Lovegame(114)

So far, it seems to be doing the trick. I can only pray that it keeps it up. I show enough of myself in Belladonna. The last thing I want to do is end up popping out a boob on the red carpet and showing even more.

My phone vibrates with a text and my heart leaps to my throat despite myself. It’s been six weeks since Ian walked out of my house—since I ordered him out—and I haven’t seen or heard from him since. He even turned down the invitation to the premiere tonight, citing a scheduling conflict—or so the publicists told me.

Which is exactly how I want it, I remind myself as I very deliberately close my purse without checking the new message. I banished him from my life and that is exactly where he needs to stay.

And then I take it back out and check anyway. Not for a message from Ian, obviously, but because of my mother.

It turns out the text is from my stylist, reminding me to work the leg slit in my dress. Like I would forget.

I text her back a wink, then close my eyes and rest my head against the cool leather of the seat. Suddenly I’m too exhausted to even hold my head up.

I’ve been on the press junket for Belladonna for two straight weeks—it opens in the U.S. this Friday—and it’s been an absolute whirlwind. Made worse by my mother’s ongoing presence in a psychiatric hospital and everything that came before it.

I visit her regularly, at least three times a week when I’m in town. But I can barely look at her when I go, can barely talk to her. How can I when everything that happened—everything she made happen—lays between us like so much rubble.

Our relationship, which was always strained, is completely broken and I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to put it back together again. Or even if I want to put it back together.

I don’t know what to do. I just don’t know what to do and I’m not sure if I ever will again.

The limo makes a right turn and then suddenly slows down to a crawl. That’s how I know we’ve arrived, even before I look out the window and see Grauman’s Chinese Theatre all lit up, a red carpet running from the sidewalk all the way to the front doors of the theater.

There are crowds—massive amounts of crowds—and nearly two dozen imposing security guards ranged on either side of the carpet. Thank God. Premieres always bring out a few crazies, but I don’t even want to think about what this premiere—what this movie—has brought out of the woodwork.

We inch forward slowly, which gives me a chance to really look at the crowd. It’s massive, maybe one of the biggest crowds I’ve ever seen at a premiere, and I should be excited. After all, it’s just more proof that this movie will be a success.

But it’s hard to be excited when I look up and see the banners hanging from the two pillars on either side of the entrance—or the gigantic one hanging right above the doors. There were a variety of movie posters made for Belladonna, all taking a different tack. Some of them are really good, really original, so I don’t know why they chose to use the two that feature only me.

No, not me, I remind myself as we pull to a stop right in front of the red carpet. Her. There is a difference between us—a big difference—and I’m not going to let anything confuse that in my head again.

I take a deep breath, shake off the melancholy that’s been dogging me ever since I woke up this morning. “Have a good evening, ma’am,” the driver tells me.

He’s not my regular driver, just one of many hired by the studio to deliver the movie’s stars tonight. But he’s been more than nice and I smile and thank him before handing over a hundred dollar tip. I know I don’t have to do that—the studio covers everything—but the traffic around here has been horrific tonight. He more than deserves every penny.

And then someone on the red carpet must get the nod from him because my door opens. I take a deep breath and then reach forward and take the proffered hand.

Climbing out of a limo is an acquired talent and even thirty years in, I still take the offered help. Especially when my skirt is as long and my heels as high as the ones I’m wearing tonight.

The crowd roars as they get their first sight of me, flashes exploding in front of my eyes from all directions. I’m momentarily blinded by all the lights, but I do my best not to show it. Instead, I smile all the more brightly as I strike a little pose and nod to fans and photographers whose shapes I can barely make out.

Eventually the overpowering flashes die down a little and I start my walk up the red carpet, pausing every few seconds to speak to a reporter and take a picture. Each time I stop I make sure I’m flashing my leg—taking the best advantage possible of the thigh-high slit, just as my stylist instructed—and that my dress is being shown off to the best advantage. It’s another Atelier Versace creation in winter white and with its strategic side cutouts and largely see-through fabric, it just might be the most stunning couture dress I’ve ever seen, let alone worn.

The crowd certainly seems to thinks so as they roar their approval. I smile at the teenage girls who ooh and aah, making sure to stop as often as I can for a few words, a handful of selfies and as many hugs as my dress and I can handle. I ignore most of the men, whose eyes are on the shadow between my breasts or the flashes of my hips and ass that the cutouts reveal, instead of on my face.

My mother told me at an early age that there are two kinds of women in the world, those who dress for men and those who dress for themselves. She’s always been the former while I’ve made it a point of pride to always be the latter. The dress, the shoes, the sex kitten image—they’re all for me. Yes, they put my body on display, but if everyone is looking at my breasts or what the slit of my dress reveals, then no one is actually looking at me. No one is paying attention to the fact that my skin is too pale and that, tonight especially, I’m batting my false lashes extra hard to hide the tears that keep popping up.