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CHAPTER 1
Jade
My whole body lurches forward as I retch, again and again, into the gutter. There’s nothing left in my stomach to expel, but that doesn’t stop it from trying. Behind me, I can feel my father-imposed bodyguard watching me, disgust seeping from his every pore. I can’t actually see him from where I’m crouching in the gutter, but I canfeelhim. His eyes boring into me. Judging. Surely I’m not the only person he’s seen vomiting in the gutter before? If I am, he’s in the wrong line of work. This is Hollywood. This is what spoiled little rich girls like me do. We party too hard. We ingest too many dodgy substances. We imbibe far too much alcohol. Then our bodies react, very un-glamorously.
I kneel there, weak, dizzy, the world spinning. My bodyguard doesn’t help me up. He just stands there, sneering at me, his hands in his pockets.
Flashes go off all around me. Paparazzi with nothing better to do, and Mr. Useless makes no attempt to stop them. In fact,although I can’t be certain, I’m pretty sure he steps aside, giving them a better view. Bastard. Who does he think he is, letting them take photos of me in this state when he’s meant to be protecting me? Funny how he’s so happy to take my father’s money, but doesn’t want to do the very job he’s been hired to do: protect my father’s only child.
Woozily, I scramble to my feet and stagger to the car, collapsing into the back seat. The tinted windows mean they can’t see me in here, but it’s too late. The damage is done. Mr. Useless pretends to be chivalrous by opening the door for me, but he opens it far wider and leaves it open far longer than necessary, so all the paparazzi can get their shots. I think he’s actually enjoying this, if the smirk on his face that he isn’t even trying to hide is anything to go by.
It’s all over the internet by the time I wake up just past noon. Why? Why is my being off my face in the wee hours of the morning so fascinating?
I’m summoned to Richard’s office far too early. Well, it’s my father’s office, really, but he’s away making another movie somewhere, and Richard, Dad’s close friend and business partner, is in charge of things—and me—in the meantime. Not that I need taking care of. I mean, I’m an adult. But neither Dad nor Richard sees it that way. He’s obviously seen the headlines, and he’s not happy about it. I don’t know why. It’s not like this is new for me, vomiting in gutters and making the papers. People need someone to gossip about and judge to make themselves feel better about their miserable lives, and right now, I’m that person. I really don’t care. Let them talk, if it makes them happy.
Although Richard knows I like to sleep late and haven’t even had breakfast yet, he doesn’t care. He wants to see me immediately. No, I may not make coffee first. No, I may not eat first.
I do both.
Then I wander slowly into his office nearly two hours after he requested my presence.
He’s waiting for me. Newspapers are spread out before him, open on the desk, overlapping each other, so many the entire desk is covered. There are dozens of headlines and pictures, but they all say essentially the same thing: I’m a wreck.
Child Actor Spectacular Fall From Grace
From Galas to the Gutter: Jade Owens’ Disgraceful Downfall
From the Heights of Fame to the Depths of Shame
Leading Lady Turns Party Girl
Actress Goes Off the Rails
From Calamity Jane to Cocaine Jade
This one bugs me. WTF? I was never Calamity Jane.
Not very many words, but so many photos. So. Many. Photos.
Some are grainy, some are clearer. Some only show me in the distance, but some have been zoomed right in. Showing my smudged mascara, lipstick smeared all over my face. My hair tangled, wild. There’s even a close-up of me wearing only one shoe. All photos from last night. There’s plenty of me vomiting in the gutter. Even more of me sprawled in the back seat of the limousine. But there’s also a few from earlier in the night, and now I understand why Richard is worried: somehow the paparazzi got into the private party and snapped me snorting cocaine through a rolled-up hundred-dollar bill. A fairly regularoccurrence, but something I’ve been able to hide, until now. There’s another photo taken later that night, but before the gutter incident, of me dancing around a pole with my shirt off. I was pretty good, too, if I do say so myself. A stupid, drunken dare coming back to bite me.
Richard is sitting there at Dad’s desk just staring at me. He looks heartbroken. Not angry, just sad. Disappointed. Instantly, I feel guilty. I hate seeing his sadness. His anger—rare as it is—is easier to deal with. I can get defensive then, justify myself. But I can’t do that with his sadness. The disappointment I see haunting his eyes tells me in no uncertain terms that I am a failure. A waste. I bite back my guilt. Richard has always been there for me—he was the one I turned to when Mom died—and he’s always believed in me. In my potential. And now I feel like I’ve let him down.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at me sadly and points to the chair at the other side of the desk. I don’t want to sit down because I’m really not in the mood for a lecture. My head pounds and I feel sick. This isn’t just a normal hangover, this is worse. Far worse. But he points to the chair again and the sadness in his eyes compels me to obey.
He still doesn’t say anything; he just sits across the desk from me, his fingers steepled under his chin, leaning forward with his weight on his elbows, looking me up and down sadly. An eternity passes and still he doesn’t speak. I’m quiet too, because what is there for me to say? Does he want me to say I’m sorry? We both know that’s not going to happen, and it would be pointless even if I did. I’m not sorry. I wish it didn’t upset him so much, but I’m not going to stop my partying ways. Cocaine and alcohol have a far stronger hold on me than Richard’s sad expression does.
I want to snap at him, to tell him that if my father was here more often, instead of off making movies in exotic locations all over the world, I might be better behaved, but there’s no point. It’s not Richard’s fault Dad is never home. And while I love him dearly, having Richard’s approval doesn’t make me as happy as partying does.
Finally, he shuffles the papers around on Dad’s desk, burying most of the headlines, clears his throat, and looks me dead in the eye. I squirm. He looks far more serious than I’ve seen him in a long time. He’s got his powerful Hollywood Entertainment Lawyer expression on, and when he looks like that, I know he means business. Not usually with me—I have him very successfully wrapped around my little finger—but in general. Just like my father, Richard is a highly respected man in Hollywood, rich and powerful. Lesser people than I am fall over themselves to be in his presence—for the movie deals he can hook them up with, mostly. My father is a genius with movies, and Richard has contacts everywhere. Plus, he’s in business with my father. Dad is the one on set, and Richard does all the contracts and financial stuff. I think that’s how it works, anyway. I’ve never really paid much attention to either my father’s or Richard’s business affairs.
“Your father is making a movie in New Zealand. I’m finalizing the details for him now.”
I nod politely. Why is he telling me this? Does he think I care? I don’t. I mean, I’m not acting in it, so it doesn’t affect me. And Dad travelling all over the world to make movies isn’t a new thing; he’s been travelling for work for as long as I can remember.
“We’ve cast the starring roles already, but there’s a supporting role for you.”
I swallow hard. “Oooookaaaay.” I draw out the word and my voice rises in pitch at the end, perhaps asking a question: why? I haven’t acted in a movie in years. I used to be a child star, but once I hit my late teens and discovered partying, I’d been fired from set after set. Nobody wants to work with me. And by that, I mean literallynobody.Not actors. Not directors. Not even the makeup artists. I should be ashamed by that, but I’m not.
