Bombshell (Hollywood A-List #1)(78)

I was sure I didn’t want to hear it, and I was sure I had no choice but to listen.

“All right.”

“I’ve been with you for years. Since everyone learned their letters in first grade and you just didn’t. No one knows you like I do. All these people in the business, like you call it, they don’t know who they’re talking to. I do. And all that time ago when we split up, I let it happen because I thought you needed time to sow your oats. Now I think you’ve sown enough. I think it’s time for you to just settle down.”

And there it was, on the line, person to person. Shit-and-butter-covered-biscuit . . . I was not prepared for this at all.

“No,” I said. “I love you, Paula, but not that way. You’re loyal and steady. I respect you. But I don’t feel what you want me to feel. I’m sorry.”

I wanted to crawl into a hole like a little brown gopher. Just disappear into the dirt. I didn’t want to hurt her. She didn’t deserve to be humiliated. I stayed on the phone for what felt like the longest pause in the history of awkward pauses, and I just prayed Nicole would be amused by the bubbles long enough not to interrupt that horrible pause.

“Paula?”

“I stayed by you,” she answered.

“I know.”

“I was waiting for you to wake up. Grow up. All that time. All the things you did.”

“What did I do?”

“I smiled through all of it.”

“Paula. What is it you think I did?”

I heard her take a deep breath, and I didn’t interrupt.

“We were on a plane to Dublin to shoot Everly,” she said.

“Sure. The Delta flight. What’s the—”

“No.” She cut me off. “The one after. The first time you flew first class and you were a smiling f*cking rube when they gave you a hot towel. The flight attendant performed oral sex on you in the galley.”

Right. I was that guy. I was the guy who thought he needed to rack up conquests and movies. I hadn’t been the guy in Redfield watching my daughter and my girlfriend (could I call her that?) blow soap bubbles with my nieces and nephews.

“I don’t remember what you’re talking about,” I said, watching Nicole jump for a huge bubble and miss.

“I do,” Paula said. “You barely paid attention, which was exactly what Ken wanted. You were looking at her bottom, and I gave you the letter. I told you to read it, but I knew you’d barely try, like always.”

Her voice was a soup of rage and hurt. I’d ripped the rug of her life right out from under her. She was already off balance from Nicole, and I’d been a shitty friend.

“What did it say?”

“I told you to read it and you pushed it at me and said, ‘Can you just tell me what it says?’ so I did, I read it to you and I told you to sign off on what Ken said was best and you did. You signed where I told you to and you went right off to get the stewardess to be disgusting in the bathroom.”

“What did it say?”

“I told you exactly what it said.”

“Tell me again.”





CHAPTER 60


CARA


Brad worked every day. He locked himself in the office/sewing room and worked on his script. I’d nannied for plenty of actors. I’d never seen one work that hard. The hours he put into preparation were far and away the most intense.

Susan came around a lot. She lived around the corner, and her mother babysat most days. The street was like an extended Sinclair campus.

I was sitting on the porch playing a matching card game with Nicole when a delivery truck pulled up.

“Hey,” the guy said, carrying a box under his arm.

“Hi.” I stood up.

“You must be the girl Brad’s been taking around.” He had dark skin and a crisp white smile. Six two. Rippling muscles. In Los Angeles he’d be an actor or a model.

“I think you’re talking about Nicole.”

“Her too.” He smiled at the girl and handed me the clipboard. “How are you, Nicole?”

“Good.” She looked up from the memory game long enough to say, “I like your head.”

He laughed and put his hand on his bald skull. “Thank you.”

I signed for the package, and we traded the box and the clipboard, saying our good-byes. I looked at the label as I walked into the house. It was for me. I didn’t expect that. The return address was West Side Nannies, but no name. Also strange.

“What did he bring us?” Brad’s dad asked when I got to the kitchen.

“It’s for me, apparently.”

He pulled out a knife, wielding it with three fingers. “Let’s see.”

He slashed the tape, popping the box open. I looked in.

Books.

Dealing with Dyslexia

The Dyslexic Adult

I found a white letter-size envelope and opened it.

Cara:

I’m sure Brad has told you about his problem.

Now that I’m no longer his assistant, it’s important that someone take over helping him memorize his lines. These books will help you learn how.

I hope you’re happy with him.

Good luck,

Paula Blount

His problem. I should have seen that coming a mile away.