The Redhead Plays Her Hand

twelve

The press junket was tough. I’ll admit, I didn’t expect it to be so hard. Was I digging ditches? Nope. Answering phones in a call center somewhere for ten hours in a row? Uh-uh. Was this a hard job? Not in the traditional sense, nope. No way. Was that press junket hard? Hard as a motherfucker.

I’ll never watch a celebrity interview the same way. Even though I had prepared for this—I knew what to expect, I felt ready to go—it was hard. You sit in a hotel room, with the windows blocked out behind you, publicity posters sitting all around, and every ten minutes another journalist comes in and asks you essentially the same questions the last thirteen did. And you try to answer them differently but not stray too far from the “script.” You smile and nod and thank them when they tell you they loved what they’ve seen of the series so far, and you wonder if they are really being truthful.

And when they get clever, when they start asking questions and you know exactly where they’re trying to lead you to (Hamiltontown) you smile and nod again, and then evade. Because as much as they would like you to believe they’re in charge of this interview, it’s up to you to keep it on the material that you feel comfortable with.

I’d done well. I was pretty impressed at how I’d handled things. Holly was there. She had conversations with each producer ahead of time, and then again with each interviewer before we began to make sure they stayed on topic and only on preapproved subjects: the series, my costars, my recent rise to fame, adjusting to life in the limelight. They were each allowed to ask one question about my weight—something I had initially been against but was warming up to.

Was my body a little out of control right now? I couldn’t honestly say yes, because while I had abandoned the cucumber-and-air idiocy, I was eating and exercising with the same zeal I had been for the last few years.

I shook my head to clear it, getting ready for the last interview. A beautiful blonde from ENT breezed into the room, shaking hands with me and smiling her perfect teeth at the camera as they miked her. Holly reminded her once more what she could and couldn’t ask, and she smiled again. The camera light went on, and we made nice for a few moments—about the series, my costars, the usual. I stifled a yawn as I went through the motions, thinking about getting a dirty martini as soon as this was all over, wondering if I could talk Holly into joining me. I snorted a little at the thought of her turning down a cocktail, losing my focus, and that’s when the deer-in-headlights happened.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I said, what do you think about the pictures that we released just this afternoon?”

“Pictures? Sorry, I’ve been inside all day. What pictures are you talking about?” I asked, my eyes fluttering to Holly, who shrugged her shoulders, clearly not knowing what was going on either.

“Oh, of course. You probably haven’t seen them yet, have you? Here, I have some copies with me,” she purred, handing me a stack of prints. Before they were even in my hand, I could see they were of Jack. And a girl. A girl wearing not a lot of clothing. And by not a lot I mean panties and that was it. They were kissing, his hands in her hair and her hands on his chest. Passionate. Intense. Shot after shot of his mouth on hers, on her neck, on her—

I thrust them back at her, my hands shaking. Holly was about ready to climb out of her skin, pacing in a room that was too small for pacing.

“How do these pictures make you feel, Grace? I mean, come on, isn’t it about time you two admit your relationship? Or is it not cheating if you’ve never really said you were an item?”

I stared at her. I was rattled, totally rattled.

“Is this because of the weight gain? Men can be so funny about that, can’t they?” she asked, her face painted with fake concern.

“My weight gain?”

“Oh, well sure. It can’t be a coincidence that just as you began to put on weight, sorry, put back on, that’s when Jack started stepping out all over town? Care to comment?”

Holly stepped between us. “That’s it. This interview is over,” she snapped, shielding me from the camera. “You knew what was off-limits.”

“Oh, please, Holly, it’s what we all want to know, but no one had the guts to ask. This is news. I have an obligation to my audience to—”

“Get over yourself, Barbie. We’re through. Grace, let’s go.”

She turned to me, pulling me out of the chair and walking me from the room, keeping herself between me and the camera the entire time. I was still frozen, shocked but furious with myself for not being able to respond. How had this happened? And what were those pictures? I turned back into the room, looking again at the stack of pictures on the table, the camera following me as I was ushered away, the simpering look on the interviewer’s face as she knew she’d gotten me.

Damn . . . this town was vicious.

Once Holly got me into the other room, she went back in. I could hear her yelling. She was on a tear, and I was very glad to not be on the receiving end of it. That reporter wouldn’t get another interview for years with me, or Jack, or any of Holly’s clientele. I rubbed my eyes and kicked off my heels, trying to center and breathe and come to terms with what I had just seen.

Check yourself here. We don’t know what we just saw.

We saw Jack with his hands on another woman. That’s what we saw.

I’d like another look at those . . .

Just as I was thinking about heading back in to get the pictures, Holly burst through the door, cheeks flushed red and her don’t-fuck-with-me face on. She had the pictures in her hand, and she was slapping on her reading glasses, which she didn’t officially have.

“Barbie is gone. You might see her doing the weather in some little town in Oregon, but she’s not working here again.” Holly placed the pictures on the table in front of us. “I wanted another look at these.”

“Oh, Christ, I want to look, but I don’t want to look. Does that make sense?”

“Of course it does, fruitcake. Let’s not drop our teeth here. Let me just take a look . . . Mmm-hmm,” she said under her breath, holding one up to the light. There he was: Jack, in all his glory. The shaggy curls were gone, replaced by his buzz cut. Whatever this was, it was recent. I gasped as I took in the images again, his hands all over this woman. Whoever she was, they were passionate. I felt my heart drop, could he have really . . . Jesus, could he?

“Wait a minute! Christ on a crutch, this is from his movie! Oh, I could throttle that Barbie!” Holly cried, thrusting the pictures back to me. “This is from his new movie. That’s the girl they’ve been shooting with. She’s an actress. You can even see the crew off to the side if you squint. What a bitch!”

I examined the pictures, my heart still pounding but beginning to regulate a bit.

“Grace, she did this just to throw you.” Holly scrolled through her phone. “Damn those vultures. They’ve had this up all day too, claiming he’s having a fling with a costar.”

She handed me the phone. I snatched it to look for myself. With a headline made to make people stop and read, the article had zero facts and tons of hot pics, which made it the most clicked-on story of the day. And, of course, there was me at my heaviest, meant to draw a contrast between who I was and who Jack should be dating now.

“Son of a bitch,” I seethed, scrambling for my own phone. Texts had been pouring in from Jack all day.

Crazy—call me before you open any emails today . . .

Hey, make sure you call me when you get a break, ok?

Right then. You’ve either seen them and are laughing at how low these prats will sink, or you’ve seen them and are pissed, which I can’t blame you for. Please call me as soon as you can . . .

As I was reading the last of the texts, he called. I answered.

“Grace?”

“Yep.”

“You saw them.”

“Yep.”

“Fucking ridiculous. Is Holly with you?”

“Yep.”

“You tell her next time she needs to be out in front of something like this. I’m bloody well tired of this.”

“Yep.” I sighed tiredly, the weight of the day beginning to weigh on me.

“Is that all you’re going say?”

“I’ll be home soon, Jack,” I replied, hanging up.

This wasn’t his fault, not by a long shot. But the roller-coaster of emotions had just bottomed out, and I was exhausted. I looked at Holly, who was furiously typing on her phone.

“We’re done for the day, right?”

“Yep,” she answered with a rueful grin. I hugged her, grabbed my bag, and headed out to my car. Where I turned the music up as loud as it would go and took the long way home.

This is the life you chose . . .

Yep.

I pulled into my drive and noticed Jack’s car was home. I sat in my front seat for a moment, collecting myself. This day had been a mix of extreme highs and lows. Highs being holding my own throughout a press junket that could have pulled me under a wave of bullshit. Once you got past the questions you knew they had to ask, some of the reporters actually gave me some great feedback about the show. Not only had they watched it, they enjoyed it. It was a heady thing, knowing that people were seeing your work and getting something out of it. Lows being obvious, and something I wanted to forget about. But I couldn’t, that was the old Grace. The sweep everything under the carpet, lock-it-up-in-the-Drawer Grace. That’s where I was tempted to send this entire debacle with Jack and the pictures. But nope. I was an adult now, or at least I was playing one on TV. The truth was, I wasn’t mad about the pictures—at least not mad at Jack. How could I be? He was just as much a target here as I was. As I engaged in my front-seat contemplation, I saw the curtains flutter a bit in the front window, the dining room. Squinting, I could make out the shape of Jack moving around, lighting candles.

Interesting. What was he up to? With a smile, I got out of the car and let myself in the front door, just catching sight of him heading back into the kitchen. Kicking off my heels and setting down my bag, I glanced into the dining room. The table was set, candles were lit, flowers were arranged. Rounding the corner, I spied him in front of the stove, every burner going, every pot and pan in California either full of something or burned in the sink. Pasta crunched underfoot, alerting him to my presence. As he spun around, I laughed out loud when I saw the state of his shirt, which was covered in sauce.

“What are you doing?” I laughed as he slammed the lid back down on something that spittered and sputtered on the burner.

“Dammit, I wanted to have everything done when you got home.” He grabbed a spoon and flicked tomato something or other all over the backsplash. Which is what a backsplash is for, I suppose . . .

“What’s all this, George?” I asked, coming to rest on a high stool out of the line of fire.

“I just wanted to make you dinner, something nice. Turns out cooking is really bloody hard!” He struggled with a colander. The colander was winning. “I’d kiss you but I’m dirty.”

“I like you dirty. I’ll risk it.”

He smiled, but kept his eyes on the colander and the pasta that was now escaping. “I felt terrible about today. I just wanted, I wanted to do something that could— Oh, damn this linguine,” he mumbled.

“Can I help you? Please?” I slipped down off the stool and walked to him. Quietly I finished draining the pasta, leaving it in the colander.

He stood next to me, leaning over the sink, face troubled. “I just hate that this happened, that they would use me to go after you in this way.” He sighed.

“I know,” I answered, leaning into his side. He smelled like garlic. He smelled wonderful.

“I wish I could tell you this kind of thing won’t happen again, but it will, Grace.”

“I know.”

“It’s gonna get worse.”

“I know.” I sighed into his shoulder. “But the good outweighs the bad.”

“Does it?”

“Of course it does. Now feed me this wonderful dinner.”

I went back to my perch as he finished. I could have helped more, but I wanted to let him do this for me. Over dinner we talked about some of the better parts of the day, and we went about the business of getting past this. Past the bullshit. Past the part where someone, several someones actually, went out of their way to try to hurt both of us. We both sighed into our linguine several times.