Chapter 10
Calling Max could wait at least a few more hours.
It was oh-god-o’clock wherever he was in Europe, and besides.
.. I kind of just needed to marshal my thoughts together.
I took another pain pill, made sure the Tony went out for his evening constitutional, checked Charlemagne’s bathroom, and made myself another cup of tea.
Ben was snoring in his room by ten—though he’d deny ever making such sounds—so I wasn’t too worried about waking him up as I went about my evening chores.
I’d hoped all of that would make me tired but I was wired by the time I got back to my room.
Out of chores, already showered and, for once, not remotely hungry, I sighed.
It was time to face the music and deal with my Real Life (tm) responsibilities.
The admin work of being an actor. Which, in my case, boiled down to appeasing Rory for a bit by doing a few of the tasks he was insisting upon like one of my social media posts.
Rory had set up a schedule a few months back and I was supposed to stick to it.
He reminded me, very vocally, about my contract and how I had certain duties to uphold as his client and yada yada yada.
So. Social media posts was the least I could do—literally—and still bide my time while figuring out what to do next.
I couldn’t just stay in Lester Cove in some stasis bubble while the world kept moving on without me.
Rory, damn him, was right about a few things, including the fact I had to strike fast and hard if I wanted to keep any semblance of a film career.
I was teetering on a precarious ledge with my career quickly plunging into obscurity but my name zooming into notoriety thanks to Renee Rhoades’ death and now those damned pap shots trying to tie me to Tubbs.
A few social media posts couldn’t hurt. Just to sort of be a bookmark, keeping my place until I knew what I was going to do next.
Lacking a phone, I grabbed my laptop and opened up the recording app, making sure I didn’t look as crappy as I felt.
I could probably do with a coat of mascara, maybe some highlighter, but it would have to just be me barefaced for now—I couldn’t stomach the idea of sprucing up only to have to wash it all off one handed just a few minutes later.
Three, two, one and—“Hey, folks! Okay, I know I promised last time we’d do a Get Ready With Me but, well,” I paused and made a duck lip face and fluttered my lashes.
“Stay ready and you don’t have to get ready, you know?
” Turning the laptop so Charlemagne was visible, I said “I have a new bestie this week. Sorry, Max! You’ve been replaced! ”
Charlemagne growled low in his throat and jumped off my bed.
“This is my first time cat sitting, so if any of you out there have any good advice, let me know in the comments!”
I rambled on for a few minutes longer, giving a breezy half-truth about the regatta (So much fun, people!
It’s a tradition here in this tiny town and everyone really gets into it!), a little slice of life about my week (leaving out the grim bits and focusing on the super cute little shop that just opened up near the library selling handmade stationary and fancy glass pens), a quick shout out to Ron for my nails, and a funny story about something only a little made up from my past—an embellished retelling of my first time at a WeHo gay bar that ended far more PG than the true story had.
Wrapping up, I flipped the laptop so it would record the faint glow of the anchored boat just visible from my window, the faerie lights half burned out now but still looking visually interesting against the dark sky and darker water.
“Goodnight, everyone,” I said, barely stifling a yawn.
“Next time, I promise a real Get Ready With Me and I’ll take you to the tiniest museum I’ve ever seen in my entire life!
” I blew a kiss for the camera and wiggled the fingers of my casted hand before shutting everything off and heaving a sigh.
“That sucked,” I informed the animals, climbing back onto the bed to do a quick edit and post. “But at least it’s over.
Only eleventy million more engagement bait posts to go. ”
While I did some quick editing clean up and double checked to make sure I wasn’t showing the world my dirty clothes or messy vanity, I thought of Pamela and Gwendolyn, about Max, how they didn’t have to do these ridiculous posts.
How they just were able to do what they wanted, within reason.
Well, Pamela and Gwendolyn were retired now, weren’t they?
So they didn’t have to do anything but live their lives and enjoy the fruits of their labor.
Other than a handful of t.v. movies and a few movies roles in the year or so immediately after the show went off the air, and that one very short series Gwendolyn had starred in that was universally panned as being a derivative of Star Trek but campier, Pamela and Gwendolyn hadn’t been acting.
What had they been up to? Were they still closely tied to Tubbs over the years? Had they tried to get the biopic made?
Even the most no-name actors still popped up in the tabs now and then, and actors who’d once been at the top of the heap?
They’d almost always end up in a where are they now compilation or remember so and so, this is what they look like now piece.
Admittedly, I hadn’t been looking for Gwendolyn or Pamela over the years, but I did know someone who might be able to tell me what they’d been doing for the past few decades.
And who might be able to help me with my stalker pap problem.
I posted the video to my most visited platform and pulled up my personal email account, scrolling through until I found what I was looking for.
Paul Santos.
We’d kept in loose touch since everything went down early in the summer with Margie Witte and the info he was able to send my way to sort out what was going on, but it had all been casual how’s it going and a few gossipy exchanges.
We weren’t friends by any means and his milieu was more Broadway than Hollywood, but there was some overlap especially when it came to gossip.
I sent him a quick email with a few pleasantries and little snark about Rory being obsessed with some new genre of found footage rom-coms that was supposedly the next big thing before slipping in my questions-that-weren’t-questions about The Ladies Who Lunch stars.
I heard from someone (you know the drill, can’t say who!) that there was going to be a biopic about Beth Ellison!
Have you heard anything? I actually got to meet Gwendolyn Terhune and Pamela Sommers this week and they were very tight lipped about the whole thing but really, I think it’d be perfect timing.
It’s been decades and the nostalgia market is huge right now.
Ugh. I sounded like Rory.
The ladies are still absolutely gorgeous—don’t look a day over sixty despite both of them being nearly ninety!
Both of them have the prettiest smiles. Well, before the whole incident with Tubbs.
Not a lot of smiling right now. Not gonna lie, even that biopic Tubbs was working on about Beth Ellison would make either of them happy right now.
Speaking of being pretty—I guess you’ve seen my new head shots. AKA those pap shots that’ve been popping up o some of the indie gossip pages. WTH is up with that? I don’t suppose you know who’s doing it? Rory is not happy.
Another little lie, throwing Rory just a teeny bit in the grease on that one, and hopefully Paul might spill what he knew if he thought my agent was about to go ham on someone over unauthorized pics.
It was a given that Paul would somehow manage to let all what I’d told him out into the gossip-sphere, probably within a few hours of him reading my email.
It was nothing earth-shaking and no doubt that Gwendolyn and Pamela would know exactly where it came from the second it got back to them, but it was small potatoes. Nothing harmful, nothing career-ending.
Not for them anyway.
They could easily put me on blast about starting rumors and all it would take is their word against mine, given how thin the ice was under my feet right now.
Or it could absolutely do nothing. And Paul would tell me that he hadn’t heard anything, laugh about has-been stars taking the commercials and ‘influencer’ route, then not-so-subtly ask me about Max’s romantic life to gauge if he had an opening with my best friend.
Speaking of... I opened a new email to send.
I put Lost Phone Again in the subject line and sent Mom a short email, promising I was okay and telling her that we needed to do a video chat ASAP.
I’d just navigated away from email and started one for Max when the flashing and pinging of my video chat program started going bananas.
Max was scowling at me when I accepted the request.
“So you’re not dead,” he snapped in a pitch-perfect impression of my mother. “Good god, Damien! I’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours! Don’t you have a house phone or something? You live in one of those old houses with landlines, right?”
“Hello. I miss you too. I’m fine. Just a little boo boo,” I said dryly, showing him my bright green fiberglass cast. “Oh! I have a favor to ask you. Like... kind of a big one?”