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SIX MONTHS EARLIER
It goes without saying that it’s another clear, sunny morning. And it’s a good job it goes without saying it, because there’s no one here to say itto; by the time I wake up, Jett’s already left for the day, and I have the entire place to myself.
Well,almostto myself.
The housekeeper is here, obviously. And the gardener, and the chef. You’re never really ‘alone’ in a Hollywood mansion, and, to prove it, when I finally drag myself out of bed and make my way downstairs, I find Jett’s assistant, Grace, waiting for me in the state-of-the-art kitchen with something that looks like brown sludge in a glass, plus a pile of mail that makes my shoulders clench with anxiety as soon as I see it.
“Jakob said to give you this,” she says apologetically, pushing the sludge towards me as I climb up onto one of the bar stools that line the island that’s roughly the size of my entire kitchen back home. “Sorry. He says you should have it rather than your usual breakfast, or you won’t fit into that dress for tonight.”
“Right.”
I pull the smoothie towards me without enthusiasm. “And what’s tonight, again? Remind me?”
“Lexie! It’s the Carter Foundation Gala! You’re going with Jett and his parents? You can’t have forgotten about it, surely?”
“I think I’ve been trying to repress the knowledge of it,” I reply, taking an experimental sip of my drink, which tastes every bit as bad as it looks. “It’s not exactly going to be the highlight of my week.”
“Well, maybe this will help cheer you up,” says Grace doubtfully, passing me the pile of envelopes. “Fan mail! Everyone loves fan mail, right?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I say mournfully. “I’ve never had any.”
And today, it turns out, is to be no exception. Because, unless you count a couple of exceptionally unflattering nudes from a very hairy guy called Keith, the rest of the mail is from Jett’s fans, not mine, and it is, without exception,brutal.
“They hate me,” I groan, pushing it all aside and laying my head on the cool marble of the counter. “They actuallyhateme.”
“I thought this one was quite nice,” says Grace, rifling through the pile and pulling out a postcard with a photo of Jett on the front. (Who still sendspostcardsthese days, anyway? Oh, yeah: crazy people, that’s who…) “She says you have a great figure.”
“‘For an old chick’”, I wail. “She called me an ‘old chick’, Grace. They all call me ‘old’. And I’m only 27!”
Grace knows I’m 31 — okay, almost 32 — but she wisely refrains from commenting on this, because it’s L.A., and if Leonardo DiCaprio wouldn’t date you, you’re basically fit for the urn here.
“Er, it’s probably best you don’t go online today, either,” says Grace, checking her phone. “It’s okay,” she assures me quickly. “It’s all good. It’s just, I know you don’t like it when they call you Sexy Lexie and —”
“—that’s basically my name now, as far as the gossip sites are concerned?” I finish for her. “Yup. Got it. Won’t go online, won’t eat breakfast. Is there anything else I shouldn’t do?”
“Well, there’s quite a lot of paps outside the house right now,” Grace tells me apologetically. “So you might want to avoid them, if you don’t want any more photos.”
“Don’t go outside,” I say, pretending to check items off an imaginary list. “Got that, too. Hey,” I add suddenly. “Why are you here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be with Jett at the studio?”
“Um, no, not today,” says Grace, looking intently at her nails. “It’s a closed set today. He told me to stay here and look after you. He’ll call if he needs anything.”
I close my eyes, not wanting to think about the implications of the ‘closed set’.
Jett’s with Justin Duval today; they’re auditioning actresses for the role of Lady Macbeth in their new movie, and Jett has to be there so they can do what he referred to as a “chemistry test”. My stomach tightens, and I’m 98% sure it’s from anxiety, and not from whatever this weird concoction Jakob’s left for me is.
I’ve been dreading this ever since Jett let me read the script; because this movie might claim to tell the story of Macbeth, King of Scotland, but it’s not exactly the Shakespearean version. It’s a ‘sexed up’ Macbeth, according to Justin Duval. And today they’ll be choosing the woman Jett will be getting ‘sexed up’with.
Awesome.
From what I know, they’ve already narrowed it down to two or three choices, with today being the decider: a screen test with Jett, which will help clarify which woman whois not mehe has the best “chemistry” with.
It’s the ‘is not me’bit I have the problem with.
“You’re worrying about nothing,” said Jett, when I finally admitted my insecurity about this. “This is my job, Lexie. It’s just work to me. It doesn’tmeananything.”
“It means you’ll be getting naked with women who aren’t your girlfriend,” I pointed out; not unreasonably, I thought.
“Justonewoman,” Jett replied, as if that made all the difference. “Just whoever gets the role. And we won’t be totally naked, either. They give you these little modesty things that you—”
