anyone bothering her. Her baseball cap and oversize Chanel sunglasses would keep her anonymous. Or scream, “I’m a celebrity in hiding.” Jane never thought she would actually crave anonymity, but she did. Now more than ever.
She felt her bikini bottoms chafing against her hips. In her rush to leave the Parkers’ condo, she had slipped her jeans on over her bathing suit, practically running out the door with her hastily packed suitcase into the waiting cab. She glanced at the clock on the departures-and-arrivals board: 4:15. If she had stayed in Cabo, she and Madison would be catching the sunset on the beach…or mixing margaritas in the kitchen…or making plans for the evening. Jane had grown accustomed to the slow, lazy rhythm of their days, their carefree routine. The way Madison made Jane breakfast every morning (coffee, yogurt, and fresh fruit arranged in the shape of a smiley face), talked her down whenever she was in one of her funks, entertained her, distracted her, comforted her. Madison had been a perfect friend.
Jane passed an airport newsstand and turned her head to avoid catching a glimpse of the tabloids. She prayed her face was no longer plastered on any of them, but she didn’t want to risk looking. For a brief second, she had the impulse to turn around and get on the next flight back to Cabo. But she knew she couldn’t, and besides, Madison had probably taken off herself to meet her parents for the holidays in…Where exactly did Madison say she was going? Jane had asked her several times, and Madison had been vague about it. New York? Boston? London? Some island somewhere? But that was Madison: always full of fun, fabulous, half-formed plans.
As for Jane, it was time to face the music. Hopefully not all at once. Her immediate goal was to get to the apartment, unpack, repack, grab the Christmas presents she’d bought for her family, then jump into her car and drive up the coast to Santa Barbara. And at some point she might have to listen to the thirty-one messages that were waiting for her on her phone. She assumed it hadn’t taken long for her voice mailbox to fill up.
If she was lucky, maybe Scar would still be in their apartment, and they could talk in person. She knew that the Harps were headed to Aspen at some point, but she wasn’t sure exactly when.
Rounding the corner, Jane passed another magazine stand—and stopped in her tracks. There was her face, up and down one of the racks, on the cover of Talk magazine. It featured a photo of her with the cover line, L.A. CANDY STAR CAUGHT IN LOVE TRIANGLE.
Jane bit her lip, trying not to freak out.
Just days ago, she had been a rising star, “America’s sweetheart,” a normal girl with normal problems whom everyone could relate to and wanted to see on TV week after week. A few issues ago, Talk had dubbed her “Holly-wood’s Newest It Girl.” And now what was she? A slut who cheated on her boyfriend with his best friend? It didn’t get much worse.
How had her image gone from good to terrible in such a short time?
Jane had to get out of LAX, ASAP. She saw the sign that said, BAGGAGE CLAIM, and hurried toward it. Once there, she scanned the crowded carousels, trying to figure out which one would have her bag. Within a few minutes, she spotted her baby blue rolling suitcase rounding the nearest carousel. She picked it up and turned to go. That was easy, she thought.
She heard them before she saw them.
“Jane!”
“Over here, Jane!”
Jane whirled around, knocking her suitcase over. There were four in all: three photographers and a fourth guy with a handheld camcorder. They must not have noticed her at first.
“Jane, have you talked to Jesse?”
“How do you feel about the photos being released?”
“Is it true that you leaked your own photos?”
“Jane, why did you cheat on Jesse?”
They were shouting at her, their voices so much louder than the background noise of flight announcements and crying toddlers. Everyone around them turned to stare at her. She heard nearby murmurs—“Who is she?” “Ohmigod, is that the girl from that show?” “Jane! Isn’t she that actress?”—and saw people pulling out their cells and snapping pictures of her. Jane felt frozen in place—trapped.
Then she took a deep breath and remembered what to do. She picked up her suitcase, walked briskly past the shouting photographers and ogling crowd, and headed through the sliding glass doors in the direction of the taxi stand. With her hat over her eyes, her sunglasses in place, and her head held high…-ish.
“Jane, just one smile!”
“Come on, Jane…don’t you like taking pictures with your clothes on?”
They followed her all the way to the taxi stand, seemingly frustrated by the way she kept turning her face away from them. At one point they began holding their cameras only a few feet from her eyes and flashing. She could barely see where she was going.
It wasn’t until she got inside a cab, and they had pulled away from LAX and away from the photographers, that she allowed herself to slump down in her seat—and cry.
“Scar?”
No reply. Jane closed the door behind her and threw her keys on the hall table. The apartment was totally quiet: no TV, no music, no Scar conjugating Spanish verbs out loud. On the counter, Jane noticed an empty to-go cup from 7-Eleven. Ah, so the crew has been here filming, she thought. She was really, really glad she’d missed them. She didn’t need the cameras spontaneously documenting her “homecoming,” especially with her feeling so crappy and her face streaked with tears.
Jane thought about the ambush at the airport and felt a fresh wave of distress—and anger, too. She decided to hide out in her apartment until late, at least midnight, before hitting the road for Santa Barbara. It was the only way she could be sure not to be followed by more of them.
She walked into the kitchen and saw a big note plastered on the marble counter:
Janie, it’s 2 p.m., and I’m off to catch my flight to Aspen. I have my cell, so call me!!!!!!!! Love, Scar, 12/23
Jane realized that she had just missed Scar. In fact, maybe they were at LAX at the same time?
There was another note next to the first one:
To the person from Angelo’s Pet-sitting Service: Penny is in the last bedroom on the right. Plz feed her the fish food that’s next to her bowl.
Scar had added her cell phone number in case of an emergency.
Aw, Jane thought. That was so sweet of Scar to remember Penny. Especially since Jane had taken off for Cabo without remembering to ask Scar to take care of her (yet another thing she felt incredibly guilty about).
The kitchen was really clean: no dirty dishes in the sink, no empty pizza boxes piling up next to the trash can. In general, Scar tended to be much neater and more organized than Jane. (Except in the grooming and fashion departments, although Scar was so naturally stunning that she always got away with not brushing her hair, putting on makeup, or wearing anything other than jeans and a wrinkled tee. Jane, while pretty, required a little more effort.) Although, speaking of the trash can…Jane noticed dozens of Post-it notes and scraps of paper spilling out of it. She fished them out.
They were all messages from Scar to her, dated between five days ago and today:
