Page 89 of Anyone But the Superstar

That pulls me up short. ‘What do you mean?’ I glance at the plain manilla folder in my hands. ‘What do you have to apologize for?’

‘I haven’t been doing a good job as your manager.’

I scoff. ‘You’re a great manager.’

‘No.’ His resolve sobers my amusement. ‘If I was, I would’ve intervened with Camilla sooner. Or at least vetted her before you went out.’ He shakes his head, sighing. ‘But I was thinking as your friend, not wanting to overstep into your personal life.’

My fingers tighten on the folder. ‘Is this about her? Did she do something else?’

Damn my dead phone battery. I haven’t been able to check the headlines this morning.

‘No.’ Jack shakes his head. ‘This is about Elizabeth.’

Huh. ‘Who’s Elizabeth?’

He points to the folder in my hands. ‘Therealname of the condom woman from the hotel. The woman I should’ve been more concerned with finding.’

My brows pinch together, the headache from last night threatening to resurface. ‘That’s not her name, her name is?—’

‘Elizabeth.’ Jack pushes off his knees and stands. ‘ElizabethAnne Moore.’ Sidestepping the coffee table, Jack walks over to me, taking the folder from my hands. Opening it, he turns it back to me.

I take it, confused as I stare at a photo of Anne. Except it’s not Anne. Not really.

It’s a woman who looks like her, but different. This woman has her blonde hair pulled back and sprayed in a formal updo. And her features, while similar, have been contoured and masked with make-up, making her look airbrushed and flawless. No freckles. No natural flush. No expression.

There are diamonds in her ears and around her neck and wrists. Her body is clad in head-to-toe designer. Reminding me of red-carpet events I’ve attended.

But it isn’t how she looks that’s the most jarring part of this being Anne. It’s who’s with her in the picture.

She’s standing front and center in a group of women, all of whom look eerily similar to each other. All holding a champagne glass, all posing for the camera.

And she’s standing next to Camilla Branson.

Liz

I never thought I’d be back in Boondoggles, but here I am. Once more sweating from my trudge through the hot, crowded parking lot as I approach the hostess stand.

‘Hi, I’m looking for?—’

‘Yoo hoo!’ I glance over the hostess’ shoulder to see Trish waving like a beauty queen. ‘Hey there, sugar.’ She flops back down in her seat, the effort of holding a half-stand half-squat probably too much for a pregnant woman. ‘Over here.’

With a smile at the hostess, I move through the crowded restaurant part of Boondoggle’s, toward a semi-private table set up inside a huge, old-fashioned fireplace. The semicircle of brick walls remains while the flue is covered and hearth has been removed to fit a table inside.

When I reach the table, the loud noise of the restaurant becomes a more manageable din thanks to the brick walls acting as a barrier to the sound. ‘I hope you weren’t waiting long.’

‘Nope. Just got here.’ Trish notices me looking at the empty chairs. ‘Don’t worry. Rose and Jackie are coming in about—’ she checks the thin Cartier watch on her wrist ‘—thirty minutes or so.’ Lowering her arm, she sits straight, looking like a pregnant beauty pageant queen. ‘I asked you to come a little earlier so we can get work talk out of the way.’ She smiles kindly at me. ‘That way, you’ll be free to ask Jackie all your astronaut questions.’

My return smile feels awkward as I second-guess my decision to wear jeans, a t-shirt, and my standard ponytail. After hiding treats around the condo in the hope that the food hunt would keep Mike from causing chaos while I went to brunch, I hadn’t much time left to get ready.

As I grabbed Felix’s rental keys from the counter, I told myself this was an opportunity to meet my sister without all the trappings of a Moore. That I should simply come as I am and not burden myself or her by attempting to be overly impressive. But now, toes wiggling in my Birkenstocks, I’m thinking maybe I should’ve at least worn some make-up.

Assuming my hesitation has to do with which seat I should take, Trish pats the one next to her.

Pushing my self-doubt aside, I sit while Trish pulls a laptop out of her bag hanging from the back of her chair.

‘Ron was sweet enough to send me your storyboards that Amanda had mentioned.’

I blink at her, unable to imagine curse-my-cat-out Ron being sweet to anyone. ‘Oh.’

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