Confessions of the Other Sister Page 3

  It had been a long, glamorous night filled with laughter, and the last guest had just stumbled out to his car and driver.

  “Three cases of Bollinger,” I told her, knowing she measured the success of her parties by the amount of champagne consumed, “then another one of that Stardust Brut from BevMo.”

  “Stardust,” she echoed, tipping her head back, humming some random notes, probably envisioning a romantic scene from one of the glitzy romance dramas she’d starred in in the ’80s. “I only had the Bolli. Was the Stardust as good as it sounds?”

  “Nope!”

  She crinkled her nose and looked at me. “Do you think anyone noticed?”

  “Nope.”

  She laughed. “I don’t think so either. I’m pretty sure they drank so much good stuff early on that they couldn’t taste the swill later on.”

  It was hard to imagine not noticing the difference between a dry, mineral-rich French champagne and the Welch’s grape juice that had been pumped through a CO2 cartridge and wrangled under a plastic cork in Trenton, New Jersey, but the fact that the entire case was gone, save for a few unfinished glasses left about, was testament that she was right.

  “Do you think it went well? Do you think everyone had a good time?” Jill had another sip and swung her foot over her crossed leg. “Will they say good things about me tomorrow or are they already laughing at some gaffe I don’t remember making?”

  My heart went out to her. Really, it did. You wouldn’t believe the skill with which I can summon the “Are they talking about me?” anxiety, and it was no easier for a glamorous Sorta-Somebody like Jill.

  She is still thought of as a star, Jill Cameron, though she hasn’t worked regularly for a while. She was a Bond girl once, and she was in a few movies that weren’t exactly well received. Later she had a major role in a series of action movies based on futuristic space-opera books. It was a coup when ABC got her to play the mistress (and, eventually, wife) in a long-running prime-time soap about a rich ranching family in Texas, and that was the role most people remembered her for.

  So her parties tended to have costars and guest stars from that show, and they were, by and large, the bitchiest bunch of has-beens I’d ever seen. Sure, I’d seen many of them on-screen; my mother loved watching old sitcoms with my sister and me because she thought they were more “wholesome” than the Must-See TV of our childhood. In real life, though, they were all just people. Their humanness was all too evident after they’d had a few drinks and started talking honestly about who they liked, who they didn’t, and very specifically why in both cases.

  Swill or no.

  Not Jill, though. Jill was really great.

  Seriously. It was funny how she always seemed to be Jill. Here I was, the girl who couldn’t even up her chances in Hollywood by becoming a charming server, who instead cowered behind the line in the back of the house. But Jill was always on. Always Jill. Always a glamorous icon.

  “I didn’t see anything embarrassing.” There was no point in mentioning the Fallen Grape from the Cheese Board Incident; she didn’t know anyone had seen and fortunately she’d just missed slamming her forehead into the counter when she wiped out. “I think everyone was more interested in trying to find a ghost in the house than what was going on with the living.”

  She laughed. “The ghost.” She shook her head. “I was wrong about this house, you know. Frank was never here. I don’t think anyone more interesting than . . .” She thought about it. “Than me has slept here.”

  She was right but there were a whole lot of people out there who would think that was very cool. Call me lame, call me pathetic, but I wanted to be someone who mattered. Not just to myself and a small tribe of loved ones. I wanted to be referred to, lied about, lusted after, and imagined. But I could never admit that to anyone. I could barely admit it to myself, it’s such a childish (and psychologically transparent) aspiration.

  I shrugged. “This old house has got a long history. He could have been here.”

  She shot me a look. “Or it could have been Don Knotts floating around the powder room tonight.” She looked thoughtful. “I imagine they wouldn’t look that different in drifty ghost form.”

  “I loved Don Knotts.”

  “Everyone loved Don Knotts, but he was no Sinatra.” She started humming “Strangers in the Night,” then stopped abruptly. “It could have been my third husband. Sim.”

  “Sam?”

  “Sim. Simpson Rollins. He was tall and thin, had piercing blue eyes. But is he dead?”

  I watched her puzzling that out and tried to imagine what it was like to love someone enough to marry him and pledge your life to him and then, some scant years later, have to really rack your brain to recall if he was dead or alive.

  “Ah, well, I don’t know.” She shrugged; her interest in the answer was that fleeting. “It could have been anyone. Who knows?”

  “I don’t think there’s any ghost here.”

  “Oh, Frances. You’re so practical.”

  “Someone has to be.”

  I’d been working for her for almost two years now and it had been obvious from day one that I was going to be the sensible one in our conversations. It was the role I’d played my whole life with pretty much everyone I knew. I couldn’t help it. One word of caution from me, and my sister would tell me not to have a Franic attack. Her puns on my name were seemingly endless.

  And the worst part was, she was right.

  “I’m going to hit the road now and get some sleep because I have an audition in the morning,” I told Jill. “The cleaning crew will be here at eight. Larissa will be here to let them in if you want to sleep late.”

  She bumped her palm against her forehead. “Oh, that’s what I forgot to tell you! Fletcher Hall is coming for brunch tomorrow and I was hoping you’d come by. I don’t know if you’ve heard of him, but he’s a producer I really think you should meet. I think you might be able to help him with a project he’s got in mind.”

  Fletcher Hall.

  Oh, I knew exactly who he was, no introduction necessary. He was a star-maker. A major director and producer. This was like saying, Oh, by the way, Steven Spielberg will be coming to the party. I don’t know if you’ve heard of him but he’s done a couple little films that were big hits.

  “What—” I composed myself but my heart was pounding. “What time?”

  “Oh, I told everyone to be here about noon or so.”

  I had an audition. But that was at ten fifteen. If I hurried, I could probably just make it on time. It would be really close, though. Luckily, noon usually means twelve thirty with this crowd.

  But what the hell. The audition was for a small, nonrecurring part on a mediocre sitcom. The kind of thing I’d take with the hopes it would get me one step closer to meeting a Fletcher Hall. This chance was way too good to pass up. “I’ll be here,” I told her. Then, a little awkwardly, “Thank you!”

  “Wonderful!” She clapped her hands together. “I’ll see you about nine, then, to start preparing brunch? Maybe earlier. I was thinking those little lobster Benedicts you make, they are so tasty.”

  My heart sank. I felt my face go cold. She wanted me to work. She wanted me to make the meal, not eat it. This was so disheartening. She was the one person who knew how hard I was trying to get into acting, but she didn’t take it seriously. But what had I expected? She’d never invited me to a party as a guest before. We got along great, but not best-friends great; it was just a very nice working relationship.

  I could cut it close with an audition and the chance to meet a big Hollywood player, but I couldn’t miss an audition because I was working—that was just more of the same pattern. “Oh.” I tried to find the words to back gracefully out of this despite the enthusiasm I’d just had. “I don’t think—”

  “Sweetie, stop, I’m kidding!” She waved her hand airily. “I would never let you miss an audition to work in my kitchen. Yes, see, I remember the audition. The party should go on from about noon to two and any time you can make it will be fine. Trust me, I’ve been where you are. The more irons you can put in the fire, the better.”

  Relief flooded through me, strangely chilly. “Jill—wow. Thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

  “Not at all.” She shook her head and mused to herself, “And people think I can’t act.” She winked.

  I had to laugh at that, however weakly. “You definitely fooled me.”

  She frowned. “Maybe a little too well. I didn’t really mean to fool you. I thought surely you’d know I didn’t mean it.”

  If I had a nickel for every time in my life something exactly like that had happened to me—the date that turned out to be for the guy’s unattractive friend; the party that turned out to be a request for free babysitting—I’d be so rich I wouldn’t need any of these jobs.

  Or any of those friends, come to think of it.

  “I really appreciate the opportunity to meet him,” I said, hoping to gloss over what had clearly been an awkward moment. “My audition should be over well before for that.” Then it occurred to me that this could be a bad omen for my job. “Who’s cooking. Are . . . you?”

  “Do you think I can cook well enough for guests but I hire a chef anyway?” She laughed. “No, no, no, I’m an utter disaster in the kitchen, as you well know. But my dear friend Mona Buhle is opening a new place and wanted to try a few dishes out on my guests. There was no saying no. You know I prefer your cooking to everyone’s, but there’s no way I’d spring a whole party on you with no notice.”

  I had to wonder if Jill had any idea how famous her friends were to the outside world. Mona Buhle owned one of the hottest restaurants in Malibu, so if she was opening a new one, it was bound to be awesome. It was cool enough as a brunch cameo, but I was genuinely excited that she had a new restaurant coming. I couldn’t wait to try her dishes tomorrow. There was no way I was going to make it onto the waiting list of any of her places anytime soon.

  “Lucky you,” I said. Jill’s head jerked in alarm and I realized it sounded like I’d said Fuck you. “Very lucky.”

  She smiled. “Here’s wishing you luck with the audition tomorrow. I know you’ll knock it out of the park.”

  I wasn’t as confident. “Thank you.” I gathered my things and prepared to leave. It didn’t matter to me that the sitcom wasn’t a huge hit or that my agent had two other clients going to the same audition; I still wanted it desperately and I’d take every single bit of luck that was wished my way.

  Chapter Three

  Crosby

  What the hell was I going to do?

  Really, what on earth was I going to do?

  There I stood, in my Alo yoga pants and matching sports bra, draped in my Summersalt robe, Drunk Elephant polypeptide cream sinking into my skin—a vision of Instagram luxury and emptiness bought on credit—clutching a disconnection notice from the water company.

  Listen, this was insulting for about a thousand reasons, but most of all because I knew that even in the privacy of me, myself, and I, this was a foolish, foolish moment.

  In a movie, this would be my comeuppance. Maybe the star of the movie is some fresh-faced absolute sweetheart, and I’m the entitled bitch who got it all without deserving it—but voilà! Poof!

  I actually don’t think modern culture has ever quite depicted someone in this moment without the character absolutely deserving it.

  I don’t deserve it.

  Do I?

  My mother would say I don’t. She would tell me the book was good, life was pricey, and I’d just enjoyed myself a little. But would she mean it?

  My father would say I’d been true to myself and there was no regret in that, but would he mean it?

  Frances would tell me I should learn something from this.

  She’d mean it.

  But she wouldn’t think I could.

  When I fall into feeling conflicted about gratitude and feeling cheated, I wallow in the fear that I’d inherited my dad’s “one-hit wonder” luck. One big burst of prosperity to do with what you could. The difference was in our handling of it. He’d parlayed one song into a comfortable, if not extravagant, life. He had not burned through his quick fortune with trips, clothes, expensive champagne gone in one round, and lavish dinners at Charlie Palmer’s.

  To be fair, he had made more than I did, but that didn’t give me a pass on being smart with it.

  I was trying. I might have been brunching and buying a lot, but between flights to London and verticals of Opus One, I had been trying to follow up and turn my fluke into a career.

  You should see the desktop of my Mac. It would make any sane person do a reset on the whole machine. Folder upon folder upon folder, surrounded by scattered documents and pieces of documents that I couldn’t commit to a folder. It’s literally not worth it to sort through that nightmare.

  Files scattered across the screen, getting smaller with every new addition. I didn’t want to commit them to a documents folder I might or might not ever be able to find again, I needed them all right there where I could find them.

  The background wallpaper on my computer is always mood. This is the world in which my characters live. This is the world in which I want to live. This is the world my subconscious is going to create for me to live in as long as I keep it here where I see it daily. I am a manifester of my own destiny. I have to be; it’s my only hope.

  Spotify is always humming along from some playlist I had perfectly curated before even writing the first page.

  Pinterest—a shortcut for which joins the crowd on the screen—is filled with lists of atmosphere for said book.

  The first book was easy. I’d been toying with the idea for years, spinning it around, tumbling it like a rock until it was shiny and smooth. It was a whodunit and what-did-they-do, and it made me into a mystery writer. Which was great until I had to write another one.

  Turned out maybe I didn’t have another one in me. At least, not another mystery. I had stuff to say but not stuff the world wanted to hear from me. They wanted another puzzle. And every time I thought I was beginning to have my head wrapped around one, I’d lose the thread.

  And all of these change all of the time, because I consistently get thirty-five pages to eighty pages in and abandon the idea, feeling like it was embarrassingly juvenile or hopelessly convoluted or just plain boring. Then it becomes a file in the myriad mistakable manuscripts on my desktop that barely describe which concept lies within.

  Book2.docx

  BOOK2FINAL.docx

  BOOK2.FINAL.REAL.docx

  BOOK2FINALFINAL!!!OCT.docx

  These increasingly hysterical document names indicate nothing except my emptying mind, and, well, long story short—or no story at all—I got nothin’.

  The idea doesn’t feel wispy and palpable, like some haunting melody whistled by an unseen muse; it feels like missing car keys that I am becoming more and more desperate to locate, and suddenly my mind is all overturned couch cushions and torn-open trash bags and I’m thinking about just expiring in the middle of the floor.

  It wouldn’t be so bad if I had taken literally anyone’s advice and started a savings account.

  God, why did I have to be so bad at that stuff? A therapist had talked to me about magical thinking once, and my takeaway was that I did a lot of that (I wasn’t sure what the clinical definition was). I needed money, therefore (maneuvers to Nordstrom.com; clicks) it would come.

  Turns out there is no magic.

  I started to parse through exactly which of my credit cards had credit left—the Amazon one? No, definitely not. The Southwest one? No, that one was still loaded up with the expenses from Jackson Hole. Maybe the—

  I was interrupted by a knock on the door. I opened it, feeling one scene away from the opening to Schitt’s Creek.

  “I’m from the water and sewer division,” said the man standing on my front step. Then, when I looked blank: “I’m here to turn off the water.” As if it made things clearer, he held up a large X-shaped pipe wrench.

  “What is that?” I asked, distracted by the mysterious instrument.

  “To shut off the valve.”

  I gave a small smile. “So if I can get one of those from, like, Home Depot, can I turn it back on when you’re finished?”

  His face went pink. “Um, I guess.”

  I put a hand on my hip. “How much are those things?”

  The pink went scarlet. “I don’t know, ma’am.” He looked around, as if checking to see if he was being punk’d.

  “I’m going to get one.” This. This right here was the hill I’d chosen to die on. This poor sap was my opponent.

  His discomfort grew. “I don’t . . .”

  “Why don’t they just control it from some central place, like the electric company does, instead of sending you out here with a tool anyone can get? I mean, look at it.” I tilted my head. “It’s not even that sophisticated. It’s just like an old skate key on a long tube.”

  “The bill,” he said. “The bill needs to be paid.”

  I sighed. “How much is it?”

  He looked at the tool again. “I really don’t know.”

  “No, I mean the bill.” I laughed, trying to set him at ease.

  “Oh. That, sorry . . .”

  He patted down his pockets and produced a slip of pink paper, faded from traveling around with him but legible. It was a lot. I got a stomach full of acid, the same way I used to when I was a kid and told a lie.

  I hesitated. Sort of at the poor guy, as if a respite from the anxiety of allowing him to do his job would provide the fates enough time to manifest the miracle they hadn’t yet assembled. This man did not have time to wait on my hysteria, and I had no faith that anything was forthcoming anyway. There was literally nothing that time could buy me in this situation.

  “How do I pay? Do you have Square? I can just put it on my card.”

  I was pretty sure my Discover card still had some credit on it after I’d sent that return to Sephora.