What. The. Fuck?
I turn toward the cabinets, start opening them as well. And that’s when things get even weirder. Because they are fully stocked—with dishes and glasses, pots and pans, bowls and silverware. Even some heavy-duty appliances.
She’s got everything a fully functional kitchen needs, everything except food. And since I’ve seen her eat on three separate occasions during the last two days, I’m pretty sure it’s not anorexia I’m dealing with here. Which means—
“What are you doing?” she suddenly demands from behind me, her voice higher and more strident than I’ve ever heard it.
“I was looking for milk for my coffee,” I answer, making sure to shut the cabinet door as I turn around slowly.
“In my cabinets?”
“Well, there wasn’t any in the fridge, but I guess you already know that, don’t you?”
I’m watching her now, can see the second it dawns on her that I know her secret. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“It’s exactly what it looks like. Why is it that everyone at the shoot today was under the impression that you live here when it’s very clear that you don’t?”
“You were under that same impression.”
“You’re right, I was. But I’m not the shoot coordinator or the room stylist or the caterer. How could they have poked around in this place and not figured it out? And why are you lying to everybody, anyway?”
“I didn’t lie,” she tells me, and she’s got her voice—and face—back under control. “I own this house.”
“Yeah, but you don’t live in it.”
“So what? I own several places around the world that I don’t live in.”
“Yes,” I concede, because it’s true. I’ve done the research. She does have several other homes around the globe, including an apartment in Paris and one in New York, a country house in Tuscany, a villa on a private island off the coast of Greece and a townhouse in Park City, Utah. “But you don’t lie about living in any of those homes. Just this one. So what’s the deal? And where do you live when you’re in L.A.?”
“That’s none of your business,” she snaps, striding over to the coffeemaker and pouring herself a cup. She doesn’t even glance at the sugar or empty creamer container before lifting the hot, bitter liquid to her lips and drinking it down in one long gulp.
Jesus. My mouth hurts just watching the display of bravado, but I don’t say anything. Not when she’s staring at me over the rim of the cup, daring me to make a comment. But I recognize a distraction technique when I see one, so I keep my mouth shut and wait for her to finish scalding herself. As I do, our conversation from yesterday rings in my head. She’d called herself a masochist then and for the first time I’m tempted to believe she actually meant it.
Neither of us says another word until she’s tossed the cup in the trash. Then, as she glances around the kitchen like she’s looking for something—anything—else to concentrate on, I ask, “What do you want out of this interview?”
“Excuse me?” The question is incredulous, and the tone it’s delivered in pure diva.
“When Vanity Fair asked me to do it, they said they were looking for two things. The publicity that came with having the man who discovered the Belladonna as a killer interview the woman who plays her in the movie, and the first totally honest portrayal of you. The woman behind the legacy. The truth behind the beauty. I thought, when you wiped your makeup away during the shoot earlier, that that was what you were getting at. But now I’m not so sure.”
She lifts a brow. “I told you yesterday that no one in this town is totally honest. That’s not how the game is played. So don’t come whining to me about it now.”
“I’m not whining. And you’re right. You did warn me.” I walk past her as casually as I can, settle myself in one of the chairs around the breakfast nook table. And wait for her to come to me.
It doesn’t take long.
“Look,” she says, standing next to the table with her eyes wide and earnest. “Whether I live here or not is no big deal in the grand scheme of things. I’ve been honest with you about everything else.”
“You haven’t been honest with me about anything. You’ve dodged and prevaricated and turned questions back on me and flat-out lied when it benefitted you. The only thing you haven’t done in the last two days is be honest with me. Which, fine. I can live with that if that’s how you want to play this. But can you? Because you may be a liar, but I’m not. And if this is all you’re going to show me, this is how I’m going to write about you.”