Total Trainwreck (28 page)

The candle flickers to life. Devon bends to set the boat in the water. I bend with him, needing to feel the sensation of actually letting go. Together, we ease the painted wooden vessel into the black water. It bobs and dips, but finds its sea legs and starts floating away. A breeze catches the delicate cloth sails, pushing it farther, faster, into the night and onto her own path. She takes with her a constant, dull ache that’s lingered in my heart way too long.

Devon helps me to my feet, pulls me into him and rocks me slowly back and forth. He lays a hard kiss against my hair, which is everything. Enveloped in the night’s silence we mourn one final time and then close the book on all the heartaches we’ve known. We watch the flame disappear into the night, knowing she takes with her all the wrongs from our past and every promise for our future.
Our
future. Just us and an obstacle-free path leading to our happily-ever-after.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Six days ago I started a cleanse. There’s enough cayenne-lemon water in my system to degrease a Gulf oil spill. My stomach howls for relief so loudly I fully expect the creature from
Alien
to pop out of my belly any minute. Five days ago, Christian Dior’s private jet, laden with racks of designer clothes, arrived at Bob Hope Airport. I was their first stop. Three amazing gowns are tailored to my exact measurements—one for the red carpet and two for the after parties. A stylist told me Anne Hathaway had her eye on one I chose. I’m a nominee this year. Anne can suck it. Sorry, not sorry.

Four days ago, I had a run-through with hair and makeup. They assure me a smoky eye and dewy nude lip will land me on every Look of the Night list. I know nothing about this, which is why I pay them. Three days ago, I visited St. Tropez’s Sun Suite at the Four Seasons. Armed with a swatch of dress fabric and pics from hair and makeup, my spray tan was customized to perfection. Two tepid showers later I still reek of cat piss and coconut, but my skin is sun-kissed sexy and totally gorge.

Yesterday, I raced around Hollywood trying to avoid the paparazzi. My mani, pedi, brow sculpting, facial and massage had to be scheduled at different locations. If I stay too long in one spot, the other customers inevitably tweet my location. Then I’m fucked. Rule of thumb—don’t stay more than an hour at any spa. It’s the only way to stay one step ahead of the vultures. All they got were a couple shots of a girl dashing to an SUV in a hoodie and sunglasses. It could’ve been anyone.

This morning should be spent relaxing, leisurely getting ready for my big night. Instead, I’m memorizing an acceptance speech that sounds appropriately shocked and humbled. I’m also perfecting two looks. The first, a Sally Field you-like-me-you-really-like-me look of bewilderment, love and total astonishment to have won. The second, a classy as hell Meryl Streep you-deserve-it-so-much-more-than-me air kiss with lots of waves. That last one tastes like sucking dog shit through a straw.

“Ouch!” I howl, and try not to kick Dr. Giles, podiatrist to the stars.

“Sorry!” he says, pulling my foot back to his knee. “I promise you will thank me tomorrow when you can still walk.” The good doctor is working his magic on my feet. He’s popped every joint I possess from my knees down and is now taping my second and third toes together. “This is the only way you can navigate stilettos all night.” He grabs one of my five-inch Louboutins and slides it onto my foot, checking to be sure his professional wrap job isn’t visible through the peep-toe. “Perfect!” he exclaims, and releases my foot. “Good luck tonight.” He pats my calf good-naturedly.

“Thanks, Doc,” I say with a forced smile, too distracted by my current fabulousness to bother with the small gestures of civility.

“Do I have time for a smoke?” I ask Jane when he leaves. She nods her approval. I walk gingerly to the balcony of the Beverly Wilshire penthouse. It’s the same room where Julia Roberts was a pretty woman. I lean over the balcony, drinking in the sun, and fire up a smoke. Until I spy someone on the street looking right at me. Too risky. I slink into the shadows against a gray stone wall.

The past months have flown by. I’ve thrown myself into work and rebuilding my career so ferociously I’ve been too busy to breathe. My schedule is a never-ending parade of press junkets, interviews, red carpets and premieres. It was numbly satisfying until I got the news. Now every waking moment of my life is
Inception
-level surreal.

I’m a nominee. Not just any nominee. A Best Actress nominee. That in and of itself should be enough to make the most ardent atheists in the world believe in miracles. Me. The same Carly Klein everyone hated two years ago is now a media darling. This month I graced the cover of
Vogue
,
Time
and the
Hollywood Reporter
. That shit doesn’t happen. I don’t care who you are.

The doorbell chimes softly throughout the suite. Me-time is over. I toss my cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and hobble back inside. I’m expecting hair and makeup. Instead, it’s a gigantic bouquet of flowers so large it completely hides the delivery man.

“Put them over here,” Jane directs, leading him by his elbow so he doesn’t break anything. She takes the card and hands it to me. Up until yesterday, getting flowers was a big deal. Today the suite swims in them. They’re starting to stink. Jane hands me the card.

Break a leg, Babygirl.

I smile. Good ole Spence. I tuck the card into its envelope and set it on the table. After giving up on Maria, Spence started dating the entire
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issue. That put any press-pool-fabricated rumors about us to bed pretty quickly. I’m hotter than usual these days, but come on. Nobody can compete with a gaggle of leggy gazelles who take their clothes off for a living.

“Can we donate the rest of these?” I look around the room. Every surface overflows with arrangements from strangers wanting to suck up to a nominee. “I certainly don’t need them and I don’t even know who half of these people are. Only keep the one from Spence.”

Jane nods and turns to call the front desk. I sigh longingly at a gold-foil-wrapped box of Godiva chocolates. Who in their right mind sends a nominee a box of fucking chocolate the day of the awards show? I sip up my fifth glass of cayenne-lemon water and grab a handful of cucumber slices and blueberries. “Save these though.” I point to the box, dreaming of all the ways I will rip into them tonight. Chocolate and pizza. Again Jane nods like an obedient genie.

Hair and makeup roll through the door with one of the massive wheelie trunks you see backstage at rock shows. The flower guy holds the door for them.

“Carly, you look gorgeous!”

“Look at that glow!”

“You don’t even need us!” Their voices mingle together, gushing like high schoolers at prom. What a bunch of liars.

“Oh, stop it.” I wave their compliments away and smile sweetly, knowing they know I know they’re lying. But it’s what passes for sincerity in this town. I’ve learned to play the game. They busy themselves setting up.

My
gorgeously glowing
ass wears nothing but wet hair, sleep-deprived under-eye bags and a monogrammed, cashmere bathrobe. A gift from the hotel. The Beverly Wilshire knows I don’t have time for regular clothes today. It’s luxuriously fabulous. And a brilliant gift. Their subtle logo will be in any “behind the scenes” photos India Blume deems worthy of
leaking
. I do feel sexy in it. And thin. Thin is a good thing, because the face that appears in the doorway next slides an ice cube down my spine. Fuck. The moment of truth has arrived.

Dior’s head seamstress arrives on the high heels of hair and makeup. I’ve been praying to the Hollywood gods that my dress looks Paris Fashion Week runway ready tonight. Hell, who am I kidding? It has to look way better than that.

“Carly!” The spectacularly coifed Parisian woman breezes through the door. Her sewing kit rolling behind her. No machines for Dior. Everything is by hand. Two air kisses later, she whisks me into the sitting room where my gowns stand at attention on custom dress forms dappled in radiant sunlight. It steals my breath every time I peek in here.

My red-carpet gown is a soft, barely there gray on India’s insistence. Winners don’t wear stark white. It’s too harsh under the stage lights. India says the almost white dress will subconsciously make fans think of me as pure—blushing-bride pure. She’s a first-class bitch, but a smart one.

It’s off the shoulder with the most amazing Swarovski crystal—dotted overlay. A full high-low skirt of silk organza stands away from my body, showcasing my amazingly tanned and toned legs above a pair of Christian Louboutins that won’t release until next season. Amazing as all that sounds, it’s the skirt’s underside that makes the boldest statement.

Banksy, an internationally renowned graffiti artist whose masterpieces sell for millions, hand painted the crisp white silk underneath with a mixture of florals, hearts and vines. It’s elegantly edgy. The exact image my full-frontal rebranding campaign is going for. Tomorrow the dress flies to Christie’s Auction House in New York where it will sell to the highest bidder. Proceeds go to pediatric cancer research. The story of my brilliant philanthropic idea has been covered by every news outlet. Again, India’s evil genius idea.

“I’m so nervous!” I half squeal, giving Sabine a nervous look.

“Darling, you’ll look marvelous,” she insists, pulling on a pair of white cotton gloves before gingerly taking the dress from the form. She spreads the skirt layers and creates a hole for me to step into.

With zero hesitation, I drop my robe to the sunlit hardwood floor and dive into the pool of white meringue, my bare skin popping goose bumps. Sabine pulls it up over my nakedness. Jane holds it in place. I hold my breath.

The moment of truth.

The zipper slides up my back, pulling luscious fabric together. Nothing can prepare a girl for the feeling of a million-dollar dress melting over her body like warm wax. It’s damn near sexual. I release my breath and grin like an idiot at Jane. It fits! I spin to the mirrors. My jaw hits the floor. Dior is a fucking genius. And a miracle worker for making an hourglass out of a size zero. I have curves. Awesome Sofia Vergara—type curves.

“
Oui! Oui! La perfection!
” Sabine enthuses over air kisses like a proud mother.

Hair and makeup erupt in applause from the doorway, marveling at the dress the same way I did when I first saw it. Jane gives me a small smile and one of her squinty-eyed nods that tells me all I really need to know. I’m gonna burn this red carpet to the motherfucking ground.

“I will nip in here, and here,” Sabine says, pinching the fabric under my boobs to more prominently display the girls. Fine by me. God gave women tits for a reason, right? “Out! Out! I need to work!” Sabine unzips the gown and shoos us out the door.

Trying on the dress has suddenly made this day really real. All morning long, I’ve been able to psych myself out and make believe this isn’t such a big deal. Putting the gown on brings it all home. This is my make or break night. The night America will fall in love with me or forget me. “I need my Xanax,” I say breathlessly. Jane looks at her watch doing some kind of math in her head.

“You can have half a Valium now. You only get one Xanax. Save it for the show.” Damn addiction specialists and their stingy drug policies. When Dr. Goldberg agreed to prescribe something for tonight, I begged for more. My pleas fell on deaf ears. Jane produces a bottle from her bag and pops the top, sliding a cut pill onto my palm. I take it with a shaking hand and swallow it down with spit.

“Let’s do your mask.” Ellie, my makeup artist, knows enough to know I need distracting. I nod and sit down in the director’s chair she’s set up before her rolling makeup station. I fidget while she paints on some goo that seals any visible pores. The Valium kicks in and my fidgeting slows.

“Can I get her in rollers right quick?” Angela, my hair guru, asks. Ellie steps aside with a nod and a yawn, turning to her phone for entertainment.

“Oh my gosh, I totally forgot about these!” Ellie exclaims, looking at her phone.

“What?” Angela asks over the roller pins stuck in her mouth.

“I was in the Hamptons for a wedding last weekend. You will never believe who was bellied up to the bar beside me.” She scrolls through her phone’s photos and hands it to Angela. “There’s more to the right.”

Angela scrolls. The more she sees the bigger her eyes grow. “No way that’s Heather Troy. What happened to her? She looks like shit!” Angela scrolls back and forth, unable to believe her eyes.

The instant I hear that bitch’s name my head snaps and my stomach sours. Heather’s name hasn’t been uttered in this town in months. She’s become a pariah. So unwelcome even her personal shopper at Neiman’s refuses to serve her. I act as disinterested as I can with Valium on board.

“Oh, yeah.” Ellie brushes her bangs off her forehead like she’s an authority. “The affair was just the tip of that iceberg. Devon banished her from L.A. My boyfriend’s brother’s best friend used to know their dry cleaner, and he said Devon has some major dirt on Heather. That’s the only reason she left.”

“What kind of dirt?” Angela leans in and whispers.

“Apparently the sex tape we saw is tame. Girl’s a F-R-E-A-K from what I hear.” Ellie raises her eyebrows and lets her dimmer-witted companion draw her own conclusions.
Wrong
, I think, and roll my eyes. That’s not why she left.

“No way!” she finally shrieks. “You know her, don’t you?” Angela hands me the phone.

“Unfortunately.” I fake gag for effect and take it, hoping it looks as though I’m not dying to see Heather Troy looking like shit. Which I totally am, but can’t risk being too obvious. My jaw falls open seconds before my eyes bug out in shock. Following Devon’s advice, I no longer frequent my gossip rags. I’ve yet to see the end result of our Moretti meeting.
Holy shit!
I enlarge one particularly damning photo to take a closer look. “You took these last weekend?” I ask Ellie. She nods and goes back to preparing her makeup palettes. No way can I wipe the smile off my face. Hell, I’ll be smiling about this all the way down the red carpet.

Heather Troy is fat as fuck. What’s even better? She looks like she could be a patient on
Botched
. Her face is lopsided. A droopy eye and a limp mouth spill over her left cheek partially covered by a heavy bang—that’s failing to cover it. It looks like either A) she’s forgotten Botox and booze don’t mix or B) her plastic surgeon owed Moretti a favor. I’m betting on B.

I sit back, clamping a hand over my mouth. My stomach somersaults. This is totally Moretti’s work. This is the price she paid for her sins. That doesn’t sit too easily with me, regardless of how much she deserved it.

Once Moretti walked off the boat, Heather disappeared. We never heard from her again except through her attorney to finalize the division of their assets. He said it would look like an accident. This just looks sad. I wanted her to disappear, whatever the cost. Moretti was right. Her vain ass would rather die than be seen like this.