Dazzled

  “What?” I said again, irritated.

  “Um, it’s not silver. It’s platinum,” he said.

  My mouth dropped open with a soft pop.

  “Oh.”

  “You deserve the best,” he said, quietly.

  I had no idea how much a bracelet like that cost. Probably enough to pay off my student loans.

  Not that I’d sell it.

  Ever.

  Not that it would leave my wrist.

  Ever.

  “How did you get to be so smooth, Stephens?” I said.

  “No idea, Milton,” he batted back. “Are you impressed?”

  “Well, um, it’s really… just… thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said, softly.

  Yeah, it was perfect and romantic.

  We walked back to the campervan, hand in hand, and shared a bottle of champagne that Miles had kept hidden away. I even got to snuggle up to him that night, our sleeping bags side by side. All that was missing was the knee-trembling, after dinner kiss – oh, and mind-blowing sex.

  Yeah, that was all.

  The following day we headed over to the jazz festival. It was small, friendly, and had some really talented musicians. Miles got to join in some jamming sessions, and he was only recognized a couple of times, but it was mellow and never got out of hand. He smiled, signed autographs and posed for pictures, but otherwise he was left alone.

  He said himself that he could breathe out here, and that LA had been smothering him.

  Of course, it couldn’t last. Sooner, rather than later, we had to go back to reality. His reality.

  Earl had been brilliant and picked up Miles’ car from the garage in his building, so when we got back to Bellflower and handed over the VW, we had transport.

  Maureen cooked us an amazing Tex Mex meal, and Deena told us that all her friends were green with envy.

  Yeah, me, too, little girl.

  Their son Freddy was back from Northwestern where he was a pre-med student, and more confusingly, he spent the evening flirting with me.

  It took me a while to crack on to the fact that he was one of those guys who flirted with any female who had a pulse. And, as he was pre-med, probably some without a pulse, too. Oh, God! Why did I have to think that?

  But he was cute and funny and made me laugh. I could have sworn Miles was sulking – but if Freddy’s flirting made him jealous, then even better.

  When we finally arrived back at Miles’ apartment, we were both exhausted and kind of blue.

  But that wasn’t the worst of it.

  Our little holiday for two was over, and that bubble of happiness was quick to burst.

  It was Rhonda’s fault.

  She said that as he was back in town, Miles owed it to everyone to do at least one interview before the Christmas holidays started.

  It was true that Jo-Anne had taken up the slack while he’d been away, but at the same time, Rhonda knew that suggesting he do it – virtually ordering him – it was going to be grim.

  No one had talked about what would happen when Miles and Lilia were in the same room together again. The studio had tried to strong-arm Miles into seeing her, citing breach of contract and Lord knows what else. But he’d ignored them all, much to everyone’s surprise, and was doing things his way. The studio backed down when they saw his determination.

  “You’ve got to just pull off that band-aid, Miles,” Rhonda said. “It’s going to hurt like a bitch, but once you’ve done your first interview, the rest will seem like a breeze. Besides, Kimmel has been told not to ask you about Lilia.”

  “But you know he will!” I snapped.

  She gave me a look that said, butt out, and for once I was talking to someone whose butt was bigger than mine.

  “You can’t hide forever,” Rhonda reasoned.

  No matter how much Miles might want to argue that particular point, we both knew she was right.

  “Besides, it’s Christmas Eve. You won’t get many paps bothering you for a few days. I hope,” she added, quietly.

  Miles groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, his whole body filled with tension.

  So much for the benefits of a vacation.

  “I’m not ready,” he said, looking down.

  “Look, I can practice the questions with you.”

  “Like learning lines?” he smirked, opening one eye.

  “Gotta roll with the punches, Miles,” she said. “Because there’s always someone itching to take you down. Grow up, grow a pair, and smell the coffee.”

  Rhonda really liked to mix her metaphors.

  “Fine, if that’s your advice, but I won’t fucking like it.”

  “Not many do,” she said, without a shred of sympathy in her voice. “Get over it.”

  So that was that.

  I still wasn’t sure it was a good idea, and Miles was acting weird. Weirder than usual. He’d been drinking more than usual since we’d been back. I mean, neither of us were exactly teetotalers, especially after our road trip – meaning we’d got through all the alcohol Earl had supplied us with and more – but over the last two days, Miles had been hitting the bottle harder than I’d ever seen him. And, instead of beer, he was drinking vodka.

  If anyone ever tells you that vodka doesn’t make your breath smell of alcohol, ignore them and get some better friends, because they’re talking major league bullshit.

  It was no different that night. Miles had a bottle of Sobieski in his dressing room.

  “Take it easy with that stuff,” I said, my tone deliberately mild.

  “Now you’re my mother?” he sneered.

  “Fuck off, Miles. You’re being a dickhead.”

  He shrugged. “Why should I be different from everyone else?”

  Before I had a chance to answer him, one of the APs knocked on the dressing room door and stuck her head inside.

  “Five minutes, Mr. Stephens.”

  He didn’t even bother to reply and that made me frown. Miles was never rude to people. Never.

  He tossed another glass of vodka down his throat and belched loudly, grinning at me.

  Then he stretched and stood up, at which point he fell over. He lay on the floor giggling.

  “Bloody hell, Miles! Get up! You’re going on air in about three minutes!”

  “Who gives a shit,” he mumbled, blinking up at me. “I mean, seriously, Clare, who cares?”

  “I care!” I yelled.

  His smile fell away. “You’re the only one.”

  I knelt on the floor and helped him to sit up.

  “I love you, Clare,” he slurred.

  “I love you, too, you big girl’s blouse. Now get up and get your arse into gear.”

  “You love ordering me about, don’t you? Is that what you’re like in bed? All bossy. Cause I gotta say – that’s hot!”

  And he laughed again.

  I felt my cheeks flame up, and I wasn’t sure whether or not I hoped he’d remember saying that when he was sober. He thought about me in bed?

  The AP knocked on the door again, and using strength I didn’t know I had, I hauled Miles to his feet and shook him slightly.

  “Get a grip and man up!” I growled at him.

  He gave me a bleary smile and winked. “I’d like to man up with you, Clare.”

  Oh. My. God.

  Then the AP opened the door and led him out. I had no idea how Miles managed to walk in a straight line.

  I followed him to the wings of the theater and watched him glide toward his interview seat, as the audience exploded into applause.

  Seeing him in close-up on the monitors, it was obvious to me that his eyes were unfocussed, but otherwise no one would have guessed that he’d been drinking. Yet.

  Rhonda walked over and stood beside me, frowning slightly. It seemed to be a permanent feature with her these days.

  After the initial welcoming questions, the interviewer dived right in.

  “You’re still only 20, Miles, but do you feel like you’ve mature
d since you’ve been here?”

  “Maybe, but not until I’ve exhausted all other possibilities.”

  The audience laughed. I cringed.

  “And how do you like living in LA?”

  “I like California – especially if you’re an orange.”

  Oh what? Now he was quoting Fred Allen?

  The audience laughed again, and Miles grinned at them, looking happy and relaxed. Too bloody relaxed.

  “What do you like most about America?”

  “Freedom of speech.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, I don’t get to say anything I mean.”

  “Ha ha! Good answer!”

  No, it’s not, you clot! He’s winding you up like you’re clockwork!

  “So, if you were President, Miles, what would you do?”

  “Give the Colonies back to the Queen.”

  He smiled broadly. There was a communal intake of breath.

  Oh God, Miles! You can’t say things like that!

  The interviewer was clearly taken aback, as was the audience. Miles smiled beatifically.

  “Is he drunk?” Rhonda hissed at me.

  I glanced at her nervously.

  “Um, possibly.”

  “Why the hell did you let him go out there like that?!”

  “It’s not my fucking fault he decided to get blitzed! And, as he so charmingly reminded me, I’m not his bloody mother!”

  She looked like she was going to rip me a new one, but I was so willing to punch her in the mouth if she said anything else.

  “He told you he wasn’t ready!” I snarled at her. “He loved that tramp, but you thought it was a good idea to put him on national TV 11 days after she was photographed with her mouth around another man’s dick. What the hell did you expect?”

  Since Miles’ realization that Lilia had probably been cheating on him from the beginning, he’d refused to talk about her or even mention her name, and another few bricks had been put in the wall that he was slowly building up around himself. And I was on the other side of it.

  “Christ,” muttered Rhonda.

  I turned back to watch the rest of the car crash interview.

  “How do you respond when people – girls – scream at you.

  Miles shrugged. “I leave my brain at the door.”

  A pickled brain at this rate.

  “It’s been a pretty wild ride for you since you came to Hollywood. How do you cope with that?”

  “I dunno. It’s like learning a new language, you know? Like if someone says to you, ‘Oh yeah, that scene was great – it had an interesting stillness,’ what they really mean is ‘that was crap’.”

  Rhonda dropped her head into her hands.

  “And how do you like being single again?” Kimmel said, a sly look on his face.

  Miles smiled, although the humor didn’t reach his eyes.

  “I guess you could say it sucks.”

  Miles

  It was entirely possible that my head had been separated from my body, then reattached using piano wire and a blunt knitting needle.

  Opening one eyelid had a pain factor that was off the chart. I squinted up at the bastard bright light piercing through the curtain.

  Then I felt the bed move.

  Shit! A woman with short, honey-colored hair and smeared mascara was smiling at me.

  “Hi. Remember me?”

  “Um?”

  I opened the other eye.

  “Sherry,” she said, cheerfully.

  “Oh,” I croaked, relieved I had regained the power of speech.

  She ran a finger down my chest and I realized I wasn’t wearing a shirt. Oh, shit. This was bad. I couldn’t remember a fucking thing since the interview. Oh, God! The interview! What the hell did I say? In fact, where the hell was I?

  “Mmm,” said the woman, “that’s quite a tent you’re pitching. Ready to go again, baby? Pretty wild night, hey?!”

  Oh, fuck.

  She was right. I was naked, hard… and about to hurl. Any second… now.

  I managed to aim most of the vomit into a handy trashcan that was next to the bed. And even as I was throwing up, I couldn’t help noticing that there were a number of used condoms in the bottom.

  What the hell had I done last night?

  The woman – Sherry – didn’t look impressed. In fact, after my technicolor display, she looked a little green herself.

  “Bathroom,” she said, pointing to my left.

  I shuffled inside, wincing at the sight of my face in her mirror. I rinsed my mouth out and debated whether or not to use her toothbrush. In the end I didn’t. We may have fucked – which seemed likely given the evidence – but I didn’t know her that well.

  I stuck my head under the tap and the shock of cold water woke me up more fully. All I had to do now was find my clothes, call a cab, and pray I had money in my wallet. Shit. And then I had to face Clare.

  The fates were temporarily aligned in my favor, because when I slouched back into the bedroom, Sherry and the offending trashcan had gone. I heard someone moving around elsewhere in the apartment – wherever the fuck I was – but was relieved to find my clothes and phone in one piece.

  I dressed slowly, hunting down each piece of clothing, wondering how the hell my shirt had ended up draped across the lightshade, and praying my head wouldn’t actually explode or fall off. Then I took a deep breath and walked out of the bedroom.

  Sherry was standing by the coffee machine in the kitchen. I had to admit she was cute, but at the same time, I never wanted to see her again in my whole life.

  “Coffee?” she said, smiling.

  “Uh, no I’m good, thanks. I should get going. I’ll call a cab. Um, can you tell me where I am?” The cracks of my brain were starting to show.

  Her smile slipped away and I felt even more shitty.

  “North Hollywood, 27983 Victory Boulevard,” she said, in a small voice.

  “Thanks. And, um, you’re beautiful.”

  A hard look crossed her face and she yawned.

  I kissed her on the cheek and walked out, closing the door quietly behind me.

  “Merry fucking Christmas!” she yelled behind the door.

  Ah, hell.

  The cab arrived a few minutes later, and it wasn’t long before I was trudging up to the entrance of my apartment building. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, knowing that the inquisition would start as soon as I walked in the door.

  Clare was sitting on the couch fully dressed, her hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. She looked up but she didn’t speak and she didn’t smile. I’m not even sure she blinked.

  “I’m really sorry about last night,” I started.

  Her eyes narrowed, and mentally I began digging a trench.

  “If I wanted to listen to an arsehole, I’d fart a tune,” she said, her voice hard and clear.

  Then she stood up, put her coffee cup on the table and went to the guestroom, slamming the door shut behind her.

  Well, fuck.

  I slumped down where she’d been sitting. Idly, I picked up her cup and took a drink. Ugh, milky coffee with no sugar. But it was liquid, and still warm. I drank it quickly, hoping that rehydration would help improve my brain function.

  I had a horrible feeling that whatever Clare said to me, I probably deserved it.

  Of course, first I had to get her to speak to me.

  Feeling too tired and hung-over to make that sort of effort, I headed for my room. I reeked of vodka, sweat, and sex – a combination that was making me nauseous.

  I stripped off my clothes, and let the shower wash away the wages of sin, if not the sin itself.

  Feeling slightly more human, I debated the wisdom of speaking to Clare immediately, or sleeping on it and hoping I’d make more sense when less hung-over.

  I almost opted for bed, cowardice seeming particularly attractive right there and then, but I hated fighting with Clare. It didn’t happen very often. In fact, other than arguing over who was bett
er at Guitar Hero, we hadn’t really had any serious fights.

  I took a deep breath and knocked on her door. I stopped in my tracks when I saw that she was packing her case.

  “What are you doing?”

  She wouldn’t look at me.

  “Going home.”

  “But… but our flight isn’t for another four days. For the London premiere. And it’s Christmas…”

  My words faded out as she ignored me, and continued throwing clothes in her case.

  “I’ve phoned for a taxi,” she said, her voice empty of emotion. “It’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  I ran my hand through my hair in frustration. I couldn’t believe she was behaving like this!

  “Shit, Clare. Don’t go. I know I’ve fucked up but…”

  “Yeah, you did, Miles. Big time.”

  I started getting angry. It wasn’t like I’d fucked one of her friends or something.

  “Ah come on, give me a break. You know what I’ve been going through!”

  “By the way, your mum rang.”

  And the hits just keep on coming.

  “What did she say?”

  Clare straightened up and finally looked at me.

  “She saw the interview.”

  “Shit!”

  “She said you reminded her of your dad.”

  Fuck. That was like a knife in my chest – and she knew it.

  “Look, I’m sorry, okay? It was dumb, getting drunk like that, and I’m an idiot, but I don’t want you to go.”

  “Do you think my life is nothing?” she snapped.

  “No!” What? “No, of course not!”

  But she wouldn’t let me finish.

  Clare

  After the interview last night, some of the groupies waiting outside had been happy to drag an inebriated Miles to a ‘party’. I tried to make him come home with me but he wouldn’t listen. He just sat and laughed at me, and went with the skanks. I’d waited up for hours, but he didn’t come home.

  My silent vigil gave me plenty of time to think about what I was doing. Or not doing. After hours of weighing up the pros and cons, of hoping against hope that Miles would finally come home – to me – something inside me broke. And even though I felt sick at the thought of it, my decision was to leave.

  I knew it was unreasonable of me to be so upset. Miles and I weren’t dating. We weren’t anything. And that was the point. If I’d been a guy friend, I’d probably just have patted him on the back when he came home still drunk and smelling of sex and cheap perfume.