Page 60 of The Princess and the Paparazzi
Or something like that. The song that’s playing is a remake of New Order’s “Blue Monday,” and the singer is pondering how it feels when your heart grows cold.Good question. Numb?
I don’t hate my momager. I know she thought she was doing the right thing by me. But the issue is, she never asked. She never considered how I felt. Myfeelingsweren’t a consideration. They were whatever she told me they had to be. That was the deal. I changed my emotions like outfits. For her, for the director of the show, for the fans, and for the few friends I had. When wasn’t I “putting on an act?”
Maybe when I hung out with Rafe? He really wasn’t like anyone else I knew. He was older, smarter, and morenormal. Rafe had been shocked by my teenaged efforts to seduce and corrupt him. Which was kind of the point. I’d wanted to shock him. I hadn’t expected him to act so protective. Sure, he smoked the joint I scored for him. But he also forbade me from doing it again, with or without him. He’d let thirteen-year-old me get drunk on sweet kosher wine at his parents’ Passover Seder, knowing full well I’d be sick as a dog and “learn my lesson.” Afterward, he told me that he thought it was better for me to have that experience somewhere that was unlikely to result in anything truly terrible happening. He’d let me dig my own grave, and then he lent me a hand to get up out of it. He was like the big brother I never had.
I tap my fingers on my knee to the beat of the next song. Another classic oldie Lou Reed would like me to take a walk on the wild side. Doop-de-dooping my way along, I signal to get into the exit lane behind Noah. I feel a similar sense of ease with him as I do with Rafe. With the added fun of flirting. Maybe it’s because Noah doesn’t want or need anything from me? Maybe it’s because I’ve been telling myself that it’s all for Kenna, for her best interest.
But let’s be honest. I don’t want to jump his bones for Kenna. I want to do that for myself. I feel the same sort of naughty impulse I felt as a teenager when I was trying to get Rafe to misbehave.
I want to tempt Noah and see him crack. I want to push his buttons and drive him crazy. If he was standing next to a pool, I would not be able to resist pushing him in.But why? And what would happen next?I exhale and imagine his shocked face, watching his expression turn from shock to a focused desire. I picture him grabbing my hand at the last minute, pulling me in. And I’ve never wanted to get wet more.
Noah sticks a tanned arm out the window of his Volvo, giving me a thumbs-up and a wave as we come to a stop at the end of the exit ramp. He gestures that he’s turning right, and I put on my blinker to follow.
New Order, Joy Division, The Cure, and INXS are the one thing that the momager gave me that stuck. This music is all hers. She grew up going to shows at tiny clubs in LA, working as a waitress while pursuing her dream of acting. It never happened for her. So she’d packed up her dreams and focused on mine. Which, conveniently, she had already chosen for me.
My therapist used to say that I probably had such a hard time accessing my own true feelings because of my early life in the orphanage. Feelings had no place in the orphanage. I learned at an early age that crying, in a room full of crying babies, was not a particularly effective way to get the limited staff to pay attention to me.
“She was just the calmest, most gorgeous toddler.” The momager didn’t talk about my having been adopted often. But when she did, it was always the same story. “She never cried. She just smiled and batted those long lashes, and who could resist her? Clever girl!”
“You learned that people would let you down,” my therapist explained. “Your basic needs weren’t met. So you figured out other ways to get what you needed.”
In other words, I learned how to act. My momager couldn’t have made a better decision when she accepted my dossier from the agency. Two years old. No significant health issues. Docile and never cries.
I don’t remember the orphanage. Not really. But there’s something. The smell of certain industrial soaps. The feeling of thin, cotton sheets threaded between my fingers.
Noah stops at the corner of a long residential street with massive pines and large lawns. There’s about a dozen modest-size houses on the quiet block that are all well-spaced. Nothing at all like the overgrown and pot-bound houses in the Beverly Hills neighborhood where I grew up. I try to guess which one is Noah’s and pick a cute, classic-looking home with a white picket fence at the end of the street. There’s a perfectly mown lawn and two adorable garden gnomes beside the mailbox.
I’m sure I’m right and already dreaming about the ways I’ll mess with the gnomes when he indicates he’s turning left into the driveway of the house next door. The one with the rock garden and wood siding. There are two bird feeders hanging from the tree out front and a swing on the porch.
“Park in the driveway,” Noah says, leaning his head out the window as he pulls his car into an immaculate garage.
This is when my heart starts pounding hard. I do a quick gut check. I know exactly how I, Lorelei, am feeling right now.Excited. Anxious. Horny.
It’s always the nerdy English teachers.
* * *
“This is a much better idea than the cocoa.” I hold up my wineglass and toast Noah.
We’re sitting on his front porch. I’m sprawled in the swing, reading his campaign, and Noah is sitting at a nearby table, working on a map. From time to time, he points out the birds that are perched on the feeders, identifying the species.
“Well, I figure if you’re telling me what you think about my gamification of a Shakespeare classic, it can’t hurt to ply you with alcohol. Perhaps you’ll go easier on it that way.”
“I love what I’ve read so far,” I say, honestly. No need to act. “So do you ever playDND, like … in person?”
Please say yes. Please say yes.I’m dying to get invited to participate in a session. Even if it means I’ll have to reprise my Kenna role to do it.
“I do. My friends and I get together a couple of times a month,” he says, smiling faintly. “Usually. Sometimes we go a little longer. But it’s all on the DL. Please don’t mention it to anyone at the diner?” He raises his eyebrows at me.
“Are there a lot of people in Ephron who playDND?” I ask.
“No. Most of the gang lives a half hour or more away. That’s why we only get together once or twice a month. It’s a whole production when we do.”
“And do you, like, wear costumes?” I ask hopefully.
“Of course,” Noah smiles. Naughtily.
Oh God.
