Page 79 of Anyone But the Superstar

Anne and I start at the woman reclining on a white sofa.

‘Felix, I think you’ve met my wife, Rose.’ Vance moves toward Rose when she outstretches both arms in the air.

‘Yes.’ I stay put, remembering the last time I offered her my hand at the press junket.

Vance grabs a hold of his wife’s hands in his and steps one foot back as if to brace himself. ‘And Rose, this is Anne.’ He grunts Rose to her feet. Her bare feet.

Anne steps forward once Rose gains her balance, the large pregnant belly jutting over her small, bare feet making it hard to do. ‘You were at the press junket a few weeks ago, weren’t you?’

‘Yep, that was me.’ Rose, looking pleased at being remembered, attempts to tug the hem of her dress down.

As if anyone could forget a pregnant woman wearing a fuchsia spandex jumpsuit. And while tonight’s dress is yellow, it’s just as bright and tight as her onesie had been.

Seeing Rose struggle to maneuver around her baby boulder, Anne steps forward to help her tug. ‘Love your dress.’

‘Thanks!’ With her dress pulled back down to a decent length, Rose sticks out her foot, wiggling her toes. ‘While I can manage the dress with help—’ she winks at Anne ‘—I draw the line at heels these days.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘But when Trish gets here, I bet she’s in stilettos.’ At Anne’s blank look, Rose explains. ‘The other pregnant woman at the press junket that day.’

‘Trish is the author ofCountdown to Love,’ I add, forgetting my reticence. Another thread of guilt hitting me when my explanation, the first words I’ve directed at her since we left the condo, makes Anne beam.

Rose runs her eyes up and down Anne and whistles. ‘But speaking of dresses, yours is fabulous. And the color—’ she makes a chef’s kiss ‘—perfection.’

‘Thank you, I?—’

‘May I use your restroom?’ My tone, harsher than I’d meant, has everyone turning.

The following silence breaks Vance’s besotted stare, which was focused on his wife’s rear end. ‘Uh, yeah.’ He points back where we came. ‘Around the corner, first door on your left.’

I leave before the talking resumes. I don’t want to hear anything more about that damn dress. I don’t even want to look at it. It brings up too many questions. Too many memories.

Slipping into the half-bath under the stairs, I close the door and sit, bracing my elbows on my knees, my head in my hands. Even the best actors need to break character, and the role I donned of unaffected man after seeing Anne in that dress is wearing thin fast.

Three thousand nine hundred and ninety dollars.

That’s what this season’s Oscar de la Renta cocktail dress cost a few months ago. The dress I bought Camilla. The dress that started my fall into blackmail.

Running my hands down my face, I lean back against the tank, unable to break free from my regrets. Regrets over my mother. Regrets over Camilla. Regrets that are now bleeding into my perception of Anne.

I snort, annoyed with myself. That I’m back to questioning the women in my life.

Camilla entered my life in a typical Hollywood way. A friend of a friend of a friend heard that she was interested in me and asked if I’d like to take her out. Camilla is pretty, fashionable and had seemed like a nice person the one time we’d met at a mutual friend’s screening, so I hadn’t seen a problem.

The problems came later.

At first, Camilla and I had, if not fun, a decent time. She may have seemed immature when she’d stop in the middle of our dates to pose for selfies I hadn’t wanted to take, but I hadn’t wanted to be judgmental in a town where even the most acclaimed can act like emotionally stunted children clamoring for attention.

We ‘dated’ for a month. The few times we met up solo were oddly well documented in the papers the days following ourdates. As if the paparazzi had been tipped off ahead of time. She had seemed annoyed by it, like me, so I hadn’t thought to question her.

It was also when my mother’s condition became glaringly apparent.

The one and only time I invited her into my house was for the sole purpose of telling her I didn’t see it working out between us. There was no drama. In fact, Camilla laughed and nodded in agreement, making me feel as if my opinion of the two of us was mutual.

She wished me well. She hugged me. She asked if she could use the bathroom before she left.

The next day, after my mother’s first allowed call from rehab, Camilla texted me a link to a three-thousand-nine-hundred-and-ninety-dollar dress.

The very dress Anne is wearing in Vance Broadway’s living room right now.

Confused, and busy with my mother, I ignored her. A few days later, she sent me a photo she’d taken of my mother’s prescription bottles. Bottles I’d hidden away, along with my mother’s admission papers into an exclusive rehab center, before Camilla came over that night.

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