50. Bambi
Bambi
Her hands grip the wheel, sweat beneath her palms. The street pulsates with energy, the feeling of too many cars, people on the sidewalk.
The house is surrounded. Thankfully, someone called security, and two guards stand at the gates, keeping back as many paparazzi as possible from swarming the front gate.
Bambi pulls up, eager to escape as the flashes angle toward her, the quick click, click, click of their cameras.
A scream bubbles up in her throat, and her head spins as she pulls into the garage, the roof of the car barely missing the door.
She shuts it as quickly as possible behind her.
A security guard approaches the garage and knocks as she gets out of her car.
“Mrs. Redfern? Are you all right?”
She nods, then realizes he cannot see her. “Yes,” she calls hesitantly. “I’m fine.”
“We’ll have this shut down as soon as possible. Please set the house alarm when you get inside.”
“Yes,” she calls through the door. “I will.”
Bambi stumbles into the house and kicks off her shoes at the door.
Her legs quiver as she wanders from room to room, pacing, checking.
She sets the alarm, then stashes the bottle of Macallan in the kitchen.
A quick scan reveals three other bottles.
She grabs them and stashes them far back in Lucita’s cleaning supply closet, somewhere Jason would never think to look.
She can’t risk taking them to the trash outside and being seen.
Or being photographed with them. To think of it!
Her mind races. Where are the EpiPens? There was always one in Jason’s travel bag and one under their bathroom sink upstairs, where he keeps his shaving cream and new razors.
One downstairs in the office desk drawer.
And one in the kitchen. She checks the junk drawer and finds it, remembering the moment he made her stash it in there last Christmas for safekeeping, just in case.
Perfect. Easy access. Martha’s words ring in her head: Jason will be fine. This is just a distraction.
Bambi takes out two glasses from the cabinet.
She checks the ice machine one last time.
A quick part of the curtains reveals two more paparazzi across the street, sitting on the hoods of their cars.
One of them is smoking. He looks up at her when the curtain moves, and Bambi flaps it closed and collapses into the breakfast nook.
From the living room, the TV news turns on, full volume.
“Fucking A!” Jason shouts from the living room, and something crashes against the far wall. The interview will happen soon, but not soon enough. The press are all over them now, bloodhounds circling in for a kill.
When Lucita comes downstairs, Bambi takes her arm and guides her to the back door, looking out to the guesthouse and the pool. She holds her hand and says the words Martha told her to say, but in a softer voice so it won’t frighten her.
“Lucita, you need to leave. I’m afraid we have to let you go. Starting today.”
At first, her brown eyes flash angry, then a wave of sadness breaks on their surface. Tears form, baubles in their corners. “Por favor, Miss Bambi, why? Is everything okay?”
Bambi shakes her head, unable to speak. She cannot believe it has come to this.
There is a rare moment of eye contact between them. She squeezes Lucita’s hand and leans closer. “Please,” she says quietly so that Jason will not hear. “Things are not good. You did nothing wrong, but please, you have to go now. Do you understand?”
Lucita looks into her eyes, and a flicker of recognition forms. Her lip quivers, a surge of maternal protection showing. “Let me help you. Please, Miss Bambi.”
She shakes her head no, not wanting to meet her eyes.
From the kitchen cabinet under the sink, Bambi reaches in and pulls out an envelope full of cash—three months of pay—she’d stowed at the very back.
“Take this,” she says and hands the envelope to Lucita. “Go out the back. A car is waiting for you.”
Lucita nods once.
Bambi grasps her hand one last time, then throws her arms around her. When she pulls away, she holds her firmly by the shoulders. “Do not come back here.”
Lucita leaves quietly through the back and out the poolside gate, down the alley where no one will see her. Bambi watches her go, and her gut pangs. She feels her shoulders drop a little. It’s going to be fine. We’re going to be fine.
When the phone finally rings, the house falls silent.
Jason mutes the TV and shouts once through to Bambi.
She goes into the living room, where he points to the oversized armchair, instructing her to sit.
He clicks on the speakerphone, and a timid voice says, “Jason, I’ve got Cecilia Green here with Hollywood Tonight. ”
“Thank you. Jason, how are you?”
Jason eyes Bambi as he answers. “That’s a stupid question. Have anything better?”
A guttural little laugh on the line. “How about this: why did you allegedly rape your co-star, Lauren LaMonte?”
“I’ve already said this, and I will say it until I’m blue in the face: I did not rape anyone,” Jason says, his voice rising.
He stares past Bambi to the cabinet of keepsakes and his own reflection in the glass.
His jaw flexes, and his eyes narrow, like he’s studying his appearance.
“The sex was consensual. Lauren and I became very close, but I regret the affair and the pain it has caused my wife.”
“Sources say that your wife is pregnant,” the reporter says. “How is this affecting her?”
Jason turns, his eyes aflame. Indignation stirring, he reaches for Bambi, but she flinches and gets up, pulling away. Jason swallows, at a loss for words.
“Jason? Are you there?”
“Our family is our business,” he says finally, though it is too late.
“Did you know your wife was pregnant?”
“I—I’ve said all I’m going to say about that,” Jason stammers. “The fact is, I’ve been put in an unfair and compromising situation by Miss LaMonte. And I want to talk about that.”
“Oh, really?” says the reporter. “Other sources say that this isn’t the first time these accusations have arisen from your on-set co-stars and that other women are prepared to come forward. What do you say to that?”
“This industry is a festering cesspool of incestuous cunts and fleabags,” he spits angrily into the phone, ire in his every word. “I’m telling you that I didn’t hurt anyone. Every single time was consensual,” he shouts.
“So, there have been other encounters? You’ll admit to that?”
“Are you fucking listening to a word I am saying? Everything I’ve ever done has been consensual and above board. That’s it. There’s nothing else to it. Everything else is pure lies.”
Bambi’s phone vibrates in her hand. She backs out of the room, Jason too involved to notice.
Bambi scrambles to the foyer and instructs the security guards to open the front gate just enough for Martha to get through.
Peeking through the front door, she watches Martha’s arrival in her Beetle and, to her horror, spots the little girl in the front seat.
Bambi opens the garage, paparazzi circling the partially open gate, the security guards pushing them back.
Several of them call out her name. The air is full of exhaust fumes and cigarette smoke, the faint odor of some paparazzo’s cheap cologne.
Flashes and camera clicks abound as she closes the garage behind them.