Page 23 of Dark Ugly Places

Whitney just stares at her. “What kind of things?”

“I don’t know. Like if there was an errand or something I needed. I just know she’d tell Jason every little thing I want her to do for me. She doesn’t get it.”

Whitney blinks. “Get what?”

“Get that she works for us both. Not just for him. It’s like she assumes that she answers to him, like Jason is the boss, and I just happen to live there. I don’t know, maybe I’m not making any sense.”

“Is she rude to you?”

“No, no, of course not. It’s more like Jason is in charge. I don’t have any authority.”

“Well, take some!” Whitney answers, suddenly indignant. “I mean, he’s not even home right now, is he?” She funnels a small bite of omelet into her mouth and covers her mouth to chew and speak at the same time. Her oversized, yellow diamond wedding ring catches Bambi’s eye, twice the size of her own. A surge of deep envy comes over her. Whitney is what they call a Hollywood golden child, the daughter of an A-list actor and a property mogul, which means that Whitney has never had to work a day in her life.

“He comes home tonight before he leaves for the shoot in Europe.”

“Are you going, too?”

Bambi shakes her head. “He doesn’t like it when I’m with him on set. Says it makes it harder for him to stay in character.”

“Yeah,” Whitney says. “My mom used to say that, too.” She finishes half of her omelet and pushes her plate away. Bambi picks at her salad, feeling hungry but unable to eat.

“It’s like he has this whole other life I don’t see,” she admits quietly. “And I only have him.”

Whitney paws her arm distractedly while looking at her phone. “Aww, honey,” she coos. “Of course. He’s an actor.”

After they finish lunch, they grab the check, then leave out the back, where Whitney waves to the restaurant manager. Outside, Bambi fishes in her purse for lip gloss as a glint of sunlight reflecting off something catches her eye. She looks up and spots several paparazzi dressed all in black, snapping her picture from a distance under the shade of a small tree across the parking lot. Whitney takes her hand. “I’ll call my driver.”

They wait a few moments outside, aware that they are being photographed. Soon, the brazen paparazzi begin to approach.

“Seriously?” Bambi asks. “What are they looking for?”

“Relax,” Whitney instructs her. “You don’t want a bad shot of you on the cover of Hello Hollywood.”

A moment later, Whitney’s driver pulls up in her four-door black Bentley with tinted windows, and the two of them get in the back seat. Whitney rolls down her window and gives the finger to the paparazzi as they approach.

“Stop! What are you doing?” Bambi tries to swat her hand down.

Whitney giggles again as though cameras are watching. “Oh, chill out. I’m just having a little fun.”

“The last thing I need is more bad headlines,” Bambi says when the window rolls up again. “Not right now.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Whitney admits. “I guess they’re after you because of the tweet.”

Bambi’s gut sinks. “It’s not a big deal.”

Whitney pats her leg as they pull onto Robertson and head toward the Valet. “Honey, this is LA. Everything is a big deal.”

As she gets home, she calls Jason. His phone rings out, and she gets a text.

On set. Call you later.

His standard message reply. It’s just after 4 p.m. What could Jason be doing right at this very moment? Normally, work would keep her just as busy, but lately, things have died down a little, as though the entire industry has caught on to the fact that she’ll be thirty soon. A tinge of frustration rises within her. In her business, turning thirty means your career is over, whereas for Jason, it means you are just getting started. With every shoot, she creeps closer toward obsolescence, while Jason just keeps rising.

Bambi parks in the driveway behind the gate and makes her way inside. In the laundry room, she quickly switches over the laundry and checks the sheets. The small, light brown stain is still there, a stubborn reminder. She throws the lot in the dryer and sets it to the highest setting. “Where the fuck is Lucita?” she says and slams the dryer door.

Bambi heads inside and collects a few packages waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs in the foyer—two large boxes from Christian Dior, a small one from Prada, and a gourmet food basket for her and Jason from the trendy market that just opened up in Beverly Hills. She photographs herself opening the designer boxes and trying on some of the items—a silk scarf, a clutch, a pair of Dior earrings, a bangle, and Prada flats in black leather. Bambi sighs and kicks off the shoes after taking a quick snapshot. She posts a few photos on social media, tagging the brands and thanking them. The front door opens. Lucita shuffles into the foyer, humming softly to herself.

“Hola, Miss Bambi. You go out today?”