A Life More Complete

---Chapter 7---

It’s around three o’clock in the morning on a Monday when I notice my phone lighting up on my nightstand. I promised Ben when I returned home from my trip to Gia’s that my phone would remain on silent through the night, even though it wasn’t unusual for me to receive multiple late night texts or phone calls. I’ve stood firm with my promise now for months, but staying late at work as little as possible, that’s a whole other story. I started out good, but old habits die-hard and I’m back to working long hours and now, answering my phone in the middle of the night. I glance at Ben as he sleeps soundlessly next to me in my bed. I reach for my phone, covering the screen with my hand so I don’t disturb him. I creep into the kitchen and scroll through the missed calls. Three missed calls and one voice mail, all from the same number, and it’s one I don’t recognize. I enter my password and as the message plays my mouth drops open and I gasp out loud, “F*ck!”

Moving with ease to my bedroom I pull on a black wrap dress and grab a pair of black pumps carrying them with me as I exit the closet. The room is still shrouded in darkness as I stumble toward the bathroom. I pull my hair into a messy knot at the nape of my neck and secure it with a hair tie, slipping a red flower pin next to the knot. I coat my lashes in mascara, bronze my cheeks and brush my teeth with as much silence as I can manage. I look at myself in the mirror and hope I look as good in the dim light as I will on camera. I make my way to the bed, bending down I whisper into Ben’s ear as his eyelids flutter.

“Ben. I gotta go. It’s early. Don’t get up. I’ll call you later. Love you, baby.”

“Where are you going?” he mumbles.

“The Los Angeles Police Station. I’ll explain later.”

“You’ve started answering your phone in the middle of the night again?” he responds his eyes still closed.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Huh. Surprise, surprise,” he says rolling away from me.

“I don’t want to argue with you now. I have to go.” There will come a time when he will no longer tolerate my bullshit and I know that, yet I still walk out the door.

He mumbles, still sleepy, his voice hoarse, “You always have to go.” I roll my eyes at his words knowing they are true. I tug the bottom of my dress down and grit my teeth. What the hell is wrong with me? Ben is perfect and I’m single-handedly pissing him off for no reason. Why am I doing this to him? And yet, I still walk away.

Shoes in hand, I leave through the garage door, my index finger instinctively tapping the pad on each finger of my right hand and my lips moving wordlessly until I get to ten and repeating again. I shake my hand when I realize what I’ve just done. It’s been a long time since my OCD reared its ugly head and considering what’s occurred I’m not surprised.

I text Melinda and Bob asking them to meet me at the LAPD Hollywood station with a brief but to the point explanation. Trini had been arrested and booked on suspicion of DUI, felony cocaine possession and leaving the scene of an accident. I spoke to Trini last night and everything seemed fine, but guilt pulled at the back of my mind. I’d been waiting for this moment since we walked out of that doctor’s office six months ago. Everyone knows that feeling, the feeling that something isn’t right, but you just can’t put your finger on it. Even in sleep it wakes you, calling to you from the back of your mind, making you restless and anxious. I couldn’t bring myself to broach the subject with her, so I let it rest knowing eventually it would turn sour.

Melinda pulls into the parking lot just as I’m exiting my car. She parks her Mercedes SUV next to me and steps out wearing a black suit and a pair of red snakeskin pumps. You’d have thought we planned it.

“Bob’s not coming,” she says tersely.

“Not surprised,” I reply indignantly. Bob washed his hands of Trini after her first meltdown, and really, I can’t blame him. He has zero tolerance for her crap and has pretty much taken a backseat unless I ask him for help. Back in 2003, Trini was on tour for her first album when she had a nervous breakdown. Unfortunately for her it was caught on camera. A camera crew was documenting her tour when she freaked out on one of her dancers, all the while the cameras kept rolling catching her profanity laced tirade and the subsequent beat down. Afterward, she got stinking drunk, stole her father’s car and wrapped it around a tree. She was successfully sued by the dancer and forced into anger management classes and out-patient rehab. It was too much for Bob and his words still trouble me, “This won’t be the last time this happens, mark my words, she’s a shit show.” I knew he was right at the time, I just had no idea how bad it would get.

As we follow the sidewalk up to the door, microphones, recorders, cameras are shoved into our faces. Both of us, heads down, walk at quickened pace as questions are shouted at us like machine gun fire.

One reporter screams above the crowd, “Is it true that Trini Walters has been arrested on suspicion of DUI, again?”

I stop and turn to the growing crowd that is moving with us, “We will not be answering any questions at this time. We will be making a statement regarding Ms. Walters shortly.” The mob continues to spout off questions as Melinda and I are buzzed into the police station. We sign in like we do this every day and the sad thing is we’ve both been here more often than we’d like to admit. The woman behind the window purses her lips and slides the visitor badges through the small slot in the bulletproof glass. The look on her face is well known, if I could read her mind it would question the validity of my job and the stupidity of my client, something I’m currently doing.

Trini sits, her head facedown on her knees, her hands clasped behind her neck, in a wooden chair in an interrogation room. She’s been kept separate from the others, given special treatment, which will no doubt cause issues with the public and the media. She doesn’t move when Melinda and I enter the room. The officer follows behind as we all sit around the table. Trini’s lawyer arrives a few minutes later. It’s not the lawyer she hired; they’ve sent someone from their firm. A young kid, he might be twenty-five if he’s lucky and I want to ask him if he’s qualified to handle what has been thrust upon him. He gives muddled reasons as to where Trini’s lawyer is, which basically amounts to “he quit.” He didn’t quit the firm. He quit Trini. Her new lawyer is nervous, he mumbles and says “um” far too often. The legal advice he gives is basic, something in my six years as publicist I could’ve given her. I’ve seen this show play out, each time a different character in the lead, an actor, an athlete, a CEO. It doesn’t matter who, the outcome is still the same. He tells her to plead guilty, pay a fine, lose her license and then move on with her life. That fabulous use of the legal system will cost her at least five hundred bucks. The officer proceeds with the details of her arrest and what she’s been charged with. Trini glances at me, her eyes heavy, crusted and smeared with mascara.

“Trini, we have to release a statement to the press. I think we need to keep it basic and I also think you should consider entering rehab.” I wait for her response and her lawyer nods his head in agreement.

“Fine,” she answers, her voice resentful.

“This is for the best. It’ll show the judge that you’re serious about correcting the situation. It will show your fans and the media that you’ve owned up to your mistake. I know this isn’t what you want, but it will help you maintain your professionalism and your career.”

“Fine. Whatever.” Her words are harsher than before as she stares at me from across the table. Trini follows me out of the station. Stopping at the base of the parking lot, the sun is just beginning to rise and the sky is clear and serene, yet it feels as if it should be swirling with dark, opaque clouds. I take a deep breath and begin to speak, “At 1:04 this morning, Katrina Walters was arrested and booked on suspicion of driving under the influence, cocaine possession and leaving the scene of an accident. This was an error in judgment and she is taking full accountability for her actions. At this time, Ms. Walters has decided it would be in her best interest to enter a rehabilitation center to help rectify her issues. We ask the media to allow her the privacy and the respect she needs to heal. Thank you.”

I quickly usher Trini into my car and we leave the station, heading toward her house. Her father posted her bail, yet wasn’t present. No one is with her except the people she pays to be by her side, not Luke, not her father, not anyone from her ever-changing group of friends.

My phone’s been ringing incessantly since leaving the police station. Numerous requests for interviews, statements and questions bombard my voicemail inbox. Trini agrees to do one interview with a local news station with the rights to air clips on other media outlets.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask as we enter her house.

“Whatever.” Her replies have been one word, clipped and angry since we left the station. She has showered, changed her clothes and I’ve already sent her back to change a second time. I walk into her closet and select a simple navy blue shift dress and pair of navy and white polka dot wedges. I hand the dress to her and she retreats to the bathroom. Several minutes pass and she doesn’t emerge as I expect. I knock quietly on the bathroom door.

“Trini, you okay?” I hear her stifle as sob as I open the door. She’s curled in a ball on the floor still wearing the white mini dress. Her heavy eye makeup running down her face in thin black rivers as her body shakes and heaves with sobs. I slide down on the floor next to her pulling her into my arms.

“Shh,” I whisper into her hair remembering all too late that the sound that is supposed to soothe, always made me sob harder in the past. Trini has the same response. Her body is racked with chest heaving cries. “You don’t have to do the interview. I can cancel it.”

“No, I...I...I’ll do it.”

I wet a washcloth and wipe her heavily made up face until it is fresh and clear. She finally materializes from the bathroom looking fifteen years old as opposed to her almost nineteen years. Her hair parted to the side and swept into a low ponytail, minimal makeup and simply dressed in the shift dress and age appropriate espadrille wedges. She knows the drill and she does it unwaveringly well. She’s composed and a smile moves across her face that if you didn’t know her you’d believe it to be an honest display of happiness.

People move around us not speaking as they ready the set for the interview. The woman set to interview Trini sits across from us, her makeup being touched up, her hair a perfect halo of blonde, all the while never making eye contact with us. Trini’s lawyer arrives a few minutes later. I think his name is Jacob, but I can’t be sure. He won’t last long. Still the same weasely young kid, his suit too big, his eyes wide with unease. The interview begins and I can see Trini inhale deeply to ready herself. The image reflected back at us is exactly what I hoped for. She looks like the kid America fell in love with, innocent and sweet. I can only hope that it’s enough to curb the negative image that she has left in everyone’s mind.

“So, Trini, can you take me through what happened early this morning?” the interviewer asks, her lips pressed together firmly, waiting.

Trini glances briefly at me and then her lawyer, “I’ve had a rough couple of months. Sometimes it’s hard to cope. Being in the public eye for so long and the lack of privacy that goes along with it can be overbearing. I turned to methods that were probably not the best.” As I listen to her speak, I can’t believe how professional and composed she sounds. “I have decided that after the events that occurred I need some time to regroup and reorganize my personal and my professional life.”

The interview is going well and Trini continues to respond appropriately. I begin to relax taking a few deep breaths as I unclench my fists.

“Do you feel like this could possibly ruin your career?”

“No, absolutely not. It was a mistake and I fully intend to repair any damage I may have caused. And in turn, never once has my personal life affected my career. I have always remained professional. Anyone who has ever worked with me can vouch for that.”

“You’re a role model for young girls all over the country, how do you think their families feel about your most recent actions?”

My breathing begins to quicken and I can see the anger building in Trini’s eyes as she composes herself to answer the next question.

“Well, Rita, is it? I guess I didn’t catch your name.” Oh God, she’s turning snotty and now there’s no going back. My fingers find their rhythm and tap as she speaks. “I never went into this career to be a role model. Parents are role models; teachers and coaches are role models. People who make a difference in someone’s life are role models. I’m paid a ridiculous amount of money to entertain people. My job has no value other than for entertainment purposes and for you to accuse me of not being a positive role model, well I think you need to review your definition of a role model.” Trini slouches in her chair and exhales hard. I can see she hasn’t even begun and everything in me says call the interview but I don’t.

“Oh really, Ms. Walters? I’m sure there are plenty of people who would disagree with your statement. There are girls who have your poster on their bedroom walls, watch your television show, buy your music, yet you feel you have no impact on them whatsoever?”

“That’s not what I said. I just stated that I never intended to be someone’s role model and if parents are doing their job they wouldn’t allow their children to view me as role model.”

“Are you saying that your behavior is directly related to you not wanting to be seen as role model?”

Fire is beginning to burn in Trini’s eyes. It’s becoming a train wreck and I can’t stop it or look away. She leans forward in her chair and stares down the interviewer. She pauses momentarily, “Well, Rita, if you must know, I’m a f*cked up mess and the last thing I want is anyone to look up to me. If the public only knew the half of it,” she says shaking her head. “I wouldn’t be sitting here with you right now if I hadn’t gotten knocked up and...” Boom! There’s my cue. I should’ve pulled the plug a long time ago and I know I’ll hear it from Ellie. I clamp my hand down on Trini’s wrist hard and she turns and narrows her eyes at me.

“We’re done. Interview over. Thank you.” I glare at the interviewer and back at Trini. Yanking her up from the chair with too much force, she follows me as I drag her behind. She’s laughing as she stalks through the studio. It’s the kind of laugh that screams unstable and crazy. Her eyes are wild and everyone near us disperses as I pull her toward the parking lot; only a select few remain to gawk or take pictures. All the while Trini is flipping off the cameras and swearing and I’m pretty sure she tried to take her shoe off and throw it at someone. The pictures will splatter the pages of every tabloid and newspaper from here to New York, the interview broadcast on repeat to be over analyzed and there is nothing anyone can do to stop it.

As soon as we hit the parking lot I drop her wrist and turn to face her. “I don’t know what is going on, but you need to get it together. Now!” She stops laughing and looks right through me. I grab her shoulders and shake her. “Seriously, what the hell is going on? Are you trying to ruin your career? Is this what you want? The world to think you’re crazy because you did a kick-ass job if that’s what you’re going for?”

She says nothing, just stares aimlessly and listlessly as her face takes on a gray cast. She turns away from me, vomits spectacularly on the asphalt and then climbs into the passenger side of my car. I run my hands over my face and sigh.

We pull up to the rehab center in Malibu after what feels like an eternity. The entire time the car is silent. I can’t bring myself to speak. I can only hope that this mess is over and she will receive the help she needs to overcome whatever it is she’s battling. I grab her bag from the trunk and walk with her to the entrance of the facility. She looks like the walking dead, her eyes are sunken in, her face is ashen, loose strands of her hair are stuck to her cheeks with vomit. I almost can’t look at her. A woman greets us at the door and takes Trini’s bag. This is as far as I can go.

“Trini?” She turns and looks at me as tears fall down her cheeks. Her eyelids are heavy and sagging. “Please know I love you. This will get better.” I hug her quickly and retreat to my car before my emotions can get involved.

For the first time in months I feel relief, it’s like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders and I can finally relax. There isn’t that constant worry, the wait that something awful has yet to come. It’s over and I pray it has ended for good.

I don’t even bother to go home. I know Ellie will be all over me for this. I’ll be lucky if I still have a job after what happened. I should’ve stopped the interview; really I should’ve never allowed her to do the interview. I knew she was unstable, but I had no idea how truly messed up she was. I feel personally responsible for what went down. It’s my job to protect her from media scrutiny and public meltdowns and I failed.

Ellie is on the phone when I reach the doorway to her office. She cranes her long polished index finger at me and silently calls me into her office. Without speaking she points to the red armless leather chair placed in front of her glass top desk. I do as I am told and sit. My mind races as I watch her twirl her hair around her finger and swivel back and forth in her high back black leather desk chair. I try to read her expression. I obsessively tap my fingers and watch her face turn from harsh to smiling and back to harsh again. Oh God, she’s going to fire me. When she finally hangs up the phone, I take a deep breath and prepare myself.

“What the hell happened?” Her voice is calmer than I expect.

“I take full responsibility for what happened. I never should have allowed her to do the interview. I knew she wasn’t well.”

“Did you know she was pregnant?” she asks with sincere concern.

“Yes, I knew. I just had no idea it had affected her this much.”

“Is she still pregnant?”

“No, I took her for an abortion back in August. Remember when I took a few days off?”

“That explains a lot.” Ellie runs her hand through her hair and leans back in her chair. “I don’t know what to say other than...” I cut her off quickly.

“Sorry, Ellie, but please don’t fire me. I had no idea it was going to turn out like this. I have always thought of Trini as a friend, not a client, but I recently decided that I was going to keep my professional life separate from my personal life and I got wrapped up in doing what the media wanted and not what was best for Trini.” I exhale after my long-winded rant.

“Kristin, why would I fire you? You’ve been one the best employees I’ve ever had and it’s not because you make me a lot of money. The reason you’re so good at your job is because you allow your personal life to get involved. You know your clients better than they do and there’s a reason they’ve been with you for so long. You have a presence that’s unmatched by anyone in this office.” She pauses and rises from her desk. She joins me, sitting across from me; she takes my hand in hers. “I can’t imagine what you are going through or what you have been through with Trini. When you take on a young client like her it’s hard not to be involved in every aspect of her life. You’ve watched her grow up and I know you played an integral role in her becoming the person she is. There is good in her and it’s because of you.”

“Thank you. That means a lot to me. It truly does.” I wipe my eyes with my hands as they fill with tears.

“And don’t ever tell anyone I got all sappy on you. I can’t ruin my reputation that I’m a hard ass.” I laugh as she stands and pulls me into an attempt at a hug. Affection is obviously not Ellie’s thing. She’s stiff, but it’s the gesture that counts. “Take the rest of the day off. Turn your phone off, get in bed, have a glass of wine and sleep. Tomorrow’s another day.”

“Thanks, Ellie. Will do.”

As I walk out of her office she calls me, “Oh and Kristin, whatever you do, don’t turn on your TV. It will be everywhere.”

I nod my head in agreement as I lean down and take off my shoes. My feet are killing me and my eyes feel like they are filled with sand. I’m exhausted both physically and mentally.

When I finally arrive home I pull off my dress and toss it wherever it lands. I climb into bed and cover myself with the sheet. I grab my phone and text Ben.

Me: I’m home...finally. Where are you?

The phone drops from my hand landing next to my pillow. It vibrates moments later and I pick it up and smile.

Ben: I’m about five minutes away. Be home soon. Love you.

I love that he calls my home his home and I love that he’s off early. Ben drops a bag from In-N-Out on my bed and I eat while he strips of his clothes and showers quickly. He says nothing and knows that’s exactly what I need. I don’t want to rehash my day or discuss it to an overwhelming degree. He just holds me and any ill effects of my day wash away instantly.