Chapter 8
8
Tuesday
The first thing I decide the next morning is to be more daring (after popping some Advil for yet another hangover). My wish list is too staid. Too boring. There must be a balance between What a stupid thing to do and Whoa! but in a good way. It takes some calling around to various businesses, but I manage to line up two new and interesting experiences. And the first one happens at midday in a nearby park.
“Talk it through,” says my skateboarding instructor, Booker. He has short braids and is cooler than I could ever hope to be. He also has much better balance. Though that isn’t hard.
“My foot goes over the front hardware, positioned at a slight angle.”
“That’s right.”
“Are you sure there isn’t a rule about which foot goes where?”
“Nope. Left or right is fine. Just use whichever feels the most comfortable.”
“That’s a shame. I kind of like rules,” I say. “Okay. Lining up my back foot with the back hardware on the board. But my foot is on the ground, of course.”
We’re in a skate park in West LA. I have already mastered the art of standing on the board while it is stationary. My balance isn’t too bad. The children on the other side of the park are laughing at me and calling me a noob. Little jerks. But everyone has to start somewhere. On the plus side, we’ve been at this for almost an hour, and I haven’t broken a bone or landed on my ass once. Which I count as a win. High school phys ed classes can convince you of all sorts of things, like how much I suck at sports. But this skateboarding class has kind of been cathartic. It also makes for a great distraction from pining over a certain Scotsman.
“Push with my back foot while shifting my weight to the front foot.” And forward I go for about five or six feet. I won’t be taking home any titles or performing tricks in the near future. But having never been particularly athletic or coordinated, this effort is fine with me. “That wasn’t bad.”
“You’re doing good,” says Booker, who is a man of much enthusiasm and great patience. “That’s our time. How are you feeling? Did you enjoy it?”
“I did. Thank you.”
“That’s great. You’ve got my number if you want to book another lesson.” He smiles and I smile back at him. It takes me a minute to remove the hand, elbow, and knee guards. Then I give all of them back, along with the helmet and board. And I tip him well because the man is doing God’s work out here in the half-pipes.
My cell vibrates in my back pocket. Rebecca is texting me a series of screenshots from a leading gossip site. The headline is “Prince Charming Breaks Another Heart.” I can feel my soul leave my body. It’s just me and my sense of impending doom sitting on a park bench. And sure enough, there’s a photo of us in the convertible. Me climbing out. And him driving away.
The expression on my face as I stare after him is pathetic. Just fucking awful. To think all of this is out there in the universe and anyone can see it. But this also means I’ve been identified. My name is in the article, and they knew exactly where to be to get these shots. Ugh.
My cell vibrates again, and I answer the call on the first ring. “Hey.”
“What are you going to do?” asks Rebecca. “These photos are spreading like a virus. You can’t go home. They’ll probably be there, right? The paparazzi and so on?”
“Yeah.”
“Come stay with me.”
“No. I don’t want to dump this mess on anyone.”
“Where, then?” she asks. “A hotel?”
“I think so. Something with security and room service.” I take a deep breath. “It should only be for a day or two.”
“They’ll see that you’re boring and go back to chasing pop stars and actors around town in no time,” she jokes. “Lilah, are you okay? Your face in that photo... You look so sad.”
“It was nothing. Just weird lighting or something.”
“That’s the excuse you’re going with?”
I sigh. “The truth is, I hardly know the man, and I doubt I’ll be hearing from him again. It’s not worth worrying about.”
“I didn’t realize you’d been in touch with him again. You really don’t want to talk about it?”
“No,” I confirm. “Not right now. But thanks. I have an appointment to get to.”
“Okay. Let me know if you change your mind. Or if you want some company in your hotel room.”
“Will do.”
My phone chimes, and a text message appears on-screen.
Josh: How could you do this to me?
Josh: I was giving you time to calm down and you fucking cheat on me? You’re such a bitch!
What an entitled prick. Kicking Josh out is fast becoming the best choice I’ve ever made.
“Stay in a haunted hotel” wasn’t on my wish list before, but what the heck? The Hollywood Roosevelt is a Spanish-style building from the 1920s. The first Oscars ceremony was held here, and the ghosts of Marilyn Monroe, Montgomery Clift, and Lucille Ball have been sighted on the premises. My loft suite has a modern king-size four-poster bed, a big comfy armchair, and a desk. It is both cool and comfortable, and only a few blocks’ walk from my second appointment of the day.
But more about that later.
Booking into a hotel in the middle of Hollywood might not seem smart for someone on the down-low. However, it’s not like I plan on leaving my room for the next twenty-four hours. It sucks to lose a day, but this will blow over. In the meantime, the bathtub is calling my name. My apartment doesn’t have one, and hot water and bubbles are sublime. The heat is particularly great on my neck and hip. Though I make sure to keep the new bandage on my wrist from my afternoon’s adventure out of the water.
Now is the time to wrangle my cell. I block Josh for both being a dickhead and a hypocrite. My bad I hadn’t already blocked him after I caught him cheating. But the feeling of liberation is immense. Just pure freedom. The amount of energy I exerted when we were together telling myself that we worked is embarassing. Live and learn.
Now might be the time to get a new phone number. I delete over a dozen messages from curious contacts who’ve seen my picture in the paper: an acquaintance from work, someone I knew in college, a roommate from way back when. They all have questions, none of which I have any interest in answering. Most of these people I haven’t heard from in years. Making friends as an adult is hard, though I also might just not be any good at it. I always had books to keep me company.
I do answer a message from Mr. Pérez with an apology. He found a photographer standing in the front garden. Staying away from home for now is the right choice.
Next is an email from my insurers confirming they’re writing off the Prius. The repairs would cost more than the vehicle is worth, apparently. I call Mom and Dad and update them on my whereabouts. Mom’s cousin had texted her about my situation. But I manage to explain things without too much trouble. Sort of. After the lotto win, they seem open to almost anything happening when it comes to me. Then I nuke anything and everything from the media. Including the offer of a stupid amount of money for a tell-all interview about you-know-who. Like I even know him that well.
I don’t mean to google myself. My fingers must have slipped, as wrinkled and waterlogged as they are. The moment it’s done, I know it’s a mistake. Dread sits heavy in my stomach. People always say, “Don’t read the comments.” But when you accidentally go viral, “Don’t read anything” would be better advice.
The body positivity movement has claimed me. Which is cool. However, most monarchists think me fat and common. Same goes for many of Alistair’s stans. The few that are shipping us are being buried under the avalanche of online hate. Anonymous sources say the king is horrified. Again. (You would think he had better things to do.) There has been no sign of Alistair himself, so they make his absence a statement. He is embarrassed. He is heartbroken. He is in an emergency meeting with his people. And my personal favorite, he and I have made up and eloped to Mexico. How exciting. Nothing new to report about Daria Moore. Though of course there is plenty of speculation. And Lady Helena declined to comment, but she did flip the bird at a photographer from her front patio. What a woman.
She was right about how understanding what parasites the paparazzi are requires firsthand experience. There’s nothing like having your life reduced to clickbait. Let alone the whole damn world having an opinion about you. So gross and weird.
I have to convince myself to get out of the bath. Staying in it feels safe, though my skin is going to shit. I climb out and wrap myself up in a fluffy white robe. It’s been a while since I stayed at a hotel. All I have with me are the contents of my purse. I washed my panties, bra, socks, and tee with soap in the basin and hung them on towel racks. Happily, local stores can deliver whatever else I need.
This is not so bad. No sign of any ghosts yet. However, if I were a deceased Hollywood star, I wouldn’t show up until after midnight. It would almost be common to haunt the halls before then. Make people work for the scares by staying up late. I am determined to give my poor liver a day off. But I can still order room service and read a book on my cell. I am perfectly fine dealing with this all on my own. No one else needs to be bothered by this bullshit. I’ll do the sensible thing and hide away for a day or two, then get on with my wish list. All good.
“Yes! Success.”
Two whole bowling pins topple noisily onto the wooden lane, and I do a dance in my borrowed shoes. It’s important to celebrate your own small triumphs. The bartender said the speakeasy is usually busy, but not tonight. Lucky for me. Though it is past eleven on a weeknight, and this is LA, and some people will party any time of the day or night.
The Hollywood Roosevelt has several bars and restaurants. This one is an old gaming room on the mezzanine level. Lots of polished wood and a wealth of liquor bottles lined up on the shelves behind the bar. And two bowling lanes, which is great. I have never bowled before. As demonstrated by my current performance.
The truth is, I got lonely in my room. A good book is usually more than enough to keep me company, but my mind kept wandering. Being stuck in a hotel room, no matter how nice, got old fast. Down here, however, the vibe is good, and the music is loud. The pins are set up again, and I stretch my neck, pick up the bowling ball, and do my thing. Such style and grace. The ball unfortunately heads straight into the gutter.
“That was close,” says a familiar voice behind me. And it’s accompanied by clapping.
I spin to face him with wide eyes. “Ali. Hi.”
Alistair’s arms fall back to his sides, and we stare warily at one another. He’s wearing a black suit and a white shirt with the top two buttons open. Which should be illegal. On the right man, tailoring is such a turn-on. The way the suit jacket frames the breadth of his shoulders. The general air of formality, capability, and control. I have a boss kink now, apparently.
I don’t think I realized how much I wanted to see him again. Not until this moment. He makes my heart do a weird fluttery thing. It can’t be healthy.
“Wasn’t easy to find you,” he says. “A journalist friend helped me out.”
I sit down on a nearby chair and start unlacing my bowling shoes. “You’re friends with one of them?”
“They’re not all bad.”
“If they know where I am, where are they?” I ask. “Or am I no longer of interest?”
“You chose a good hotel. Security has been sending any press or lurkers on their way.”
“Hmm.” I give him a long look. The butterflies in my stomach need to get better taste. It’s a pity you can’t turn off your libido. Have some downtime now and then from any feelings in the heart and/or pants. “I thought you said you were busy. Why are you here, Ali?”
“I need to talk to you about something.”
I keep on gazing up at him. Dark stubble lines his jaw, and there are lines beside his eyes and bracketing his mouth. He seems tired. Like he should probably be napping, not standing here with me. “You could have texted.”
“I did. You didn’t answer.”
“Right. I turned off my phone,” I say. “Didn’t expect to hear from you again.”
“No,” he agrees, giving me a shifty glance. “My, ah, friend the journalist. She said you were offered a lot of money for an interview. Are you going to do it?”
I stuff my feet back into my sneakers and stand. “Go away, Alistair.”
“I have to know. Yes or no, Lilah?”
I hand over the shoes and nod good-night to the bartender. She gives my companion a curious look but says nothing. All I have to do is make it to the elevator and return to hiding in my room. I hit the button and wait with my shoulders up around my ears. As if I am in need of protection. A woman farther down the hallway is waiting on something, but she doesn’t pay us any mind.
“Lilah?” he asks, standing behind me.
“The answer is no.”
“You’re not going to do the interview? It’s a lot of money.”
“So you said. The answer is still no.”
“Are you absolutely sure?” He gives the closed elevator doors a scowl. It seems the whole world is annoying him tonight. “They need to know.”
“They? Who is they ? Is that your father or...?”
His lips slam shut, and he says no more. Which says more than enough.
“Might be best to make everyone you meet sign an NDA. Less stress. Just make it a part of your everyday life. Get a coffee—ask the barista to sign away their rights. Say hi to someone at a bar—see if they’ll give you a quick signature. I know it sounds awkward at first, but I have every faith in you making it work. And then you’ll never need to have a shitty conversation like this one ever again.” The elevator chimes and the doors slide open. I step inside and press the button for my floor. “I’ve answered your question. You can go away now.”
He just stands there watching me with his inscrutable blue eyes.
My shoulders sink as the doors start to slide closed. The truth is, the sight of him hurts my heart. That and the fact that he actually thinks I’m the sort of asshole who would sell him out. Though I’m sure his past played a part in making him believe I’d do this. Trust seems so hard for him.
But before the doors can close, he thrusts his hand between them. With an irritated noise, they pause, before sliding back open. A muscle jumps in his jawline as he steps into the elevator and glares down at me. Like this is all my fault somehow.
“What are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” he growls back at me.