Suddenly I’m thinking about Ian, about that whole bizarre scene in his hotel room today. I don’t know why, considering it’s not like I had him for more than a couple nights of entertainment—and not like I was the one to give him up anyway. No, he’s the one who made it very clear this morning that he didn’t want me in his hotel room. Which…fine. I mean, two nights ago I did pretty much the exact same thing to him. Just because mine had been motivated by fear—fear that I’d let him see too much, fear that I’d given too much of myself over to him—doesn’t mean he has to feel the same way.
When I walked out this morning, I swore that I wasn’t going to dwell on it. Wasn’t going to think about him or what happened or just how much of myself I’d given over to him last night during that ridiculous game.
The fact that I’m breaking that vow now irritates me. And only makes me more determined to show him—show the both of us—that I don’t care about him or about what happened between us. I’ve had enough practice that I could probably get that across while dressed in a burlap sack, but I’m honest enough with myself to admit that that Versace dress will make it a lot more fun.
“So what exactly is wrong with the dress, Mom?” I ask her as I pick it up off the couch and hang it on the antique coat rack next to the door.
“Nothing, if you’re going to an awards ceremony—after having already been nominated. Those are the times you want to push the boundaries, to show off your spectacular looks. But not now, not when Belladonna is going to open and nominations are just around the corner. This isn’t the time for sexy.”
“This is Hollywood, Mom. It’s always the time for sexy.”
“Not if you want an Oscar. If you want one of those, you’ve got to be smart. You have to show that you’re a ‘serious’ actress. To show the Academy that you’re more just a perfect face and body.”
“Isn’t that what the actual movie is supposed to do?”
She waves a hand dismissively. “Movies help you get noticed, sweetheart. But they don’t actually get you nominated. It’s playing the game that does that.” She pauses, taps a finger against her almost pursed lips (almost, because actual pursing causes wrinkles and neither my mother nor her plastic surgeon have any use for those). “Maybe we should hire an Oscar coach.”
I burst out laughing. I can’t help it.
“Why are you laughing at me?” she demands with a pout. “I’m serious. If we want this to go our way—”
“Our way? Don’t you mean my way?” Except she doesn’t mean that and I know it. All of this fervor, all of this planning, it’s because she’s never gotten an Academy Award—never even gotten a nomination. It always bothered her that Hollywood never saw her as anything more than a pretty face, no one but Salvatore Romero’s bimbo bombshell. Through the years, my father racked up ten nominations and three wins, while all she got was Best Dressed at the Oscars. That’s why she’s so obsessed with me getting one.
But just because I’m right—just because I understand her motivation—doesn’t mean calling her on it is the right thing to do. I know it even as I say the words and one look at the expression on her face confirms it, has me drowning in guilt. Just because she makes me crazy sometimes is no reason to go for her weaknesses.
With a sigh, I lean into her. Knock our shoulders together in a gesture that is both an apology and a bid for camaraderie. “I know you’re excited, Mom. I am, too. But the movie isn’t even out yet! Let’s see how it does at the box office and what the critics say about my performance and then we can talk about what we need to do.” Or not, as I have absolutely no interest in going down this particular road to crazytown, not even for my mother.
And I’m certainly not giving it any more of my attention today. Right now I have a lot more pressing issues to worry about, one of which is making sure the photographers my mother hired stay where they belong. The last thing I want is for them to wander around on their own. When left to his own devices, it took Ian all of three minutes to find out that I didn’t live here. The last thing I want is for the rest of Hollywood to figure that out, too.
A knock on the door interrupts my reverie and my new assistant, Danielle, opens the door and casts a wary glance between my mother and me. Not that I blame her—if I didn’t have to be a participant in this conversation, I would run in the opposite direction.
“What can I do for you, Danielle?”
“The gardener just came to the door. He wants you to take a look at the changes in the garden, make sure you’re happy with them before he and his crew leave for the night.”
“Changes? What changes?” Alarm skitters through me. “Miguel was just supposed to do the regular trimming.”
“I didn’t think there were supposed to be any changes, but he seems to be under a different impression. Do you want me to go see what his guys have done and report back?”
“No, no. I’ll go. Tell him I’ll be out in just a minute.”