Chapter 9
Avery
I check my reflection in the mirror. The invitation said to dress up, so I’m wearing a suit—well, kind of.
The top only consists of a very low-cut vest and the red bra I’m wearing underneath is the same color as the high-heeled Manolos I swore I’d never again torture my feet with.
But, as Leslie’s latest big signing, I feel like I need to make an impression.
“I’m going to make you the star you deserve to be,” she said on our first phone call—and she did.
So I can hardly waltz into her big birthday party wearing a pair of sneakers, no matter how expensive.
And, to be honest, Leslie isn’t the only one I want to impress.
Leslie is agent to Hollywood’s biggest stars, Ida Burton and Faye Fleming included.
And she’s Dr. Nic’s sister. All the more reason to suffer some pain in my toes, although I can hear Sienna’s voice—parroting Justine, no doubt—in my ear loud and clear.
“You are Avery Hall. You don’t need high heels. No woman needs footwear designed for the male gaze.”
I flew back into Los Angeles late last night. I was away for eight days and my body, inevitably, adjusted to the time zones—London, Paris, Berlin, Rome—I flew in and out to endlessly talk about Deadline for Love. Toward the end, I could barely remember which city I was in.
Even though I could fall asleep standing up, a nervous energy courses through my body. I take one last look at myself, inhale a deep breath, and head to my car.
As soon as I set foot inside the huge mansion—one of those private estates built for maximum discretion at parties for the ultra-rich—in the Hollywood Hills, it feels like all eyes are on me.
Some people I’ve never met call my name. It only takes me a moment to realize this isn’t the sort of event I should have showed up to alone. Not anymore. I’m no longer the invisible soap actor from Echo Bay. I’m one of the hot lesbians from Queer Girl Summer.
“Avery, hiiii,” Ingrid, Leslie’s first assistant, takes me by the elbow. “Leslie is over the moon that you could make it. She knows you’re just off the plane. How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
Ingrid grabs two glasses of champagne from a waiter who has suddenly appeared next to us. She gives me one. I hold up my hand.
“I don’t drink.”
“That’s right. Sorry, I forgot.” She stands awkwardly with the two full champagne flutes in her hands. “Do you want me to take you to Leslie, or would you rather just work the room a little?”
Work the room? I thought this was a birthday party and not a networking event, although, I guess, in this town, those two might as well be synonymous.
“I’ll just wander for a bit.” I smile at Ingrid, who is being very nice to me on what must be a stressful day for her. “Thank you so much.”
“Of course. Find me if you need anything.” She smiles back, her gaze lingering.
Oh. Is this one of those moments Stella was talking about the other day?
Is Ingrid flirting with me or am I too tired to adequately assess this situation?
She’s probably just doing her job, though.
“I’ll send someone over with the alcohol-free selection. ”
The next half hour, I’m swallowed up by group after group of people who act as though they’ve known me forever.
I’m profusely complimented on QGS—“If you’re not a shoo-in for the Oscars, the Academy has really lost it,” some gray middle-aged guy says to me—and a woman even commends me on my performance in Echo Bay.
It’s all a bit much for my jet-lagged brain, but at least I haven’t had to shove any dickheads yet.
I shouldn’t, but I smile at the thought.
Also because it makes me think of Nic, who explicitly told me I can shove as many misogynists as I want to.
I haven’t seen her. She was right. This is a massive party.
I see Leslie, though. I make my way over to her to give her my best wishes.
“Ah, my favorite client.” She opens her arms to me, and I step into her embrace.
“You don’t look a day over thirty-five, Les,” I say, because, from the start, Leslie has encouraged this kind of familiarity.
“Thank you, darling.” She presses her lips to my cheek. “Good god, look at you.” She winks at me—I soon learned that Leslie really likes to wink. “Let’s get a lunch on the books this week. Ingrid will call you, okay?”
“That would be great.” I scan her face for any resemblances with her sister. They have the same deep-brown eyes, but Leslie has clearly had more Hollywood beauty treatments than Nic. Her hair is much darker and her face much sterner because of all that Botox.
Everyone wants a piece of Leslie today, of course.
Oh my god, that’s Sadie Ireland heading toward her right now, her hot wife—again, Sienna’s voice in my ear, saying that I can’t refer to a woman like that because of the patriarchy—in tow.
I grew up watching King & Prince on our shitty little TV and if I ever thought I might be heterosexual, Sadie Ireland in her tight leather jackets killed that thought instantly.
I huff out some air. I’ve come a long way from watching King & Prince in our perpetually hot single-wide—a very long fucking way.
I’m looking at Sadie Ireland, who left King & Prince years ago, in the flesh.
Back in the day, when I watched it with my mom, Sadie was married to her male co-star.
And look at her now. I wouldn’t mind playing opposite her someday.
Maybe in a scorching age-gap—oh, fuck. There she is at last. Dr. Nic Forbes in all her glory.
I only see her from the side, but I know it’s her. She’s wearing a glittery dress with a thigh-high slit, showing off her gorgeous legs. And she’s talking to Ida Fucking Burton.
I am light-years away from the trailer park, indeed.