Jay’s house wasn’t at all what I expected. Not that I’d given it a lot of thought, of course, but I would have pegged him as a black-leather-couch, stained-shag-carpet, dirty-dishes-everywhere kind of guy. And I would have guessed he lived in a soulless high-rise with lots of glass and maybe a workout room.
Instead, his duplex, on a leafy street off of Melrose, was two-story, white stucco with arched windows and a red roof. Banana palms and flowering bushes crowded the tiny front yard. A wooden gate led to a small, shady courtyard with two iron chairs and a shared table. The air hung heavy with the smell of orange blossoms.
“What would you call this style? French? Spanish?” I asked as Jay turned his key in the front door.
“It’s called a Romance house.” When he saw my expression, he laughed. “It is! A bunch of these were built in L.A. right before the Depression. Architects didn’t take them seriously because they were so quirky and Hollywood. But I like it.”
Jay lived upstairs. We held on to an iron railing and climbed the rich wood steps. The first room I saw was a small den rounded like a turret. Tall, skinny windows had been left open to let in the sweet winter breeze. Farther down the hall and through French doors, the living room had an arched picture window that overlooked the street. Another set of French doors led to the dining room.
Everywhere I looked, framed photographs mounted in wide white mats covered vanilla-colored walls. There were black-and-white shots of train tracks and lonely roads, full-color shots of oceans and forests. There were candid shots of people: a man on the beach, buried up to his neck in sand; a child touching one finger to a turtle; an old woman peeking out from under the umbrella. The colors were rich, the shadows sharp, the angles precise.
“You collect photographs?” I asked.
“No—just take them.”
“Really? You’re talented,” I said. “You could sell these.”
“Nah, it’s just a hobby.”
He led me into the kitchen, which had a black-and-white checkerboard floor and simple white cabinets. A small deck lay beyond.
“You want something to eat? Drink?”
At Haley’s house, I’d scored a piece of smelt bread with soy butter, but my body didn’t register that as lunch. “What do you have?”
He put a hand on the white refrigerator and then stopped. “Um . . . nothing?” He looked vaguely embarrassed. “I don’t eat at home much.”
“But you’re secretly a gourmet chef, right?” I teased.
“I’m a pro with a can opener and the microwave. Does that count?”
“No. But you get points for honesty.” I ran my hand along the white counter. Suddenly, I had a vision of working in this kitchen: chopping vegetables for a salad or stirring a homemade soup on the range. I wondered what his dishes looked like and what it would be like to share a candlelit dinner at the dining room table.
He opened the refrigerator and peered inside. “I’ve got water, Diet Coke, Caffeine Free Diet Coke, orange juice, and wine and beer. And if you’re hungry, I’ve got an opened can of refried beans, but I have a feeling they’ve gone bad.”
“Tempting,” I said. “But wine sounds great.”
When he went to change his clothes, I returned to the living room, where brown leather couches (not as soft as Haley’s but nice) formed an L around a big square coffee table. Against one wall, shelves held books on film and photography, paperback mysteries, and highbrow hardbacks. On a side table next to one of the couches, snapshots showed an older couple sitting together on a patio bench; two tiny kids—a boy and a girl—on Santa’s lap; and the same boy, a bit older, about Ben’s age, ankle-deep in the ocean.
I heard his footsteps in the hallway. “Are these family pictures?” I turned around, and—whoah!
“You look, you look . . .” I stopped myself before I could say “handsome,” “hot,” or any other potentially embarrassing adjective.
“Like a talent manager?” he suggested, straightening his tie.
“I dunno. Maybe. You look nice.” I tried to keep my tone light.
He’d traded his jeans, T-shirt, and high-top sneakers for a well-cut gray suit, crisp white shirt, and a black tie. Suits always made Hank look vaguely uncomfortable, plus they never fit him right: straining around the buttons, too long in the sleeves. But Jay looked completely at ease, as if he got dressed up every day.
He tugged at a lapel. “Simone got me a great price on this suit, back when she liked me.”
“She doesn’t like you anymore?”
He considered. “She doesn’t like the situation. Too many people know she dresses Haley, and Haley looks like crap half the time. So it reflects badly on Simone. She keeps threatening to quit, but the money’s too good. Anyway—yes. Family pictures.” He strode across the light wood floors until he was standing so close to me I could feel his body heat and smell his mint toothpaste.
He pointed to a picture. “These are my parents before my dad passed away. My mother lives with my sister’s family now.” He picked up the Santa picture. “And these are Milo and Sophie. My sister’s kids.”
“Where do they live?”
“Long Island.” He gazed at the picture, his expression just the tiniest bit sad.
“Do you see them much?”
“A couple times a year. Not enough.” He put the photograph back on the shelf and checked his silver watch, which for once went with the rest of his clothes. “What time do you have to be at your party?”
“Not for a couple of hours.”
“In that case, you want to sit out on the deck?”
He poured himself a half glass of wine and pulled a box of Wheat Thins from the pantry. Outside, there was a little wrought-iron café table and two chairs. Below us, the backyard was green and lush. A brown bird hopped around on the grass.
“So, did you ever want to be a professional photographer?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Filmmaker. I went to NYU.”
“But then you came out here and had your dreams squashed?”
“Nah. Long before I graduated, I realized I didn’t have what it takes. But I liked being around creative people, and the film industry sounded cool, so I came out here not really knowing what I wanted to do. I figured I’d find a niche in the entertainment business, and I have.”
The wine was better than the stuff I usually drank: smooth with a hint of vanilla.
“How many clients do you have besides Haley?”
“Eight.” He offered me the Wheat Thins box. I plucked out a slightly stale cracker. “That’s all I can handle right now since Haley takes up so much of my time.”
“Are they all actors?”
He shook his head. “I’ve got a standup comic—that’s the guy I’m going to see tonight—and a performance artist. The rest are actors, mostly young, though a couple have been in the business a long time.”
“Anyone I’ve heard of?”
“Aside from Haley and Brady, no. At least not yet. But it’s an incredibly talented bunch. Amazing. And I just feel bad that . . .” He stopped abruptly and sighed.
“What?”
“They deserve more attention than I’ve been able to give them.”
That’s when he kissed me, without hesitation or embarrassment, like it was the most natural thing in the world. I put my arms around his neck and kissed him right back. We pulled back just enough to look into each other’s eyes.
He stiffened.
“What?” I said.
He loosened his arms and smiled with faint embarrassment. “For an instant, I just . . . You look so much like Haley . . .”
I pulled back as if I’d been bitten. Of course Jay didn’t like me for myself. Everything was about Haley, even this.
I forced a laugh.
I stood up and smoothed the silk dress. “Thanks for the wine. It went straight to my head.”
His face strained with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to—”
I cut him off. “It’s fine. Really. It was a nice kiss, and it didn’t mean a thing. The last thing I need right now is anything that . . . means anything.”
I smiled my best Hollywood smile. “We should really get going.”
When the Mini Cooper pulled up in front of the Motts’ house, Deborah was outside, hanging a polyester flower wreath on her front door, in preparation for the Pampered Chef party.
“Veronica? Is that you?” When Deborah realized I was with a man, she hurried down the front steps, almost tripping over her high heels.
I scrambled out of the car and shut the door. Surely Jay would get the message and peel away before Deborah got to us. Or not.
The passenger window slid down. Jay held my eyes. “Thanks for staying over last night.”
Brilliant, Jay. Good timing.
“Oh, hello!” Deborah bent down to peer through the car window. She was all dressed for the party: black dress pants a size too small, a magenta satin blouse, and way too much makeup. Once she’d gotten a good look at Jay, she smiled at me. “I was wondering where you were last night. I saw your van in the driveway, and I knocked on your door, but . . .”
What had she wanted me for? Chauffeur duty? Babysitting?
“I was out,” I said.
“I see that.” She leaned even closer to Jay, her head practically through the window. “Have we met?”
“I don’t . . . think so.” He studied her face as if trying to place her.
“I’m Deborah Mott. Veronica’s friend.”
“Jay Sharpie.”
“Sharpie? Like the pen?” Nice, Deborah. Really sensitive.
He didn’t even flinch. “Just like the pen.”
“And you know Veronica . . .” Deborah paused to let him fill in the blank.
“Yes, I do,” he answered.
“Well, good night,” I said, eager to end this encounter.
“I’ll call you,” Jay told me. Was he being oblivious or mischievous?
I gave him a tight smile and a little wave. He put up the window and drove away—but not before giving me a long look that was clearly supposed to mean something. But what? Sorry I kissed you? Sorry you’re not Haley?
I began walking up the driveway, overnight bag in hand. “So, I’ll see you in about an hour,” I told Deborah.
She bounded after me. “He’s
cute
, Veronica! How did you meet him?”
“Just, you know. Around.” I kept walking.
“I’ve noticed a change in you lately. You seem . . . different. In a good way. And I don’t just mean your hair color.” She grabbed my arm, made me stop. “Wait a minute. Hasn’t it gotten longer?”
“Extensions,” I said. “I got them a couple of weeks ago.”
“Is it serious?”
“The extensions?”
“No, the
relationship
. With
Jay
.”
“No! It’s not even—it’s nothing.”
“But you spent the night. That’s not nothing. Maybe it’ll turn into something more, you know.
Permanent
.”
“See you in a little while, Deborah.”
“Permanent, get it? Like a Sharpie?”
“Got it, Deborah. See you in a bit.”
Chapter Nineteen
W
hen Jay called, a week and a half later, on a Thursday, it wasn’t to discuss our kiss. But that was okay. I was over it. Really.
“Haley’s supposed to attend a film premiere this afternoon—this animated thing with talking sheep. But she won’t get out of bed. Brady’s already tipped off the paparazzi. So if she doesn’t show up . . .”
“Word might leak out.”
“Right.”
“She was going with Brady?”
“Not really. They were going to arrive separately and then hang out together once they got there.”
“Maybe that’s why she doesn’t want to go,” I suggested. “Because she was afraid it would be awkward.” Much like this phone conversation.
“Mmm,” he said. “So—are you free?”
“To go to a film premiere with Brady?” I suddenly realized where this conversation was headed. Oh! My! God!
“Not with him.” His voice was tight. “You’ll arrive in separate cars. But the thing is, there may be some other people there from the Betwixt Channel, so you really, really have to keep a low profile.”
“But I can talk to Brady?”
He sighed. “Yes. You can talk to Brady. We’ll stay on either side of you and tell people that you’re fighting laryngitis and need to save your voice for an upcoming recording session.”
“Clever.”
“Not really, but it will have to do.”
The last time I’d ridden in a limousine was my senior prom. This was better. For one thing, I wasn’t wearing a pink satin gown with spaghetti straps (though I felt pretty hot in it at the time). Instead, Simone—who didn’t even react when I told her that the Grace Kelly-ish dress (which I’d returned) had been a big hit at the garden party—dressed me in a western-cut, white-denim mini dress and the adorable (if slightly painful) pink cowboy boots. Since the premiere was during the day, she felt we could get away with huge white sunglasses and a straw cowboy hat. She hated the hat, which nudged the outfit into “costume territory,” but the bigger the accessories, the less the possibility that someone might notice that I wasn’t actually Haley Rush.
My monster hair, worn loose, helped on that front. It shielded so much of my face, I could be almost any young star at all.
Inside the car, two rows of seats faced each other. I sat on one side, Jay on the other. In honor of the film premiere, he wore a T-shirt with no stains and jeans without holes.
He pulled out his phone. With a tiny pointer, he poked at the keypad and squinted at the screen.
“Damn,” he said finally.
“What?”
“One of my clients had an audition yesterday—guest spot on
NCIS
. I thought he had a good shot, but . . .” He shook his head.
“Maybe next time,” I said.
“He’s thirty-eight. There may not be a next time.”
A soundproof privacy screen sealed us off from the driver. There was satellite radio, a television, and a video game console. Ben would have loved this car.