When It’s Real by Erin Watt
19
HER
Oakley Ford engages in serious PDA!
Oh em gee! Oakley and his flavor of the month were seen at the Valor Club for last night’s charity concert headlined by Maverick Madsen. The once-a-year benefit raises money for muscular dystrophy. But that’s not all that was raising last night…
Stop that! It was eyebrows;) Oakley Ford was caught giving the lip to his new arm candy, not once but twice last night. Insiders say the two could not keep their hands off each other.
Looks like Oakley’s making this good girl go bad…
The Heidi Does Hollywood post makes me cringe. I shut my laptop and remind myself that my love life won’t be a circus forever. Once this job is over, I’ll be able to make out with W—who I need to call ASAP—again without seeing the evidence of it pop up on all the celebrity blogs.
And without getting yelled at by Claudia a hundred times a day.
“Tongue!” she screeches in my ear first thing in the morning. “We don’t want tongue, Vaughn! We don’t want public makeouts! That just makes your relationship look like a dirty sex fest instead of the pure, sweet love we’re trying to convey.”
“Tell that to Oakley,” I mutter. Because it’s all his fault. I don’t know what power trip he was on last night, but I totally didn’t like it.
First he sprung a kiss on me in the dressing room, and then he taunted me outside the car and stuck his tongue in my mouth and said “What’s my name, baby?” like some kind of gross porn star.
Every time I think he might be a nice guy, he goes and proves me wrong. Thank goodness I don’t like him. That tingling I felt after the first kiss was just post-concert adrenaline. Nothing more. Absolutely nothing.
“Amy and I are working on damage control,” Claudia says irritably. “You’ve got a lunch date with Katrina at noon today—”
“Katrina?” I interrupt.
She huffs impatiently. “Katrina Ford. Oak’s mother.”
My jaw hits the floor. I’m having lunch with Oakley’s movie star mother today? Would it kill these people to give me some advance notice about these things?
“W-why?” I stammer.
Claudia hisses. “Because it’s time to take the relationship to the next level. And a meet-the-family shows that you and Oak are serious about each other.”
“Does she know it’s a fake relationship?”
“No. So that means you need to sell her on how much you love her son. We’ll leak the lunch location to the paps to make sure they get some shots of you and Katrina. This might neutralize the tongue disaster.”
“Will Oakley be there?” I swallow hard, because the thought of meeting his mother—alone—makes me very, very nervous.
“No, I’m making sure he’s at the studio today. I don’t want any pictures of you two for at least a few days. We want the tongue thing to die down first.”
“Jeez, it was just a kiss.” I’m starting to think everyone in Hollywood is insane. Then again, if Claudia’s this worked up about it, what will W say?
I order myself not to worry about it. W will understand. He already knows that this is all for show. At least, I hope he does.
“It was not just a kiss. You’re supposed to be the good girl. Not the good girl gone bad!”
I wince. Claudia and I must be reading the same websites. I try to turn the conversation back to Oakley’s mom. “Does Oakley know I’m meeting his mom?”
Claudia takes the bait. “I’m about to call him and fill him in. It shouldn’t be a problem. And I already spoke to Katrina—she’s excited to meet you.” A slew of commands proceed to fill my ear. “Wear something nice and conservative. Nothing too racy. Some makeup is okay, but not a lot—Katrina doesn’t like being upstaged. Oh, and do not mention Dusty.”
“Dusty?” I ask stupidly.
“Dustin Ford—Oak’s dad. Katrina loses it every time someone mentions his name. Amy’s emailing you some talking points right now. A car will pick you up in an hour.”
She hangs up, and less than a minute later my phone beeps with an email notification. I click to open the message.
Don’t mention graduating early from high school. K’s touchy about education—dropped out at 16, got her GED at 20.
Do NOT mention Oakley’s father.
Don’t bring up plastic surgery—K’s touchy about it. Swears she’s never gone under the knife. They all do.
Don’t discuss: politics, the economy, her childhood (K grew up in a trailer park—touchy about it), her last two movies (bombs), the environment, her…
My eyes almost bug out. The list goes on and on, and either I’m dumber than I thought, or there aren’t any actual talking points here. It’s just bullet points of all the things I shouldn’t say. And there are so many of them.
I scrub my hands over my eyes and try not to scream in frustration. It seems like Oakley’s mom is touchy about everything. And why can’t I talk about the environment? Does she have traumatic memories associated with climate change?
My phone rings again, and I can’t ignore it because it’s Tyrese. That means Oakley.
I wonder which Oakley is on the line, though—the one who’s funny and sweet, or the jackass who forced his tongue down my throat last night.
“Claudia says you’re seeing my mom today.”
“Hello to you, too,” I mutter. Jackass, then. “It’s a beautiful day, don’t you think?”
He ignores my sarcasm. “I’m sure she’ll have lots to say about what a selfish, awful son I am—”
“Why does she think you’re an awful son?”
“Because I had the nerve to file for emancipation when I was fifteen.”
Oh, man. I’d forgotten that Oak had divorced his parents. No wonder they never call him. “Why’d you do that?” I ask cautiously then prepare myself to get snapped at.
But he doesn’t snap. “Because we had differences over where my career was going. Specifically, Dad wanted me to end it and I didn’t.” His tone is bored. “Anyway, just wanted to give you a heads-up. I’m sure you’ll enjoy hearing her bitch about me, but take it with a grain of salt, okay? Ever since the emancipation she only calls me a few times a year, and that’s only when she needs something.”
“Okay.” I pause. “Are you sure you don’t have anything else to say to me?”
“Like what?”
Um, an apology?“I don’t know…I thought you might have something more to say. Something to do with last night, maybe?” I prompt not so innocently.
“Nah.” His voice takes on an edge. “You got something you want to say to me?”
“No. Should I?”
“Well, then I guess we’re done here.”
He disconnects before I can respond, leaving me equal parts confused and pissed off. Does he really believe what he did last night was cool? I know I’m supposed to put on a show for the cameras, but that doesn’t give him the right to stick his tongue in my mouth and mock me about it.
And was he calling to warn me to not believe anything his mom says? Since when does he care what I think about him?
Argh, and why did the hurt, bitter note in his voice make my heart ache? He’s got the kind of life people can only dream of. He has zero need for my sympathy, especially after his “What’s my name?” bullshit from last night. Which he didn’t even apologize for!
Sighing, I walk over to the closet and search for something “nice and conservative” to wear. Eventually I settle on a knee-length yellow sundress with tiny green flowers along the hem and a denim jacket. I stare longingly at my Vans, then pick up a pair of brown ankle boots. Then I drop the boots and put on the Vans. I don’t care if it’s a faux pas to wear sneakers with a dress. I’ve always chosen comfort over fashion.
I’m brushing my hair when one of the twins pops into my bedroom. I think it’s Shane, but I’m too focused on doing my hair to look at him.
“Are you seeing Oak?” he asks in excitement. “Is he coming over here to get you?”
Ugh. He calls him Oak now?
“No, I’m going to lunch with his mom. A car is picking me up.”
Disappointment fills his face. Yeah, it’s Shane. Spencer is better at hiding his emotions. “Oh. Okay. Did he say when he’s coming over again?”
Never, if I can help it. It’s one thing to fake-date Oakley in public. It’s another to have him in my house. This is my happy place.
“No,” I answer.
“But he’s still gonna take us to his friend’s house, right? The one with the halfpipe in the backyard?”
I frown, because I literally have no idea what he’s talking about. So I say, “What are you talking about?”
“He said on the phone the other day—”
“When did you speak to him on the phone?” I demand.
“The other day,”Shane repeats. “Keep up, Vaughn. It’s not that hard.”
Smart-ass. “Oakley called you? Why?”
He nods animatedly. “He wanted to know how the boards were working out, if we got wheels yet. I said yeah, we did, and then I said it was a bummer he can’t go to skate parks anymore, ’cause then he coulda showed me and Spence some tricks. So then he said that he’s friends with a pro skater who has, like, an actual halfpipe and vert ramp at his house and that maybe he’ll see if we can go there sometime to skate.” Shane finishes in a rush.
I’m confused again. Oakley hadn’t mentioned that he’d spoken to my little brother.
“Can you remind him next time you see him?” Shane begs.
“Yeah, sure,” I agree, because it’s nice to see Shane so animated. The twins shut down after Mom and Dad’s deaths, Shane more so than Spencer, so a huge part of me is grateful.
But I’m also wondering what kind of game Oakley is playing now.
Oakley’s driver takes me to a small bistro on Rodeo Drive. It’s called the Wicker Garden and I Googled it on the way and found out it’s the place for celebrities to eat lunch. Apparently it’s famous for its kale Caesar salad and for being the site where Paul Davenport proposed to Hallie Wolfe. They’re famous actors whose marriage lasted about as long as it takes for your food to arrive at the Wicker Garden.
I wipe my damp palms on the front of my dress as I reach the hostess stand. “Ah, hi,” I tell the elegantly dressed woman. “I’m Vaughn Bennett. I’m, uh, supposed to meet Katrina Ford?” I never, ever thought those words would be coming out of my mouth.
“Right this way.”
She leads me through a white archway that’s covered in ivy and I think is made of wicker. The Wicker Garden is really trying to live up to its name. All the tables here give off the illusion of being secluded, thanks to the huge planters of ferns and palm fronds situated all over the patio. But it’s not at all private—there are nearly a dozen photographers standing beyond the railing that separates the bistro from the street.
I know they’re taking my picture, so I make a conscious effort to keep my shoulders straight and my expression blank. I don’t want them getting any shots of me slouching, or catch a weird angle of me scratching my cheek and then reading tomorrow that Oakley Ford’s girlfriend picks her nose!
Katrina Ford hops out of her chair when I reach her table. She’s wearing tight black pants, a loose-fitting black top that somehow accentuates her slenderness, silver hoop earrings and stilettos with the famous red heel. I stare at her for a long second, because she’s even more beautiful in person. Her eyes are the same shade of green as Oakley’s, but her wavy mane of hair is a few shades lighter.
“Vaughn!” she squeals, and then I’m pulled into an unexpected hug. She smells like expensive perfume. “It’s so nice to meet you!”
I offer an uncertain smile. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Ms. Ford.”
“Call me Kat.” She tugs on my hand. “Sit, please. I’ve been looking forward to this all morning, ever since Claudia phoned on Oak’s behalf. She said he was dying for me to meet his new girlfriend.”
My brow furrows. Is that what Claudia told her? That Oakley wanted us to meet?
Guilt tickles my belly as I take the seat across from her. A waiter wearing all black rushes up to take my drink order. I ask for a Coke, and Katrina orders a mimosa.
“It would have been nice if he’d phoned himself,” she admits, folding her hands on the crisp linen tablecloth. Her fingernails are shiny and perfect, as if she’d just gotten a manicure. “But I get it. Hollywood, right? Everything is done through agents and publicists, even conversations between a mother and son.” She smiles carelessly, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
That guilty feeling gets worse. It clearly bothers her that Oakley didn’t call her. I know why he didn’t—he had no clue this lunch date was even happening until after I was informed about it. Claudia set it all up without his approval.
But I can’t exactly tell his mother that.
The waiter returns with our drinks and then takes our orders.
“Have the kale Caesar,” Katrina urges. “It’s divine!”
Gag. Kale is so gross. “How about a regular Caesar salad?” I ask tentatively. “Like, with lettuce? Do you have that?”
The waiter arches a brow. “We don’t serve lettuce in any of our salads. It’s all kale.”
Double gag. I give the menu a speedy scan. “I’ll have the turkey and avocado sandwich, please.”
“Brie or goat cheese?”
“Um. Brie.” There aren’t any prices listed on the menu, and I’m suddenly terrified I might have ordered a hundred dollar sandwich, but Oakley’s mom doesn’t seem concerned.
“That sounds fabulous,” she tells the waiter. “I’ll have the same.”
Once he’s gone, she beams at me and says, “Tell me about yourself, Vaughn.”
I take a hasty sip of my Coke. “Oh. Well, I just graduated from high school last spring—” Crap! I’m already breaking one of the rules. I quickly try to think of a way to change the subject, but Katrina speaks before I can.
“Good for you!” She doesn’t seem upset at all. “You must be really smart.”
I blush.
“I’m glad for that,” she says frankly. “My son needs an intelligent girl. Someone with a good head on her shoulders.” Her tone becomes rueful. “Oak is way too impulsive, doesn’t always make the best decisions. He gets that from me.”
“Does he?”
She nods then swallows the rest of her mimosa in one long gulp. “I’m nothing if not spontaneous. It’s the only way to live life, in my opinion. Did Oak tell you I married Dusty when I was seventeen?”
Great, another no-no topic has been breached. I don’t know what to do. Claudia and Amy made it clear I wasn’t supposed to talk about Oakley’s dad, but she brought him up. It would be rude for me not to respond, right?
“No, he didn’t tell me that.” I pause. “That’s superyoung.” My age, in fact. I can’t envision being married right now. Of course, I can’t envision anything about my future, so that’s not saying much.
Katrina laughs. “I’m sure it seems young to you, but you have to remember—by that point, I’d already been working full-time for ten years. I started acting when I was seven.”
Right, I think I knew that.
“You grow up fast in this business,” she goes on. “I was practically middle-aged by the time I met Dusty. It was on the set of the only movie we did together.”
Middle-aged at seventeen? Damn, Hollywood is brutal.
She waves the waiter over and orders a second mimosa.
It kind of bothers me that she doesn’t thank him, but I’m hoping she makes up for it by leaving him a huge tip.
“Oak was born when I was twenty.”
My eyebrows shoot up. Wow. She’s only thirty-nine? Except, wow again, because she looks way younger than that. Do not bring up plastic surgery, I order myself.
“I’m thirty-two.” She winks at me.
I press my lips together to contain a laugh. “And nobody has ever done the math and realized that would mean you gave birth at thirteen?”
“Oh, Vaughn.” She’s grinning now. “School math and Hollywood math are two very different things.”
My laughter spills out, and she joins in. I didn’t expect to like her this much, but I do. She’s so quick to smile and laugh, and her enthusiasm is contagious. I’m totally aware of the photographers snapping pictures of us from the curb, but Kat pays them no attention. I suppose if you’ve been acting for three quarters of your life, the sounds of camera lenses whirring is like white noise.
I focus on Katrina and find that it’s easy to ignore the outside when I’m this entertained. It’s also easy to ignore that I’m having lunch with a woman I’d only ever seen in magazines and movie theaters.
When our food arrives, we munch on our sandwiches while Katrina tells me stories about Oakley when he was young. She explains that when Oak was a baby, she and his dad agreed to alternate their shooting schedules so that one of them was always at home with their son.
“Dusty didn’t stick to that, though,” she admits, a flash of anger in her eyes. “He’s a workaholic, that man. Back-to-back-to back shoots in his quest for an Oscar. Eventually I had to hire a nanny, because that was the only way I was able to work.” She chews slowly, looking sad. “Maybe that’s why Oak went through with the emancipation? Maybe he was punishing me for not being at home full-time for him? I struggled with the work balance issue in the Working Mom movie I did. Did you see it?”
Before I can respond, she brushes off her sadness again by giving a bubbly laugh.
“But look at me being all serious. Let me tell you about the time I caught Oakley singing Backstreet Boys in front of the mirror when he was seven!”
The rest of lunch flies by. I love Oakley’s mom. She isn’t the most maternal woman, but it’s obvious she’s proud of her son, and she doesn’t stop talking about his records and awards. She even shows me pictures of him on her phone. Her home screen is a candid shot of Oakley lying on a beach chair. He’s not smiling, but he looks happy. He also looks young—sixteen, maybe.
“That was taken at my place in Malibu,” she says when she sees me staring at the screen. “A few years ago.” She pauses. “He hasn’t been there in a while. Not since Roadside Manners came out.”
Another Katrina Ford movie I haven’t seen. I want so badly to give her a big hug, but even if I thought I could do it without embarrassing us both, I don’t get the chance. My phone starts vibrating in my purse, buzzing again and again with every incoming text message.
“Oh, sorry. Do you mind?” I awkwardly gesture to my purse.
Katrina waves a careless hand. “Go ahead, sweetie.”
I pull out my phone and check the screen, frowning when I find a dozen messages from W. I glance hastily at Katrina, but she’s on her own phone, typing away with lacquered nails, so I surreptitiously start reading W’s texts.
We need to talk.
Srsly don’t ignore this.
Call me.
This is not ok w me. If u care, ur going to call me and explain WTF is going on. Sick of hearing abt u from peeps here. Sick of being the one getting crapped on.
My stomach drops. I meant to call him earlier and explain everything, but I got distracted by Claudia and then Oakley and now Katrina. And while I understand what’s driving him—he saw the pictures of me kissing Oakley and he’s pissed—W knows he’s not allowed to be texting me like this.
I say as much, typing a furious response.
We shouldn’t be texting.
Hopefully if anyone ever steals my phone and sees what I wrote, they’ll think I mean we shouldn’t be texting because we broke up, and not because a nondisclosure agreement is forcing us not to.
My message doesn’t get the desired response. Instead of backing off, W just calls me.
I press Ignore so forcefully that Katrina looks up in concern. “Everything okay?” she asks.
I take a deep breath. “Yes. No. It’s just…my ex—” I trip over the word “—boyfriend keeps texting me. I guess he’s still not over the breakup,” I say lamely.
She gives a knowing smile. “And I’d bet who you’re dating now isn’t helping him get any closure.”
“No, it’s not helping at all.” My phone rings six more times before I finally power it off, but the sinking feeling in my heart doesn’t go away.
I need to diffuse this W bomb before it explodes in all of our faces.