The Comeback(68)

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On the car journey home, I feel weightless, like I did in the swimming pool my first morning back at the glass house. Silver and Ophelia are staying with friends, so it’s just the two of us, and when Emilia turns the radio up loud for a Beach Boys song it feels as if I’m hearing music for the very first time, the harmonies crisp and clear, suspended in the air around us.

I sneak a peek at Emilia, stupidly grateful for something I can’t name. My mood isn’t even dampened when Esme rings and I have to fumble to send the call to voicemail before Emilia sees. I tell myself that I’m protecting my sister, but I know I’m just being selfish because I would never be able to answer a single question about Esme without revealing too much of myself.

“I actually need to talk to you about something,” Emilia says when we’re nearly back at Coyote Sumac. She looks sheepish, and a flurry of apprehension steals a piece of my high.

“I hope you don’t think I’ve been meddling, but you seemed so excited the other day about the John Hamilton project, and I couldn’t resist having a little word with him about it. I don’t know if you know, but he’s a dear friend of the family. He’s actually Silver’s godfather,” Emilia says, grinning like a fool. “And he said that he wants to meet with you. Soon. Do you hate me?”

“No,” I say, surprised that I somehow forgot that everyone is a dear friend of anyone in LA. “But I heard they’d already cast the role he wanted me for.”

Emilia frowns slightly. “Oh, you know this kind of thing is always changing.”

“He figured I was a liability and pulled out,” I say, and Emilia flinches before smiling ruefully.

“I think he was just worried, but I’ve spoken to him and he’s excited to meet you. He’s going to call Nathan to arrange it all.”

“Thanks, Emilia,” I say, and Emilia waves her hand dismissively, causing the car to swerve slightly.

“I did next to nothing, trust me,” Emilia says. “Although once it’s announced, we should get you on a late-night talk show, or maybe Ellen? We need to truly mark your return somehow.”

“Why are you doing all this?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Emilia pulls up outside my house and turns the engine off, before turning to study me.

“If it’s because you still feel guilty about not looking after me when I was younger, then it’s fine. You had the twins, you were busy, the last thing you needed was another charge. I get it.”

Emilia shakes her head.

“I’m doing this because we’re friends, Grace, like you told Camila the other day,” she says. “And friends help each other out.”

I pause, my hand on the car door handle.

“Thank you,” I say, turning away before Emilia can notice the stricken look on my face.





CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE





You look like a deranged elderly runaway,” Esme observes, frowning at me in the mirror, and I’m already regretting her presence.

“Or an extra from Les Misérables,” Blake offers from behind her impossibly small sunglasses. I glare at them both as I pull off the dress, even though they’re not wrong—the dress is the color of wet sand with elbow-length sleeves and a ragged hem. I’m not sure it’s exactly what Laurel had in mind when she scheduled the fitting for me.

“I didn’t ask you here for your styling advice. I’m already paying someone way too much for that,” I say at the exact moment my stylist, Xtina, walks back in from the bathroom. Esme snorts and I glare at her.

“Actually, I didn’t even ask you here. Why are you two here again?” I ask, rolling my eyes.

“Therapy was canceled,” Blake says. “Some sort of celebrity hypno-birthing emergency.”

“How much longer do you have to be in therapy for?” I ask, turning around to look at her.

“I guess until I’m cured!” Blake says, doing jazz hands for a second before dropping them back down to her lap. “Or at least until I leave for college.”

Esme shakes her head sympathetically. “You have to meet Blake’s mother to understand. Talk about deranged.”

“Have you met ours?” I mutter. “I’m not even sure she’s aware that therapy exists.”

“Why do you think we’re such good friends?” Blake asks, and Esme shoots her a look in the mirror, but I think it’s half-hearted and only because she would be betraying our mother if she didn’t.

“Are you coming home next week?” Esme asks me, and I turn to face her, confused. “For Christmas, Grace.”

Shit. I turn back around and pretend to assess my reflection in the mirror again. It’s always been easier to lie to myself than to my sister, and I still feel guilty about blowing her off on the weekend.

“I’m figuring it out.”

Xtina hands me a black dress, and I unenthusiastically put it on, even though I can already see that it will wash me out. Xtina is a stylist based in New York, and every year leading up to awards season she takes over a suite in the Four Seasons to clothe her clients in beautiful, overpriced dresses and jewelry loaned to her by different designers. The IFA dress code is different from the Oscars in that you don’t officially have to wear black tie, but I’ve been warned that I need to play it safe, as the fashion blogs will already be gearing up to put me on their worst-dressed lists.