Page 6 of The Princess and the Paparazzi
Rafe whispers in my ear as he pecks me on the cheek. “That’s what you get for calling my new dog an ugly pug. Have fun choosing everyone’s side orders all summer.”
To the group he says, “Sorry, I gotta run, guys. Great read through. Great meeting everyone. I can’t wait to do this show with you all!”
People start clapping, they adore him so much. He’s so genuine, so charismatic, so real. I’d hate him if he wasn’t my best friend.
We are all gathered in the covered seating area in front of the amphitheater’s circular stage. The rear of the stage is flanked by a series of platforms, stairs, and ramps that will bring the action to multiple levels. Beyond that, a forest of tall, swaying pines stands silent and majestic.
Although the stage and the area where we are seated is covered, it still feels completely open. It feels more like a ship, floating in an ocean of trees.
All of the building materials have taken their cues from the landscape. They are either natural wood tones or shades of green. The only other colors come from the baskets hanging from the lampposts. These are bursting with clouds of purple, red, and orange blooms, spilling out of the bowls like fireworks.
To the left and right of the stage are grassy, terraced areas where theatergoers who want a less formal experience will be able to pack a picnic, spread out a blanket, and set up camp for the night. Dean has placed a couple dozen striped, green hammocks there for cast members to lounge in between scenes. When we break, half the group heads up the hill to a picnic area, and the other half slinks off to the hammocks.
“Are you sure you can’t stay for lunch?” Dean Riley, the theater owner, asks Rafe.
“I wish, but duty calls,” Rafe says.
By duty, he means his three-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Orly. And I really don’t understand him being at her beck and call like this. What’s the point of having a live-in nanny if you’re going to be on call 24/7?
Rafe was a lot more fun before Orly came into his life. I mean, he wasn’t exactly spontaneous, but I could still talk him into a spur-of-the-moment trip to New Zealand, or going to Carnival in Venice on occasion. Now, he doesn’t want to do anything or go anywhere with his friends. He just wants to hang out at home. With her. If I was into kids, I’d be impressed by the way Rafe is constantly dropping everything for that toddler. It’s so twenty-first-century Super Dad.
“Rafe, wait.” I follow him up to the gravel parking lot and ask, “Will I see you before you head to LA? Stop by the guesthouse and say goodbye at least?”
Rafe and I are both staying at a rented estate for the summer. Since he has Orly and family visiting, he’s staying in the main house. I’m fine by myself in the guesthouse. The house sits on ten acres, with a pool, gardens, and a state-of-the-art security system with twenty-four-hour monitoring.
“Don’t worry, Lorelei,” Rafe says. “I’m not leaving for another day. You could still do Disneyland with us this weekend. I’m sure my mom would love to see you.”
Rafe has been trying to get me to do Disney with him, Orly, and his mother, but that’s a hard pass. Titanium Man and the Ember Enchantress go for a spin together on the Tea Cups ride? I can just imagine the feeding frenzy. Then again, I can’t. Rafe doesn’t go on any rides that involve speed or spinning. Even if we hired a VIP tour guide and somehow managed to steer clear of psycho fans and paparazzi, between him and the toddler, I wouldn’t get to ride any of the good rides.
Plus, I don’t think his mom actually likes me.
“Your mom hates me,” I say. “And I don’t want to go to Disney. I just want to chill.”
I’m lying, of course. I don’t want to chill. I want to go on the Matterhorn and Space Mountain! I just don’t want to do it asme, the former kid star of theMoxie McAllistershow. And I certainly don’t want to ride the kitschy kid rides as Ember.
It must be nice to go to theme parks and park your car in the far back of the Goofy lot, never worrying about what you’d do if someone in a car recognizes you. I’d gladly stand in line with everyone else for two hours to ride the new Star Wars-themed rides, if I could just have a day at a theme park, pigging out and taking pointless selfies like a normal, non-famous person.
Hell, I’d be happy just moseying through Target, pushing a red cart in a pair of pajama pants. Unnoticed. Undisturbed. Just me and forty aisles of mediocre retail products. Leave me alone. In public.
Once I start with this fantasy, I cannot stop. It takes on a life of its own. Maybe a bookstore. When was the last time I went into a bookstore?
What if I could walk into a bar and order a drink, or sit in the window of a café, writing poetry? Maybe I could drop in on aDungeons and Dragonssession at a local gaming store. Do people still do that?
I’d really been hoping I’d be able to let my hair down here this summer, but so far, I haven’t even been able to take off my wig. It’s not as bad as LA. But people still know who I am.
“Okay, well, drive safe. Look out for the vultures!” I tell Dean, while he’s pulling on his motorcycle helmet. He rode here on a ridiculous, vintage motorbike. The kind with a side car. Zero chance that we’ll be carpooling to rehearsals in that thing.
“Do you really think the paparazzi are already here?” he asks.
“Probably,” I say.
“Not a problem, I got this.” Rafe lowers the mirrored visor down on his helmet. “Nobody’s going to suspect it’s me. This helmet is awesome. It even has Bluetooth.” He revs his engine and speeds off, going only slightly faster than a cautious toddler on a tricycle.
* * *
“What do you think, Lorelei?” one of the local actors asks me shyly when I come back down the hill. “Should I have gone with the Reuben or the BLT?” I consider him for a minute before telling him to get the fish and chips next time.
“Really?” he asks incredulously. “I haven’t had that since I was a kid. But now that you mention it …”
