I have a secret weapon in my paparazzi back pocket. Her name is Rowena, and she’s a female jackal amongst the pack of a male-majority profession. I chose her for that reason, in fact. Anytime I can give a woman a leg up over a man, I’m on board—as long as the woman in question isn’t competition, because then all bets are off. Rowena didn’t trust me, at first. Not until she got two or three photos that would have never been possible without my help. Since then, when I call she only has one word—where.
I use her for “candid” shots of myself, of course. That’s how I got her hooked originally. I convinced her to give me her number, and then I’d call when I stopped by Starbucks for a Frappuccino with a hunky costar. I’d text where I’d be shopping with my mom. Since I control the scenarios, I appear how I want to appear, and Rowena looks like she knows how to catch hot celebrities out on the town, trying to be inconspicuous. Now the gossip rags eagerly take her calls, and I stay in the public eye—looking like a normal (attractive) person, rather than a bag lady flashing her underwear—or lack thereof—to the world.
Some celebs think they’re above such maneuvering, or they’re just too stupid to comprehend how to work it to their advantage. I’m not high and mighty, and I’m not stupid.
When I called Rowena this morning and told her to get her ass to LAX for a Reid Alexander and Emma Pierce exclusive, she asked the gate number and was off like a well-trained greyhound.
“Don’t worry about looking for her,” I told Reid last night. “She’s a pro. You probably won’t even see her until she’s already gotten the shot, if you see her at all.”
“You are a devious little bitch, Brooke.”
I couldn’t take much offense because there was admiration in his voice.
“FYI, I’m not telling you to try anything that could backset our plan… but the more you look like you’re dropping your lover at the airport after a torrid night, the better.”
He laughed. “Okay, yeah, I’ll see what I can do.”
His kiss on her cheek was brilliant. He and Emma both know it was quick and innocent, but the photos that started popping up a few hours later could be interpreted a million ways, and very few of those interpretations are innocent.
***
Me: I just found out I’ll be in nyc the week of your graduation. I don’t want to invite myself…but can i invite myself? Would your family hate me to intrude?
Graham: No, i’m sure that would be fine, if you’re sure you want to go. Might be a long boring ceremony.
Me: Is that a jab at my sometimes limited attention span? Cuz i promise i’m proud of you and can sit still for the WHOLE THING.
Graham: Haha, ok sure. That would be cool.
I am not content to wait a week and a half to pop up in New York… With Emma safely stuck on an LA publicity tour with Reid, it’s the perfect time to pay a friendly impromptu visit to Graham’s home turf. The romantic comedy I’m filming there in the fall calls for a short-term apartment, I think. One that could become long-term. My stated purpose for being in town will be meetings with producers—entirely feasible, so it won’t be questioned.
If I’m going to be with Graham, I’ll have to win over his mother, his condescending sisters and his kid. I’ve only seen Cara once, and it was a couple of years ago so there’s no way she remembers me. That trip also included a disastrous, drunken kissing incident that (luckily) Graham decided to play off as though it never happened.
Life’s a Beach was filming an episode where several characters go to New York. (LA beach characters in New York—what the hell, right? But hey, it was ratings week, and I do what I’m paid to do.) I’d somehow contrived to stay with Graham while I was in New York, so when I got word of a party in a Union Square penthouse apartment owned by the friend of one of my costars, I invited him along.
We’d been dancing and got hot and ended up on the rooftop, stargazing. Or he was. I was gazing at him. I was accustomed to guys like Reid, who take advantage of opportunities like girls drinking themselves stupid, or pretending to, in order to land some hot guy. I should have known Graham wouldn’t respond to that.
Not that he was unresponsive. When I moved into his arms and kissed him, for a few mind-blowing seconds, he kissed me back. I thought I was going to melt, it was so good. And then he grabbed my shoulders and held me away, saying, “Brooke, no.” I was just wasted enough that I didn’t realize what he was doing, at first… and once I figured it out, I was just sober enough to be humiliated. And pissed.
God, I was pissed. I stormed back inside, shaking and furious, and grabbed the first decent looking guy I encountered. Backing him against a wall with the thump of the music pounding through the sheetrock and into us both, I closed my eyes and pretended he was who I wanted. I don’t remember much about that part, just that I couldn’t fool myself, no matter how hard I tried. Moments later, Graham separated me from the guy, who nearly slid to the floor because I hadn’t really allowed him to breathe. “Let’s go,” he said, his hand gripping my arm.
I yanked loose, crossed my arms and glared. “I’m not finished with this party.”
“Yeah, you are,” he said, leaning in so I could hear him. “You’re completely trashed, and you’re going to do something you’ll regret if we don’t leave now.” His proximity was killing me.
“I already did,” I mumbled, my eyes filling. I blinked back the tears and pinched my own forearms, determined to stay enraged.