Just Fake It Read online

  “Isn’t being true to yourself the best thing you can do?” I say, wondering if I sound too much like a Hallmark card.

  “Fuck, no. Not in this town. That’s the last thing you want to do. You have to put up a mask. You show them who you really are and you get thrown to the wolves.”

  I stare at him. “So, who are you really, Justin?”

  He looks at me, startled and slightly baffled, as if he’s never been asked that before. “Really?” He thinks for a moment, his eyes trailing to the picture of him with his parents.

  The moment he opens his mouth to speak, June appears in the doorway. “Joel and the consultants from Impact are here. They’re waiting in the living room.”

  I want desperately to hear what he has to say, but he clamps his mouth shut.

  The muscles in his jaw tense as he pushes off the desk. “Tell them we’ll be right there.”

  He looks at me, his expression darkening as he points to the door. “Well, wifey? Shall we?”

  I wrinkle my nose. “If you’re going to pull this off, you probably shouldn’t call me that.”

  “What would you prefer? Baby? Honey? Sweetheart?”

  “Lee. You can call me Lee,” I say suddenly. “You’re the only one who’s ever called me that.”

  He gives me a surprised look. “Thought you hated that.”

  “Well. It definitely isn’t the first thing I hate about you.”

  He chuckles lightly as we walk out toward the foyer, and into the living room. I suddenly feel underdressed as I enter a room filled with five buttoned-up suits who look like they just came from Wall Street. Justin motions to the oldest one, a thick, square, and yet still very handsome man with a full head of white hair. “Lee, this is Joel Kiefer. President of Emblem Studios. My mentor.”

  I think I should tell him how I love his studio’s movies, but his grip is almost painful as he shakes my hand, his eyes scouring over me like I’m for sale. “Yes. Yes. She will do very nicely, Justin, my boy. Very nicely.”

  “Um. Thanks?” I say, looking at Justin.

  He smacks Joel on the shoulder. “Don’t mind him. He’s a horny old coot.” He points to the three men and one women who look are standing close together, looking like part of a funeral procession. “These four are the stiffs. Here to suck every ounce of personality I have out of my body. I’m sorry, I don’t know their names. Dead. Deader. Hardly Alive. Moribund?”

  I smile and shake hands with all of them. They quietly give me their names, all of which I forget as soon as they’re told to me. Justin may be a large child, but he’s right about one thing; these people lack any trace of what would make an interesting person. They’re all buttoned-up and dishwater dull.

  Meanwhile, Justin collapses into a sofa and puts his feet up on the coffee table, sulking like a teenager. He waves his hands with mock flourish. “Commence.”

  Joel smacks his foot down. “Knock it off, kid,” he says, looking at me. “Now, Miss . . .”

  “Wilson,” I say. “Beverly Wilson.”

  “Yes. Miss Wilson. Likely Justin has told you everything you need to know about this assignment, and why you’re so crucial to it?”

  I shake my head. “No. I mean, he’s told me some, but I don’t—“

  “Okay. Back up. I’ll take it from the beginning.” He clears his throat. “Justin Avignon got his start in movies with a little self-financed indie flick called Fury that was considered genre-breaking and sealed his reputation as one of the up-and-coming directors to watch. Since then, he’s made his mark by creating B-movies for the A-crowd . . . meaning campy, fun, eccentric stuff that’s well acted, well-scripted, and well-produced, with good dialogue and mind-blowing twists. His latest film franchise, The Devouring, is by far the highest grossing horror franchise ever produced. Now, his newest film, The Last Door on the Right, jumps genres, combining drama and horror. It’s easily one of the best films of the century, in my opinion. Oscar buzz has surrounded it for a very long time.”

  As Joel speaks, I sneak a look a Justin, who’s staring contemplatively at his knees. When Joel mentions the Academy Awards, though, Justin starts to gnash his teeth.

  “The problem is that Justin has a bit of a strong personality. He says what he wants, when he wants to, and has offended some others in the industry.”

  Justin looks at me. “I just said the truth. Spielberg’s lately been doing the same movie over and over again, and Nolan isn’t half as innovative as he thinks he is. Their ideas are for shit. No wonder the movie industry keeps relying on remakes, with those assholes churning out the same dry garbage. There’s no shortage of fresh ideas out there. What we’re missing are filmmakers who are willing to take risks.”

  I blink, surprised at the passion in his voice. Up until now, all I’ve seen is the playboy who just wants to party. It’s easy for that part of his personality to overshadow the fact that he’s also a genius when it comes to filmmaking.

  Joel stares at him, breathing hard. “Are you done?”

  He shrugs, playing with a loose thread on his shirt, bored.

  “Not to mention, when Justin was getting his start, he was . . . how shall I say this?” He looks over at Justin, at a loss for words. “Caught in a compromising position with someone dear to one of the most respected Board of Governors of the Academy, and has greatly succeeded in tarnishing his chances.”

  Justin drums his hands on his knees and shrugs at me. “I fucked Granville Nash’s daughter,” he says without emotion. “Didn’t know who she was.”

  I blink. Granville Nash is a powerhouse in Hollywood. He’s a household name with a dynasty of city properties at his disposal. And his daughter is . . .

  “You mean Alicia Nash?” I blurt. “From Hood?”

  Joel nods solemnly.

  Alicia Nash. The A-List actress. The actress who Steven Long cast in his Robin Hood series, instead of me, making her a star. She’s platinum blonde and ethereal perfection. Justin . . . my “husband” . . . had sex with her?

  My throat closes. As if I needed any more reasons to hate Alicia Nash. As if I needed any more signs pointing to how much of an outsider I’ll always be.

  I try my best to control my breathing. My heart beats double-time. This whole thing is completely unreal. I think if I have to write a book about these experiences, later in life, no one would believe me.

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out for a long time. “And he’s blackballing you because of that?”

  Justin shrugs. “Pretty much.”

  Joel frowns at him. “Not just because of that. There are other extenuating things that happened that—“

  “That we don’t need to go into right now,” Justin says, dropping his feet to the ground, grabbing his root beer, and taking a swig. “The point is, these stiffs here are going to help us convince the world I’ve changed my ways. So let’s get down to it.”

  Joel nods. “There’s a reason that since January, Justin has been out of the public eye while the movie has been wrapping up. The rumors have been that he’s gone to rehab for his alcoholism, cleaned himself up. But when I spoke to image consultants, they agreed that that might not be enough to get the public to change their minds about him. After all, stars go to rehab all the time, and don’t get better. So, we’re not taking any chances.”

  He claps his hands and motions to the people at Impact.

  “Well. We’ve been scrutinizing all of your interactions via YouTube and checking out what public opinion is about you over the past few months, making notes,” the tall, Frankenstein-like man says. “And like we’ve mentioned, overall opinion of Justin Avignon is largely unfavorable. It was thought the break from the spotlight would do you good, but unfortunately, that hasn’t happened. You’re actually still ranked not much better than Charlie Sheen, as far as opinion goes, despite the positive buzz your movie is getting.”

  Justin scrubs both hands over his face.

  Frankenstein motions to the woman.

  The woman reaches into he
r bag and pulls out a large binder. I mean, this thing is back-breakingly huge. She hefts it onto the coffee table, making it shake as she says, “These are all the things we think you could work on, Mr. Avignon.”

  He stares at it, his lips curled up in a smug smile. “Probably would’ve been easier for you to put together a binder on what I don’t need to work on.”

  Joel leans over and opens it. I squint at the writing and see it’s very small. The first chapter heading is, Projecting a Serious Image: Hygiene.

  I cover my mouth to suppress the snort of laughter. This is going to be impossible.

  He swings his head toward me and arches his eyebrows defiantly. “Piece. Of. Cake.”

  “Miss Wilson, we also created one for you,” the woman says, pulling an equally large binder out. She hands it to me, and the weight of it nearly makes me fall over.

  What the eff?

  I open the cover and read: Becoming Mrs. Justin Avignon. The wife of one of the premier filmmakers in Hollywood should be well-dressed and refined, and portray a sense of sophistication always. She should accompany Mr. Avignon to all of his events and stay close by as often as possible. When asked questions about her husband, she should always reply in a way that shows him in a positive light. Light kissing, hugging, hand-holding, and appropriate affection are encouraged.

  Vomit gurgles in the back of my throat.

  Sure, play the guy’s wife. But when it’s all spelled out like this, it feels . . . phony.

  It feels Hollywood.

  Like I should have expected anything less, considering where I am?

  I raise my head as I hear light laughter. Now Justin is chuckling, low and sadistically, at me. I glare at him. “Yeah, well, it’s not going to be a piece of cake for me. To be suitable to be your wife, I’d either have to be suicidal or lobotomized.”

  He pats his heart. “Ah. Sweetheart. I feel your love.”

  I flip to the next page. It’s a picture of me, seemingly taken while I was unaware, on the street. I’m holding Brandon and look constipated. Where the fuck did they get a picture of me?

  I recognize the outfit in the picture as the red dress I nearly spilled out of when I’d gone to the Ivy. Someone had been taking pictures of me?

  Atop the page, it says, Necessary Makeover.

  Wait, what?

  I scan down a list of no fewer than five-hundred things that these people are expecting to do to me, from shaping my eyebrows to . . . holy shit. What do I need with a bikini wax? Who are they expecting will see that?

  And . . . am I really that bad?

  I guess I have my answer, right here.

  The next page is a hand-drawn sketch of what the New and Improved Beverly Wilson will look like. I clench my teeth. Not because it looks bad, but because . . . I kind of like it. Even if it is totally Hollywood, and not me. It’s been a long time since I fit into this city. Maybe I never did. This makeover? It could get me close.

  The woman smiles at me. “The clothing is in process. We’ll take your measurements today and have everything delivered tomorrow. As well as some clothes for your son, if you’d like.”

  I glance at Justin, who is now drumming on the front of his binder, his lips pressed together in a straight line like he can’t wait for these people to leave. “Okay.”

  “The people will come today.”

  I look at her, confused. “People?”

  “Your stylists,” she says, looking at Joel. “I believe that Mr. Avignon has an event on Friday and would like to get out before the nominations are made for the Golden Globes.”

  “Friday?” I swallow. “But today’s Wednesday.”

  Joel nods. “Piece of cake, right, Miss Wilson?”

  “Um—“

  “Yeah,” Justin growls, suddenly, not looking up from the closed binder on his lap. “It is. We’ll take care of it.”

  “Okay,” Joel says, standing.

  He shakes my hand, and then I shake hands with the “stiffs,” but Justin doesn’t stand up. He doesn’t even look their way as they walk to the foyer and make their exit. Great, so he can be a moody asshole, too.

  Joel leans in. “Don’t let him give you any shit, okay, sweetheart?”

  I smile. I don’t know. He may be Hollywood, but I like him. He reminds me of a Brando-ized very of my father. “I don’t plan on it.”

  “Good,” he says. “You call me if you need me. Just keep in mind, he can be a real asshole. We all know that. But he’s paying you to make him look good. And that’s what we’re all depending on you for. Okay?”

  I give him a double thumbs-up. “I won’t let you down.”

  He gives me a playful punch in the cheek. “You know, I never thought we could pull this off. But girl, I can feel it. You’re going to be good for him. I have hunches about these things, and I know. This is going to work.”

  I smile at him and close the door, then turn to see Justin, still staring at the book.

  He looks like a sulky teen who has to write a report for class.

  Do I think it’s going to work? Do I think I can make him look good? Do I think I can actually pull off acting like I love him with a straight face? Hell no.

  But I guess I’m going to give it my best try.

  Chapter 8

  After the image people leave, I head back to the living room with the Binder of Death, and start to make sense of it. Chapter One is all about my makeover, but it just gets more ridiculous from there. Chapter Two is a whole lesson on manners. Chapter Three is a complete run-down on my fake background. Supposedly, my name is Molly Avignon, and I’m Harvard Law educated, who knew? Chapter Four is a whole write-up on Justin Avignon’s background, at least what I, as a devoted wife, should know. It even has a notation of the circular constellation of tiny birthmarks on his ass—which turns out, is not something you need to be his wife to know. Considering that last party, I bet half of California knows that.

  But whatever.

  As I’m paging through Chapter Five, which is a ridiculously complicated depiction of Justin’s family tree—his godfather was, for real, Marlon Brando, and his third cousin, once removed, was Carrie Fischer? What does once removed even mean?—the doorbell rings.

  Forgetting this house has servants to do the normal things I’m used to doing on my own, I stand up. As I’m rushing across the foyer, Logan appears and gets to the door before I do. He seems surprised to see me barreling toward him. “Miss Wilson,” he says, with a nod of his head.

  Out of breath, I skid to a stop. “Hi. Oh. I forgot.”

  I start to whirl and go back to the living room when Logan opens the door and calls after me. “Actually. I think these people are here for you.”

  I turn and look out the door.

  And oh my god.

  The stylists are here.

  The army of stylists. They walk in, single file, holding bags and cases. All of them look fabulous. And every single one of them is eyeing me up like I’m a mountain they’ve been challenged to climb.

  “Oh, Jesus,” a woman with fantastic cranberry highlights and the most porcelain-perfect make-up says. “Is that a perm?”

  I touch my frizzed-out hair. “Um, no, it’s actually naturally . . .”

  “Those eyebrows can have their own zip code!” A woman in all-black whispers too loudly to a black man with close-shaved platinum hair. He nods, horrified.

  I take a step back. “Okay, well. If you’re just going to sit here and insult me, I’m—“

  “No no,” the black man says, taking my hands. “You have plenty to work with, trust me. What a cute little nose you have! And your eyes! They pop. I’ve never seen such beautiful cheekbones. We’ll make your husband fall in love with you all over again!”

  “Well, he’s not really my—“ I bite my tongue when I realize I’m not sure. Do they really think Justin is my husband?

  “That’s okay, sweetie,” the man says, waving a hand and leading me into the living room. “When we get done with you, he’s going to desperat
ely wish he was. Now, my name is Otto, and this is my fabulous team. Leave everything to us.”

  So I do. Not like I have any choice. I’ve never considered myself fashion and style clueless, but I’ve also never been the type to spend money like crazy on myself. Mostly because after I moved out to Hollywood, I never had any. I liked to consider myself someone who was low-maintenance, but looked high-maintenance. I’d never gone for a professional service that wasn’t a haircut, so no manicures, pedicures, waxes, massages, facials . . . nothing. All of this is completely new to me, and as exciting as it is, a little terrifying.

  And they put me through all of it. I’m massaged, washed, waxed, poked, prodded, and played with until I have absolutely no shame whatsoever. It takes pretty much all day, and into the evening. When Minnie brings Brandon in that evening, I’m still wearing a bathrobe, my hair up in a towel. He jumps into my arms. “Mommy, guess what? There’s a giant train outside! You can ride on it!”

  I think he must be pulling my leg, but Minnie nods, confirming it. “It goes around the whole estate. I wonder if Mr. Avignon would let him have a ride?”

  I kiss Brandon’s forehead, realizing that I haven’t seen Justin since he stalked out of the room with the giant binder under his arm, an annoyed look on his face. “We’ll see. I think I’ll work on him for that one. Good night.”

  Minnie takes him by the hand and leads him up the stairs, as Otto leads me to the chair to finish up my hair.

  Two hours of primping later, I’m finally done. They put me in a body-hugging black dress that’s little more than a slip, and heels that will probably make me break something. As I totter around, getting used to them, Otto actually lets out a squeal. “Now you are the wife of a famous Hollywood legend!”

  Everyone from the team is beaming at me as they lead me toward a full-length mirror.

  I gasp at my reflection.

  I can’t even be sure it’s me.

  I have long, dark hair with blonde highlights that perfectly complements my skin tone. My eye make-up is done in a way that makes my tiny eyes really pop. I don’t just look beautiful . . . I look damn sexy. And I can’t stop gazing at myself. I think I’m in love with myself. “My god. Thank you.”