Map to the Stars (3 page)

Except this guy was so full of himself that he wouldn't even take two minutes to listen to my side of the story (and okay, fine, it's not like I was offering it. Still). Misunderstanding or not, who the hell did he think he was? Just because he was a Hollywood Heartthrob with a capital
H
didn't give him the right to talk to me like this. If he thought I was going to be swayed by his swimmer's build or the way his hair picked up glints from the chandelier, he was deluded.

I glared at him, which was major progress for me. Gathering all my inner reserves, I spit out, “Whatever. Just you wait until I find my mom!”

His mouth formed a puzzled
O
shape.

Granted, that statement would have sounded a whole lot smoother had the guy known where my mother fit into the scenario, but at that moment I was beyond caring about saving face with Graham Cabot. I stomped (sort of) to the door and placed my hands on my hips, waiting
for Roddy to move his lumberjack frame out of the way.

Roddy peered easily over the top of my head at Graham, awaiting permission to move. Graham must have made some motion because Roddy stepped to the side and let me resume my march to the elevator. The door to the suite clicked softly into place behind me.

As I jammed my finger repeatedly on the down button, the door to Graham's room clicked opened again and one of the other adults—a tiny pixie woman with olive skin and thick black hair down to her butt—slipped out, clutching a leather satchel half her size. She sashayed over to me and placed her bag on the ground, bending over to poke around inside it. She found what she needed and straightened back up.

“Look, sorry about that scene in there. I mean, I'm sure we can agree that what you did was slightly . . . inappropriate. But as Graham's handler, I can assure you that he values each and every one of his fans and I'd hate for him to lose even a crazy one. No offense. It's just that you whack jobs are the ones who sit through his movies ten times in a row. Here, please—take this.”

My jaw hung open as she thrust something into my hand. The elevator opened. I closed my fingers around the paper and stepped inside, turning in time to watch her attempt to hoist her bag back onto her arm, before the doors slid shut and left me in peace. I glanced down at the paper in my hand, which turned out to be an eight-by-ten glossy photograph of Graham Cabot with his signature scrawled across the bottom half.

There was nothing else to do but scream in frustration as I crumpled
the picture in my fist. What WAS it with these people? Was a signed headshot the Hollywood equivalent of a Hallmark apology card?

All of a sudden, I was beginning to question if even the chance to see the glass pyramid at the Louvre in person was remotely worth a summer in the company of these people.

And . . . welcome to New York.

The elevator doors slid open on the fourth floor to reveal my bag-bundled mother.

“Hey, sweetie. I just stopped off in our room to drop some things. Sorry that took so long. I ended up getting a tad bit lost, but I managed to get everything. How's it looking up there?” She used her foot to prop open the elevator doors while she wrestled with a bag.

“How it's looking is filled to capacity with one person's ego, that's how it's looking,” I said, still seething.

Mom cocked her head. She pulled her foot from the door and used a free hand to jerk me out into the hallway. “I don't understand. Whose ego? Oh my God, wait . . . are you saying Graham's here already? He's not due for another hour.” Her voice squeaked a little as she finished the sentence.

However, I was not at all ready to be done with my own tantrum. Not by a long shot. I needed to vent and Mom had landed right in the path of my hurricane. Something about knowing someone was bound
by blood to love me made me a hundred percent less worked up over my confrontation with them.

“Oh, more than likely he commands the tailwinds as well as everyone and everything else. Because he's here all right. And he is not . . .” I tossed about for a strong enough word but couldn't find one acidic enough to do my rant justice. I settled for: “. . . pleasant. To say the least.”

Mom had a “don't even tell me” look on her face. “Annabelle Mae,” she said, with a warning note to her voice. “Pray tell, what happened?”

“Why do you automatically assume
I
did something? I mean, okay, fine, I was asleep in his bed. Whatever. The guy didn't have to automatically jump to his pervy conclusions. At least he could have waited to hear my side of things instead of just assuming I was there to seduce him. I mean, seriously? His ego is bigger than that building out his window!”

Mom was clearly not compelled by my defense. Through clenched teeth, she asked, “Are you saying Graham came into his hotel room after a long day of traveling and discovered a perfect stranger asleep in his bed?”

“Well, when you put it like that, I mean, yeah, but Mom, you should have seen him completely fly off the handle. The guy was a total creeper!”

“Who could blame him?” She put one hand on her hip and then the other, a gesture I matched hand for hand. We stood staring each other down in the paneled hallway. Finally Mom made a weird “Oomph”
noise and pressed the button to summon the elevator again.

“You're going to march straight up there and go whole hog on an apology.”

Before I could even compose my rebuttal, she amended: “No, scratch that. It's probably better if you stay here until things have had a chance to blow over a little. I'm going to go up there and see how bad the damage is. Let's find out if you've actually managed to beat our record firing time.”

The elevator doors slid open with a tasteful ding and Mom fired a disgusted look over her shoulder as she stepped on. For my part, I stomped off to our room, maneuvering my way around suitcases and plopping facedown on my bed. I focused on trying to identify the different city sounds outside my window, which helped me calm down a little, but I was still way too steamed to consider resuming my nap.

Revenge. That's what was on my mind.

I mean, fine, the guy held our paychecks and LA future in his hands, so it's not like I could actually carry out any of my fantasies, not like I had it in me to seriously do anything anyway. But just daydreaming about sending room service doused in cayenne pepper to His Highness made me feel a little better. Thinking about the inconveniences that would arise from tweeting his current location and the name he booked his room under (Peter Parker? Really, dude?) to all 26,595,901 of his Twitter followers? Even better.

Mom was totally defrosted by the time she came back to the room three hours
(THREE FREAKING HOURS!)
later. I'd had time to
read my entire
Illustrated Guide to London Art and Architecture
, assuming with each passing minute that Mom had managed to defuse the bomb and our trip to London was still on. After all, as we knew oh so well, it didn't take three hours to fire someone. However, I didn't expect her to be downright giddy when she tripped into the room, chuckling at some private joke.

“You know, honey, I have to say, I think you got Graham pegged all wrong. He was completely adorable with me. We all had a good laugh once I was able to explain the whole situation. He wanted me to assure you he has no hard feelings and he's looking forward to meeting you properly.”

“You all had a good laugh?
He
has no hard feelings? Well, that's great, Mom. Just great. What about my hard feelings?”

“Babe, I really think you may be the one blowing this out of proportion. You have to put yourself in Graham's shoes for a minute. Who knows all the crackpots he must have to deal with. You've heard those crazy stalker stories. Remember that group last year that got arrested for breaking into movie stars' houses as part of some pledging ritual? I mean, imagine you're minding your own business, not causing anyone any harm, and just because you happen to have a household name, you get on a list like that.”

I was not swayed. “Poor baby movie star. It must be sooo rough to be him. I'll bet it just sucks so much when his chauffeur forgets to pick up his nonfat, no foam, no water, six pump, extra hot chai latte.” I placed my palm against my forehead and pretended to swoon, flopping onto my bed. “Oh, and can you even imagine how horrible it
must be when the surround sound system breaks down and there's no way to watch the VMAs on the hundred-and-six-inch flat screen?”

“Sarcasm is very unbecoming, Annie,” said my mother with a shrug, reaching across me for the TV remote. “To be honest, I'm a little surprised at you. I don't understand why you're letting this perfect stranger get you so worked up.”

“Because, Mom. You should have seen the way he looked at me. Like I was a piece of gum on the bottom of his shoe. He was so . . . so . . .
smug
. I just don't get why people in Hollywood think they're so much better than the rest of us mere mortals.”

“Mm-hm. And you're basing this on the enormous number of, what is it, three people you've met in the business? You'll get zero argument from me on Billy Glick, but wouldn't you say Joe is a perfect counterpoint? That man is a total doll and we owe an awful lot to him. You might be lumping Graham in the negative column right now, but I have to tell you, sweetie, from everything I observed of him tonight, I'd pin him as one of the good guys.”

I wandered over to the window and pretended to be transfixed by the view. Mom continued talking to my back.

“Sweetheart, you know what this job means for us, right? Your dad's, uh, situation, means I really can't afford to lose this gig.” I felt a twinge of guilt at her groan of frustration. “Plus,” she continued, “I like this job. It's exactly the kind of distraction I wanted for us when we made the decision to move to LA. And I want it for you too. How else would I ever have the means to share this big adventure with my baby girl? It may have taken me forty-three years to leave home, but
I knew from the moment I held you, you were going places much bigger than Shelbyville. I have to steal this time with you while I have it. Look where we are, sweets. We're in high cotton.”

Even with my back to her, I could picture her arms stretching wide to cover the city outside our window (or at least the office building and the half block of Madison Avenue visible from our window). Mom may not have gotten the daughter who would giggle over shopping trips and makeovers, but at least this trip was girl time we could share, and I knew Mom was excited for that. Besides, it wasn't her fault her client was a major jerk. I turned to her and offered a shrug and a tiny smile. She responded with a bigger one of her own and then disappeared into the bathroom to shower before dinner.

I focused on the street below and watched the sunshine-yellow taxis maneuver across lanes. I was about to turn from the window to scope out potential restaurants online when a bus crossed my line of vision. Plastered across the entire side of it were the words
TRITON: SPLASH DOWN THIS SUMMER
. And underneath the slogan was a twice-life-size (which I could now vouch for firsthand), but very realistic and very,
very
shirtless Graham Cabot.

Grinning wickedly right up at me.

I yanked the curtains closed so hard the rod shook.

I skipped the indignity of rehearsing the apology I'd be forced to make in mere minutes. Instead, I yanked on what I hoped would pass as a suitable Assistant to the Makeup Artist uniform. At least the ballet flats Mom insisted I swap my sneakers for, black leggings, and
oversize white button-down were comfy enough for what promised to be a very long day. Excluding time for mea culpas, the schedule showed Graham's interviews starting at eight a.m. and continuing until six p.m., with only thirty minutes for lunch and three ten-minute breaks spaced throughout. Fine, so maybe being a movie star wasn't all glamour all the time.

Mom was up and out of the room at six thirty, sneakily setting my phone to sound an alarm at 7:05. Sadly for me, the six pillows I dragged on top of my blaring phone while in a stupor did the job of muffling the buzzing a little too well, which left me scrambling to make it upstairs before Mom sent out a pitchfork-carting search party. At least my work commute only involved an elevator.

When I reached the third floor, there were people with headsets and walkie-talkies swarming the hallways. A woman in a business suit spotted me stepping off the elevator and grabbed my elbow.

“Are you Annabelle?” she asked.

“Um, yeah. It's Annie, though.”

“Sure, whatever. Okay, listen, we have a code red. We're piggybacking with Warner's and the field publicists they flew in ate the oysters at the dive bar around the corner last night, so we had to offer them some of our crew. Your mom volunteered you to help out with distributing EPKs and working the stopwatch, okay?”

I had a perfectly blank expression. She tapped her foot impatiently, waiting for the lingo to miraculously click. Yeah, not gonna happen.

“Um, I'm not exactly sure what a press junket even is, let alone an EPK,” I offered.

Her shoulders drooped in defeat and she mumbled something under her breath. I'm fairly certain I caught the words “completely hopeless,” but when I said, “Excuse me?” she pointed to her headset and mimed that she was talking to someone on it.

“Okay, walk and talk,” she barked, and took off at full speed down the hallway. I had to trot to keep up with her. “EPK is ‘electronic press kit.' Here's some press junket 101. They usually take place over a weekend and involve gathering all the stars of a film, the director, and sometimes the producers, in one hotel for interviews. Reporters from all over are flown in, except for the ones who are POW.”

I touched her arm to get her attention. “Um, why would prisoners of war come to a press junket?”

She looked down at the carpet and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, “Why, Lord, why me?” When I started to protest, she pointed again to the headset. Yeah, right. I was onto her.

“Pay Own Ways,” she told me, using an “I'm talking to a three-year-old” tone of voice. “Some of the major print publications think it will compromise their journalistic integrity to have the studio fund their trip, and by extension their interview. Of course the TV people you'll be working with today have no such ethics. We cover their trip right down to a generous per diem. And let me tell you, some of them do this
every
weekend, so you can imagine the vacations they can take on frequent flyer miles and hotel points alone.” She ended on a snort and we resumed speed-walking the corridor.

“Okay, so to save money, we split the cost with another studio. It's called piggybacking. For this movie, we're piggying with Warner
Brothers. The print interviews for their movie are today and their TV ones will be tomorrow. We do TV today, print tomorrow. The reporters get interviews for two movies with one trip and we get to split costs with Warner's. Win-win. Got it?”

She didn't bother waiting for my nod as she paused in front of suite 212. Pivoting, she said, “Okay, gotta drop you here. No time to explain more, but you'll be fine. Just go with the flow. Good luck.”

Under her breath came, “You'll need it,” and this time when I raised my eyebrows in question and pointed to her headphones, she smirked. “Nope. That one was for you.”

“Uh,” I began, but the snarky publicist lady was already halfway up the hallway.

I turned to face the door and rapped lightly. A stocky man in giant padded headphones yanked it open, glaring. “Are you an idiot? We're taping in here! Didn't you see the sign?” I stood awkwardly in the doorway as the occupants of the room swiveled to face me.

A woman with a stopwatch in her hand shot daggers at me, then turned and said, “We're going to have to start over. I'm so sorry, Graham, but this'll cut five off your ten-minute break.”

Did she say Graham?

I stepped deeper into the suite and moved delicately around a black felt backdrop to spot two hazel eyes appraising me with amusement.

Graham Cabot.

Well, shit.

For someone who just lost half of a precious break, he looked decidedly mischievous as he gave me a once-over. Smugly so, actually. I
bristled inside, but did my best to keep my expression blandly apologetic as I made my way over to the far wall and tried to blend into it.

“Oh hell no,” said the same woman, gesturing me over to her side. “I was just filling in until you got here. This sucker's all yours.” She smirked, handing over the stopwatch. “Hit start, then tell the reporter each time a minute passes. Every interview is
precisely
five minutes.” She gave extra emphasis to the “precisely” and paused to wait for my nod. “Are you sure you can handle this?” she asked with a doubtful expression. I nodded mutely. Was I going to be treated like an idiot all summer? Because if so, I'd like off this ride, please.