Lovegame(17)

So instead of lingering in the hallway, I head down one more flight to the huge, state-of-the-art kitchen that boasts nearly every gadget known to man. The coordinator of the photo shoot had made this room the base of operations today, but as I walk into it now the only evidence that they had been here at all is the basket of snacks still resting on the counter and the full carafe of coffee in the coffeemaker.

There are still a few go-cups on the counter next to the machine, so I grab one. I fill it up, then reach for the non-dairy creamer sitting next to the sugar. The container is empty, though, and I’ve never been one who can drink his coffee black, no matter how much shit my father and brother have given me for it through the years.

I glance at the stairs, think about waiting until Veronica comes down to ask, but then figure, what the hell. She’s a lot of things but stingy doesn’t seem to be one of them. She won’t mind if I borrow a little milk or half-and-half to put in my coffee.

But when I pull open the fridge, there is no half-and-half or milk. In fact, there’s absolutely nothing in it at all. No food, no drinks, no half-used bottles of salad dressing or jars of jam. Nothing. She doesn’t even have a bottle of ketchup.

I know some people eat out every night and so they don’t keep many groceries, but this…this is something else entirely. Even the most die-hard restaurant goers have something in the fridge. A carton of eggs, some yogurt, leftovers from last week’s takeout, an apple. Something. Veronica has nothing.

I’ve never seen anything like it.

Knowing I’m invading her privacy, but too intrigued to care at this point, I head over to the large walk-in pantry and pull the door open. It’s empty, too. There’s not even a forgotten box of cereal.

What. The. Fuck?

I turn toward the cabinets, start opening them as well. And that’s when things get even weirder. Because they are fully stocked—with dishes and glasses, pots and pans, bowls and silverware. Even some heavy-duty appliances.

She’s got everything a fully functional kitchen needs, everything except food. And since I’ve seen her eat on three separate occasions during the last two days, I’m pretty sure it’s not anorexia I’m dealing with here. Which means—

“What are you doing?” she suddenly demands from behind me, her voice higher and more strident than I’ve ever heard it.

“I was looking for milk for my coffee,” I answer, making sure to shut the cabinet door as I turn around slowly.

“In my cabinets?”

“Well, there wasn’t any in the fridge, but I guess you already know that, don’t you?”

I’m watching her now, can see the second it dawns on her that I know her secret. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“It’s exactly what it looks like. Why is it that everyone at the shoot today was under the impression that you live here when it’s very clear that you don’t?”

“You were under that same impression.”

“You’re right, I was. But I’m not the shoot coordinator or the room stylist or the caterer. How could they have poked around in this place and not figured it out? And why are you lying to everybody, anyway?”

“I didn’t lie,” she tells me, and she’s got her voice—and face—back under control. “I own this house.”

“Yeah, but you don’t live in it.”

“So what? I own several places around the world that I don’t live in.”

“Yes,” I concede, because it’s true. I’ve done the research. She does have several other homes around the globe, including an apartment in Paris and one in New York, a country house in Tuscany, a villa on a private island off the coast of Greece and a townhouse in Park City, Utah. “But you don’t lie about living in any of those homes. Just this one. So what’s the deal? And where do you live when you’re in L.A.?”

“That’s none of your business,” she snaps, striding over to the coffeemaker and pouring herself a cup. She doesn’t even glance at the sugar or empty creamer container before lifting the hot, bitter liquid to her lips and drinking it down in one long gulp.

Jesus. My mouth hurts just watching the display of bravado, but I don’t say anything. Not when she’s staring at me over the rim of the cup, daring me to make a comment. But I recognize a distraction technique when I see one, so I keep my mouth shut and wait for her to finish scalding herself. As I do, our conversation from yesterday rings in my head. She’d called herself a masochist then and for the first time I’m tempted to believe she actually meant it.

Neither of us says another word until she’s tossed the cup in the trash. Then, as she glances around the kitchen like she’s looking for something—anything—else to concentrate on, I ask, “What do you want out of this interview?”

“Excuse me?” The question is incredulous, and the tone it’s delivered in pure diva.

“When Vanity Fair asked me to do it, they said they were looking for two things. The publicity that came with having the man who discovered the Belladonna as a killer interview the woman who plays her in the movie, and the first totally honest portrayal of you. The woman behind the legacy. The truth behind the beauty. I thought, when you wiped your makeup away during the shoot earlier, that that was what you were getting at. But now I’m not so sure.”