knew Braden was at your place that night?”
Jane shrugged. “Well, Scar. And my goldfish, Penny,” she said with a straight face.
“Oh, well, then, it was obviously the fish who tipped off the photographer!” Madison said, giggling. “Maybe Penny has a thing for Jesse and wanted to break you guys up?”
“Penny would never,” Jane replied, thinking how nice it felt to joke around after so many days of wallowing in misery. “Penny prefers tall, dark, and…”
But Jane didn’t finish her sentence. She was distracted by a strange movement behind a palm tree about thirty feet to the right of her. She shifted in her chair, trying to see.
Click, click, click. A middle-aged guy in aviator shades stepped out from behind the tree, angling his super-long telephoto lens—at her.
“Oh my God!” Jane cried out, instinctively shielding her face with her hand. She grabbed her towel and beach bag and jumped to her feet. “Madison, there’s a paparazzo over there.”
“Really?” Madison plastered on a smile and glanced around. “Where?”
“Never mind. God, I hate this. I can’t even get away from them in another country!” Jane said, her voice trembling. She began wrapping the towel around her waist, ready to head back to the condo.
Madison’s smile vanished. She got her stuff and rose to her feet. “I’m sorry. You’re so right,” she said quickly. “Come on, let’s go inside and get away from that jerk. You wanna rent some DVDs from the clubhouse? And later we could go to that party my new lifeguard friend invited us to.”
Jane shook her head. “The photographer’s a sign, Madison. I can’t run away from it anymore. I have to go home,” she declared, heading back inside.
“Whatever you say, Jane Ho,” Madison joked.
Not funny, Jane thought.
Scarlett Harp tried not to swear too much as she stuffed her clothes into a suitcase. Christmas in Aspen? Who celebrated Christmas in Aspen? Well, probably a lot of people, she thought, but she wasn’t the Christmas-in-Aspen type. It had been her parents’ idea to rent some posh condo there and spend the holiday on the slopes. Mr. and Mrs. Harp—actually, Dr. and Dr. Harp (he was a plastic surgeon; she was a shrink) didn’t believe in “sentimental” traditions like decorating a tree or hanging stockings on the mantel. Every year they spent the holidays in a different vacation spot. Last year had been the Bahamas. The year before, Paris. And Hawaii before that.
It was bad enough that Scarlett had to pack for a trip she didn’t want to go on. The worst part was, she wasn’t alone. There were people in her bedroom watching her. Lots of people, in fact. A director, two cameramen, a sound guy, and a producer. And Gaby, her annoying costar, who had been sent over by Trevor to be Scarlett’s stand-in friend and keep her company while she packed. Translation: Jane and Madison were MIA, and the show was desperate for footage, so Trevor and another producer, Dana, were setting up scenes that were totally bogus. So much for L.A. Candy being a reality show. Scarlett would never hang out with Gaby unless she was forced to. Which she currently was.
Gaby was sitting on the bed, trying to make conversation and commenting on Scarlett’s clothes—90 percent of which were jeans and T-shirts.
“Ooooh, that top is so cute!” Gaby pointed to a purple tee that Scar was rumpling into a ball and shoving into her suitcase. “What do you call that color? Eggplant? Violet? Magenta?”
“Purple,” Scarlett grumbled. “Don’t you have somewhere you need to be today?”
“Nope, all yours. Hey, what time’s your flight? I could use a mani-pedi, couldn’t you? You wanna see if we can get in somewhere after lunch?”
Gaby glanced over at Dana, no doubt to see if her mani-pedi comment had registered. Scarlett knew that the panic on Dana’s face meant she’d caught it and was thinking that if they wanted to find a salon to film in, they would have to call and set that up now.
Scarlett held up her nails, two of which were broken. “No, I’m good. You go without me.”
“Well, that’s no fun!” Gaby complained.
Scarlett’s cell phone buzzed in her back pocket and she grabbed it quickly, thinking it might be Jane—finally! She had been trying to reach her best friend for the last five days, leaving dozens of frantic messages: Call me! Where are you? I’m so worried about you! Call me! There were other messages, too—along the lines of Get away from that crazy bitch Madison ASAP! Scarlett couldn’t remember the exact wording.
Her face fell when she saw the name on the screen. It was yet another text message from Dana. CD U SLOW DOWN W/ THE PACKING? AND BE NICE 2 GABY PLZ.
Scarlett sighed. Dana was fond of texting Scarlett directions in the middle of a shoot, telling her to do this or say that. Not that Scarlett ever actually did what Dana asked. Scarlett didn’t do nice. She believed in saying whatever was on her mind, and if it came out a little harsh—well, the truth hurts, people.
The thing was, with each episode of L.A. Candy she watched, Scarlett was growing increasingly frustrated by the disconnect between her TV self and her real self. The way Trevor edited the footage made Scarlett seem like a shy, quiet bookworm. Every time she was in a scene with Jane or the other girls, Scarlett ended up with almost no lines—just stuff like yeah and no, thanks and bye, gotta get to class! Sure, she looked good, with her long, wavy black hair, emerald green eyes, and five-foot-nine, gym-toned bod. But she sounded like she had nothing to say. Which was the exact opposite of who she was.
“Okay, guys, we have to break for lunch, and then we’ll head over to LAX,” Dana called out. Hmm, why doesn’t she just text everyone? Scarlett thought as the crew slowly started removing their equipment from her room.
Gaby pouted. “Why is this taking so long? I’m starving.”
“There’re some leftovers in the fridge, I think. Help yourself,” Scarlett offered. The show usually had chips and pretzels as part of their craft service, which was hardly “lunch.”
“’Kay.” Gaby jumped to her feet and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
Scarlett sighed again. This was such bullshit. If only Jane were here, things would be different. They’d be watching lame Christmas specials they had TiVo’d or doing last-minute shopping together at the Grove while fake snow fell around them. Scarlett could spend Christmas at the Robertses’ house instead of jetting off to Aspen; Jane’s family was actually normal (in a good way) and nicer than her own family. Mr. and Mrs. Roberts didn’t sit in total, icy silence at the dinner table, CNN in the background, cutting quietly into their forty-dollar rib-eye steaks. They didn’t spend more time on the phone with their patients than with each other. They didn’t psychoanalyze their children with comments like, So, Scarlett—do you think your choice to go to USC rather than Harvard or Columbia has to do with your unconscious fear of success?
Where was Jane, anyway? The note Jane had left for Scarlett in the apartment
