from Joanne’s accusatory looks. I’m feeling a gamut of emotions, but mostly I’m just guilty and scared.

Guilty about what?

Guilty about getting something I’ve always wanted through a series of f*ck-ups, I guess.

Because you’re only going to get the job at The Line because you got drunk, and lied your way through rehab?

Pretty much.

So, stop doing that.

Doing what?

Drinking. Lying.

I’m not sure if I can.

’Course you can. Just decide to do it, and it’s done.

Full of platitudes as always, I see.

Hey, this advice is gold, baby, gold.

Well, if you’re so smart, tell me what I’m afraid of.

That’s easy. You’re afraid of getting what you’ve always wanted.

When did you get to be so smart?

We’ve always been smart.

Haven’t been acting so smart lately.

Don’t look at me. That’s all on you.

Yes, yes. So, you’re saying . . . publish the article, take the job?

Un-huh.

And stop drinking. Stop lying.

You got it.

And then?

Simple. You live happily ever after.

Now I know you’re f*cking with me.

Twenty-five minutes of such thoughts brings me full circle to my front stoop. I stretch my legs on the steps, enjoying the limber feeling in my body and my mind. If I could bottle this clarity and sell it, I’d make a fortune.

It’s then that it hits me. Maybe there’s a way I can get everything I’ve always wanted, and save a few friendships too. I mull it over. Yeah, that might just work. But first, I’m going to have to convince Amber to speak to me again.

And I have twenty-nine hours to do it.

One hour later I’ve showered and made my way across town to Amber’s apartment. I’m standing in front of the glass doors to her building. There’s a large group of men lurking across the street, fast cars and wide angles at the ready. I take out my phone and text her.

I have a way to get back at Connor.

I wait nervously, wondering if she’ll respond. But surely, if I’ve learned anything in the last month, it’s how to get Amber’s attention.

Beep! Beep!

I’m listening.

It’s complicated. Can I come up?

Where RU?

Outside.

I look up at her apartment’s large bank of windows. The white curtains twitch, and I catch sight of her pale face looking down at me. One of the photographers behind me yells and points, and a dozen lenses tilt toward the sky. She jerks the curtains shut.

Beep! Beep!

Hanging with your peeps?

U know I’m not.

I can’t trust u.

I know.

There’s a pause. I can sense that Amber’s fighting her own internal demons. I’m banking on them wanting to hurt Connor more than they hate me. But as the minutes tick by, my confidence starts to fail. I’m about to leave when a large man in a business suit and sunglasses walks out of the building and up to me.

“Amber wants to speak to you,” he says in a bass voice.

I follow him nervously into the large, bright lobby of her building. Amber’s sitting on the edge of a ceramic wall that encloses a Zen waterfall. Her arms are folded tightly across her chest.

“So, what’s your big plan?” she asks in a brusque tone.

“I was thinking that there might be a way for us to both get what we want.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, what if I turn in my article, only we put a different spin on it?”

She looks curious. “What kind of spin?”

“I was thinking a little more Connor, a little less Amber.”

“You mean, instead of it being a tell-all about me, it will become a tell-all about him?”

“That’s the idea.”

“Is that going to work?”

“I don’t see why not.”

She gets a faraway look in her eyes. I hope she’s seeing Connor and Kimberley entwined on the rooftop.

“Where do we start?” she asks.

I know the answer to this question.

“At the beginning.”

“Joanne, would you mind giving us a minute?” I say when we get back to my apartment after taking the paparazzi on a mad, heart-stopping chase through the city. Joanne’s anger melts away the minute she catches sight of Amber trailing through the door behind me.

She bounces up from the couch. “Oh sure, no problem. I’ll just go find my DVDs for you to sign if that’s all right?”

“Sure, no problem,” Amber replies.

Joanne skips out of the room, and I’m pretty sure she’s singing under her breath. Possibly the theme song to The Girl Next Door.

“Sorry about that.”

“She’s harmless.”

“Shall we get to it?”

We go to my room, and Amber spends the next several hours telling me detail after detail about Connor. She holds nothing back. The ins and outs of their relationship. His cheating. His drug use. How he introduced her to drugs. His insecurities. The amount of money he spends on a haircut. It flows out of her while I type furiously, barely fast enough to keep up with her constant, “Oh, and here’s another thing . . .”

Joanne brings us snacks at regular intervals, and we work through the afternoon and late into the night. When she’s finally exhausted her list of grievances, I print up two copies and we read it through.

“No one’s going to print this,” she says unhappily when she gets to the last page. She’s wrapped a blanket from my bed around her shoulders and let her hair down.

“Not unless they want to get sued,” I agree from my desk chair. “They’re not going to be able to second-source most of this.”

“Shit!”

“Don’t worry. All is not lost.”

“Why? What are you thinking?”

“Well, I think if we go back to what I started with and slip some of this in, we can achieve the same effect in a more subtle way.”

She chews on the end of her pen. “But Connor will still know that I’m the source?”

“Definitely.”

“And if I want to take something in particular out, you’ll let me?”

“Of course.”

“OK, deal.”

I spin my desk chair around to face my computer and pull up the original article. I print up a copy for Amber.

“Why don’t you tell me what you want me to take out, while I work on integrating the stuff about Connor.”

She agrees, and we’re silent as we each reread the original article.

“I like the way you describe Connor the first time you see him,” she says.

“Thanks.”

“Maybe you can slip in the haircut stuff there?”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

Later, she asks me to take out the scene of her singing to Connor in the cafeteria.

“How come?”

“Because I seem like a complete idiot.”

“Nope, just human.”

“I don’t want to be that human.”

“It’s your call.” I delete the passage she’s referring to.

“You know, the article’s pretty good.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re still a dirty rotten scoundrel for agreeing to do it in the first place, though. And for pretending to be my friend.”

I turn to face her. Her face is angled toward the pages in her lap, but I can tell she’s just trying to keep herself from crying.

“I wasn’t pretending, Amber. I wasn’t being a good friend, but I could’ve spied on you without liking you.”

“Whatever, it’s not a big deal.”

“I mean it. I’m your friend if you want me to be.”

She smiles. “Thanks.”

I work on the passage about the day we went trapezing, adding in some text about Connor’s inability to do his own stunts, which Amber confirms.

“Does Henry know you’re here?” I ask as casually as I can manage.

“No.”

“Are you going to tell him about it?”

“No way. He might tell Connor.”

“But he quit. And I don’t think they’re speaking.”

“We’ll see how long that lasts.”

I type a few more sentences.

“Did he and Olivia used to date?”

“What do you mean ‘used to’?”

Oh God. I think I might be sick.

I start to type again, but all that’s coming out is nonsense. I’m not sure I can stand it, but I have to know more.

“They’re together?”

OK, high, squeaky voice is not casual.

“Well . . . they didn’t seem very broken up last night.”

It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to ask what she means by that. It doesn’t leave much for basic necessities like breathing.

“Did anything ever happen between you two?” she asks.

Well, apparently, we shared a hot kiss, but I can’t remember it. Oh, and we slept in the same bed. And he kissed me briefly yesterday in the living room. And I might be in love with him. Anything else? Nope, that about covers it.

“No.”

“Yeah, that’s what he said.”

Breathe, Kate. Breathe.

“It must be true then. Henry never lies.”

She laughs. “You’re right. He doesn’t. Isn’t that freaky?”

“Freaky.” I stand up. My legs are shaking. “I’m going to go outside for some fresh air. You want to come?”

“Nah. I’m not sure we shook off all those guys. I’d better stay up here.”

“How about I call you when I get outside to let you know if I see anyone.”

“Cool. You mind if I take a look at the new draft?”

I wave toward the computer. “Be my guest.”

I walk outside and sit on my front stoop. It’s nearly six in the morning, and the sky is lightening. It rained a couple of hours ago, so the air has that cleaned-out feeling, as if the rain scrubbed out all the pollutants as it fell. I breathe it in deeply, trying to shake the fatigue that’s descending, and the sadness.

I look around, but there don’t seem to be any paparazzi waiting to take Amber’s photograph. I open my phone to call Amber to give her the all-clear. I scan my list of recent calls, searching for her number. At the top, there’s a number I don’t recognize. Oh, right, of course. It’s Henry’s number. Henry, who seems so far from me, so unreachable, is really just a button-push away.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I highlight his number, punch the dial button, and hold the phone to my ear. It rings once, then clicks to voice mail.

“This is Henry. Leave a message.”

I should’ve known he wouldn’t answer at this hour.

“Hey, Henry, it’s Kate. Sorry if I woke you. I’m not sure why I’m calling really, but your number was in my phone, and I wanted to hear your voice. Is that stupid? I’m mostly stupid these days, so I can’t tell anymore. Anyway, I guess what I really wanted to say was, I’m sorry. And I’d love to tell you that in person if you can stand it. So, you have my number. Call me. Or I’ll see you in the park . . .” The line goes dead.

Blast! I talked too long. Maybe I should call back? No, that would be really stupid. And desperate. Not to mention pathetic. He has my number. If he wants to talk to me, he’ll call. And if he doesn’t, well, then I’m not going to be surprised, right? And I’ll live. I may end up in a crying heap on the floor for a while, but I’ll pick myself up eventually.

Knowing me, it’ll probably be sooner rather than later.

I go back inside. Joanne’s making breakfast for Amber in the kitchen—eggs and sausage. It smells great, but there’s really no point, since Amber will only eat a few bites. I start to tell Joanne this, but then I see her happy, purposive face, and I don’t have the heart to shatter her illusions.

After breakfast (Amber eats three tiny bites and spends the rest of the meal pushing the food around on her plate while Joanne anxiously asks her if she likes it), we spend a few hours polishing the article. It’s finally finished around noon, five hours to spare before my deadline.

I print up the final copy as Amber stretches across my bed.

“I can’t believe you’re still awake,” I say.

“Eighteen-hour days are pretty normal on set.” She yawns. “So, what’s next?”

“I thought I’d take a shower and then go hand this in to charming Bob. What about you?”

“Ditto on the shower, plus a nap. Then I thought I’d go to a meeting.”

“An AA meeting?”

“Of course. ‘Thirty meetings in thirty days will keep relapses at bay.’ ”

This was Saundra’s constant refrain during group. Thirty meetings in thirty days to reinforce the lessons learned in rehab and to avoid a relapse. Thirty in thirty. It has a nice, slogan-y ring to it.

I, of course, haven’t been to a meeting since I left rehab, but I have been from zero to blackout in my first week home. I should learn something from that, right?

“That’s what they say,” I reply.

“You want to come with? From what Henry told me, it sounds like you could use one.”

What I could really use is a few days without any more thoughts of Henry.

“Maybe. Where is it?”

“At the Y on Pearson.”

“Fancy.”

“It’s not about where you are . . .”

“But who you’re with,” I finish. “What time’s the meeting?”

“At three.”

“OK, I’ll try to make it.”

“You really should come, Katie.”

I give her a puzzled look. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Because the enemy of my enemy is my friend, grasshopper.”

“Did you learn that in a movie?”

“An episode of Roseanne, actually.”

I start to laugh, and it feels so good I give in to it. Amber joins in, and we laugh and laugh until we have tears running down our faces.

Joanne pokes her head in the door. “What’s so funny? Come on, guys. Let me in on the joke. Guys . . .”