Deja Who (Insighter #1)(21)

“And when that failed, you . . . hmmm . . . called to warn me?”

He blinked faster. “Well, your mom’s my client, not you. Not since you fired—”

“Shut up, Tom.” She brushed past her mother’s agent into the front hall, immediately confronted by the clichéd sweeping dark walnut staircase, oriental rugs, hutches full of china they did not inherit, and looming over the entire room the gigantic Scarlett O’Hara–ish painting of her mother when she was Leah’s age.

Behind her, Archer was introducing himself to Tom Winn of Winner’s TalentTM (ugh). Leah ignored them and marched into the game room, which was dominated by a piano no one could play, reducing it to nothing more than a dusting headache for the housekeeper.

Ah, and there she was: Nellie Nazir, former child star, sperm bank shopper, swindler of fortunes, whack job, former smoker. Leah knew her mother would not have dared receive her in the Room O’Crap, stuffed to bursting with old photos of them in their (ugh) heyday, DVDs and downloads of commercials, newspaper articles, magazines . . . Leah needed no reminders of her exploited childhood. Nellie saved that room for people she needed to impress, and Leah had been off that list since her fifth birthday.

So it was no surprise to see It was posed prettily on the couch opposite the piano no one could play, wearing what Leah called the Birthday Outfit.

“What’s the occasion?” she asked shortly, eyeing her mother and wondering if maternity was a gene you either had or hadn’t. If you don’t have it, as It clearly does not, is there medication for the syndrome? Besides vodka? Perhaps an operation would be required. Like an appendectomy, only in reverse.

“My darling daughter is home! The prodigal hon!”

She might mean Hun. As in Attila. “You’ve gone too far this time.” She considered her mother’s past transgressions. “Again. You’ve gone too far this time again.”

“Wow, Leah, you can really get lost in—whoa.” Archer skidded to a halt, taking in her mother’s mufti: the long pink satin flowing robe trimmed in pink feathers at the cuffs and neck and hem. The pale skin, masses of rich reddish brown hair, expertly made-up eyes sporting enough eyeliner to choke a bear (but somehow It made it work), the long movie vixen red nails and matching lipstick. “You weren’t wearing that when you hired me. That’s—um—a different look for you.”

“Please.” Leah crossed her arms over her chest and considered indulging the urge to stick her tongue out at her mother. “She wore it to every one of my birthday parties.”

“Mr. Drake, I underestimated you.” Her mother flowed to her feet and, trailing feathers, crossed the room to kiss a startled Archer on the corner of the mouth. “I wanted you to watch over my baby so I could figure out the best time to approach her with my wonderful new idea, and you brought her home to me.”

“I brought him,” she got out through gritted teeth. It would be a miracle if she didn’t crack a molar. “No more spying, Nellie, and no more wonderful new ideas. You know goddamned well I will never work with you again.”

“For me,” It corrected sweetly. “Work for me. Again.”

“What’s that weird noise?” Archer asked, trying to look everywhere at once.

“My darling girl has the most atrocious habit of grinding her teeth when she’s indulging in one of her tantrums. A dreadful noise.” It shook her head and looked mournful, her face momentarily hidden by rich brown curls. “The money I spent on orthos.”

“The money I spent!” Leah took a breath and tried to force calm. “As I was saying. No more spying. You aren’t just wasting your time—not to mention my time—but also your money. Oh, excuse me: my money.”

“Now, Leah.” It had the gall to sound reproachful. “We settled that years ago.”

Settled = seducing the judge who could have emancipated Leah and given her control of her money/life/career/happiness/health insurance.

Leah controlled an urge to pluck her mother like a large pink chicken. “Listen carefully. I will not embark on a comeback with It. I will do nothing to breathe life into the chamber of horrors It calls a career. It should shrivel up and die and give her spot in the universe to someone else.”

“I dislike when you refer to me in the third person, darling.”

“That’s the part of all that you don’t like?” Archer asked. Tom, she noticed, had fled. This, too, was the pattern of her childhood. At best, Tom enabled her mother. At worst . . . it didn’t bear thinking about.

“She gave herself the nickname,” Leah explained. “It goes back to her tiresome rant about—”

“I’m a commodity, we’re a commodity!” Oh, God. Leah buried her face in her hands as Rant #3 commenced. “Hollywood doesn’t see men or women, they see products. It always has. And the only way to fight it—”

Is not to fight it.

“—is to get on board. So we’re Its to them; not people, not names, fine. Exploit that! Just like in that Wild West movie.”

“Uh . . .” Archer shot her a look. He seemed to be in the grip of horrified fascination. And her mother’s lipstick was on the corner of his mouth. Leah stepped to him and scrubbed it away with her sleeve, perhaps

“Ow!”

harder than necessary.