“Oh yeah. So much better,” I said, tilting my neck from side to side to work the kinks out from the fourteen-hour flight. “You know I love my fans, but enough is enough.”
“Sounds like somebody needs a massage.”
While Maria investigated the basket of magazines, chocolate and champagne sent by her office, I wearily watched the crowd outside. Undeterred by the car’s tinted windows, my fans jostled elbow to elbow as they angled to capture a photo of me on their phones. I was a people pleaser by nature, but I took satisfaction in the frustrated expressions of people who realized they weren’t getting anything through the glass.
Airport security finally showed up to clear the walkway. At the same time, the family in front of us finished stowing their luggage and piled into their vehicle. Our car started to move, which I took as my cue to let out a deep sigh and slump down even further. No cameras, no fans. I could be myself.
Maria chuckled. “So, you want me to book it?”
I rubbed my forehead. “What? Sorry. I’m exhausted.” It was daylight, but I had no idea what time it was. All I knew was that I crossed the International Date Line and went back a day.
“The massage. Do you want me to arrange it? I can make a call and have that one masseuse you like meet us at your house.”
My head started to bob the automatic, expected response. Everybody knew being worked over by some big blond Viking with amazing hands was supposed to be the miracle cure to Los Angeles stress, but no. I couldn’t even count how many hours I’d spent being kneaded and rubbed since I’d ditched my small-town life as Lacey Leesworth in order to become rising film star Lacey Lee.
None of those massages had done a damn thing. Instead of nodding, I turned my head to look at Marie, who was thumbing through a stack of tabloids balanced on her lap.
“No. I don’t need a massage. I need…” One of the tabloids distracted me and I sat up. “Oh my God. Are they serious? A June wedding?”
Maria quickly flipped the rag over but it was too late. I laughed humorlessly and shook my head.
“I’d say I can’t believe this, but of course I can. I must have given a hundred interviews in South Korea alone, and all anybody wanted to talk about was my so-called love life.”
Love. Hah.
“You know how the media is,” she countered, rolling her eyes. Since she worked for a PR firm, she dealt with them twenty-four/seven. “They’re hungry for the next big love story. You’re the current sweetheart of cinema and Chris is—uh, has the potential to be the next big, swoony rock star.” Her voice changed when she spoke of Chris, the words filled with some doubt. “Of course, everyone wants the two of you together.”
Instead of calming me down, it made me grind my teeth. “Yes, I get the media. I just…argh!” I waved my hands in the air. The gesture indicated all of my frustration with the media, the fans and even Chris.
Maria winced and patted my leg. “You’re burned out. Anybody would be after filming and the press junket, but you’ve been going and going at this pace for five years. You need to learn to let all this stuff go.” She was using her familiar placating tone, which was probably the first thing they’d taught her in celebrity management 101.
“’All this stuff’, meaning all these lies?” I grabbed the magazine off her lap, lifted it up so I could see my face smiling from some red-carpet event. A smaller picture of Chris was in a square in the right corner, big bold type screaming “Wedding Bells or Wedding Hell?” across the top. I dropped it back in Maria’s lap, then stared out the window, watching L.A. pass by, yet at the same time seeing nothing at all.
“This is Hollywood, Lacey. You’re a movie star. Very little about your life is true. If the truth got out…”
Maria trailed off ominously, shaking a genuine laugh from me. I shot her an amused glance.
“You say that like I have some kind of deep, dark secret, when nothing could be farther from the truth. All I do is work and sleep. I couldn’t even think up half the things they say I do. My life has been an open book since my first deal, an
d the paparazzi helped themselves to everything before that. My real name isn’t even a secret.”
She gave me a look that said it all. She pitied me. Yeah, I had money and fame, but nothing else. And she knew it. When Maria dropped me off, she’d go home to play tennis or go to the library. Maybe even go to the grocery store with no makeup on. Normal stuff. I hadn’t seen the inside of a grocery store in years; I couldn’t pick out my own produce without the paparazzi following me, snapping some horrible candid and putting it online and saying I was on a juice cleanse.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she countered. “But how do you think fans would react if they knew you and Chris weren’t their dream couple? Headlines aren’t made based on ‘casual dating’ and ‘we hit it off, but there’s nothing serious’.” Maria air quoted in all the right places.
I rolled my eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe they’d start reacting to my acting ability again instead of all this…nonsense. What do you think people would say if they knew Chris and I haven’t exchanged more than a single text during the past week?”
Maria got a panicked look. “Don’t tell anybody that.”
I laughed at her expression. “Yeah, that’s what I mean. The truth would ruin my career, which is so ridiculous, I can’t even list all the ways. I hate this, Maria. I don’t want people marrying me to Chris and I’m resentful of the PR team for pushing me to go along with this whole stupid charade.”
“Okay. Just hold on.” Maria shuffled all the tabloids aside and angled to face me, tucking one leg beneath her. “What’s really going on? You’re way more off than usual. If it’s burnout, we can set up a self-care retreat. Self-care is the big buzzword right now anyway. Your fans will go nuts with admiration and the press will run with that.”
“The press will start speculating that I’m carrying Chris’s baby. Or that I’m in rehab.”
I couldn’t decide which was worse—fake pregnancy or fake drug addiction.
Maria opened her mouth, but then closed it with a rueful laugh. “Okay, you’ve got me there.”