“I forget. But she was only in there for two days, even though it was supposed to be like twenty. I’m supposed to ask her what she ate and how she slept and if she made any friends and stuff.”
“I’m sure she’s besties with all those people by now,” Madison remarked. “Well, good luck tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” Gaby said, padding down the hall to her bedroom. “See you in the morning.”
Madison got up and went to stand by the window. Outside she could see the traffic lights on the street far below changing from green to yellow to red. She reflected briefly on Lacey Hopkins, whose life had seemingly spiraled out of control. Lacey was weak, Madison thought. But she wasn’t. No, Madison Parker wasn’t the type to give one ounce of control to anyone, was she? And with that thought in mind, she texted Laurel.
There’s going to be a change in schedule. . . .
Madison slipped into her seat at Barney Greengrass and signaled the waiter to bring her some sparkling water. She was careful to keep her chair in the right position, which had been marked with a piece of neon gaffer tape on the floor; this would ensure the cameras had the perfect angle of her. Madison didn’t have a bad side, of course, but she did have a favorite one, and she made sure the camera guys knew it.
She was early, and she took the time to check her makeup, even though the cameras were rolling. She knew the footage would end up on the editing room floor, since solitary primping was not exactly the drama Trevor craved. She also quickly tweeted what lipstick color she was wearing. She’d started that habit a few months ago, after she did it on a whim one morning and then got retweeted by a bunch of beauty blogs. Her followers went up a lot that day. So now she made sure to give her fans all sorts of info about her look du jour.
Madison wondered, as she slicked another coat of gloss on her lips, how late Sophie would be. (She still couldn’t think of her as Sophia, although she usually remembered to call her that on-camera.) She’d been chronically tardy as a child: to school, to detention, to dinner, whatever. But maybe rehab had worked some miracle and taught her how to pay attention to a watch, Madison thought. Maybe there was some program about the Twelve Steps of Not Being a Rude Bitch.
She smiled to herself. If Sophie was bitchy to her, maybe Madison would use that line on her. See if she thought it was as funny as Madison did. She used to have a sense of humor, that kid, before she got so bitter about being left behind in Armpit Falls. No, she reminded herself. Always take the high road . . . at least while others are watching.
And who knew what sort of mood Sophie would be in today, or what her current game plan would be; besides Sophie’s appearance at Whisper, it had been six months since they’d seen each other. Madison had gotten a few random emails from Sophie, where she talked about embracing her inner sister spirit or something like that, but she hadn’t replied. Madison was going to try to play the benevolent big sister. She was going to express concern, family loyalty, blah, blah, blah.
She glanced up, hoping to catch the waiter’s eye again. But the restaurant was packed, filled with super-agents having lunch meetings and Beverly Hills housewives in too-sheer shirts picking at frisée salads, and the waiter didn’t notice Madison at all. She was all set to get huffy when she saw Sophie coming toward her. Sophie was smiling triumphantly, pulling someone along in her wake.
Madison squinted. No. Effing. Way. Her heart began to thrum in her chest.
The man Sophie was hauling through the restaurant like a six-foot-tall piece of luggage? The one in baggy khakis and a raggedy blue button-down that had seen its best days back in 1975? It was their father.
“Madison!” Sophie called from halfway across the restaurant, her arms outstretched. Dozens of gold bangles clinked musically along her wrists.
Heads turned in Madison’s direction—something Madison usually relished. But oh no, not now, not today. She wished, for the first time, to be completely invisible.
Sophie was practically skipping toward her in a brightly colored maxidress that looked like it came from Haight-Ashbury. “Hey, big sis!” she cried.
“Little sis!” Madison leaned in to hug Sophie and pulled her close. After three seasons of reality TV, she knew just how quiet she needed to be to make sure her mike didn’t pick up a word. “I will destroy you for this, you pseudo-hippie bitch,” she whispered.
Sophie backed away from Madison, smiling as if she’d heard nothing. But her eyes were like shards of blue ice. “I brought you a surprise,” she said, turning a little to her left, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
“Hello, Charlie.” Madison didn’t reach out her hand or move toward her father. Instead, she examined him the way she might look at last season’s cocktail dress on the 75-percent-off rack: without visible emotion. Charlie Wardell had salt-and-pepper hair, a sharp, strong nose, and eyes that were the same vivid blue as Madison’s, as Sophie’s. It was the only thing he left them with.
Madison hadn’t seen him since she was nine years old, unless you counted the faded photos she’d kept in a shoebox under her bed. She and Sophie had looked at those pictures obsessively on the afternoons that their mother went out to the bar and forgot to come home for dinner, or for bedtime, or sometimes even for breakfast the next morning. It was like they thought that if they looked at pictures of him hard enough, he’d actually come back and rescue them.
“Can you believe our dad is here?” Sophie asked, pointedly emphasizing the word “dad.”
Madison stiffened. She’d never refer to this man as her dad. She hadn’t had a dad for ten years, and she wasn’t about to pick one up now. “Well, this is a surprise,” she said, keeping her voice low and even. “I came here expecting lunch and a new pair of Manolos. Family reunion wasn’t on the schedule today.”
She glanced over at Sophie, who was beaming with fake benevolence. Her little sister would pay for this. She would absolutely fucking pay for bringing this man here, to ground zero of the L.A. power lunch, and while the cameras were rolling.
Charlie sat down next to her, and suddenly Madison was nearly brought to her knees by the old, familiar smell of him. Oh my God, she thought, he still wears Old Spice. She used to sit in his closet after he left, among the flannel shirts that smelled like his aftershave. She felt her throat constrict.
But she was Madison Fucking Parker. She did not—she would not—cry.
“So what brings you to L.A.?” Madison asked, miraculously mastering her trembling voice. “I mean, besides the fact that you’re a broke ex-con with two daughters on TV? I’m assuming that’s why you’re here, right? For the paycheck?”
“Madison,” Sophie said, shaking her head. “That’s a little harsh.”
“What’s harsh is deserting a nine- and six-year-old to be raised by an unstable alcoholic.” Madison turned and met her father’s eyes. “I mean really. What kind of person does that?”
Charlie looked away from Madison and fiddled with his napkin. Good. She hoped he felt embarrassed and ashamed. She hoped he’d feel so disgusted with himself that he’d crawl back under whatever rock Sophie and Trevor had turned over to find him.
“You changed your name,” Charlie finally said. His voice was soft.
A quick thrill flashed through Madison. She remembered that voice. Reading her stories before bed. Singing
