Hollywood Hot Mess Read Free Page B

Which is zero help because I’ve probably met a million Jessicas. She slides on a pair of reading glasses. Her toothy grin is playful, yet warm, and I do see something vaguely familiar in this smile. Something I might recognize if the drugs hadn’t washed my memories away.
    “Yeah, um, thanks,” I offer, leaning into the cup of coffee and racking my brain trying to figure out who in the hell this woman is. She’s close to my age. I’d say midtwenties max. Maybe she’s interviewed me before? Maybe Jerrie told her how I like my coffee? “Refresh my memory. When was the last time we saw each other?” It’s a harmless enough ask.
    Her eyes grow big. She looks around to be sure no one’s listening. “I was there that night, Carly.” Her tone is barely above a whisper, like this is some dirty little secret we share.
    “What night?” I whisper back, still at a total loss.
    “Last December?” she asks. Her strained expression makes it clear she doesn’t want to explain further. I shake my head and the sigh that comes out of her is closer to a groan. “When you overdosed in the Roosevelt’s pool?” She places her hand on mine like she wants to comfort me.
    I suck in an icy breath and sit back, jerking my hand away, not the least bit comforted. That night . How could I forget that night ? At the same time, how the hell am I supposed to remember it? Had I been sober enough to know what the hell was going on I wouldn’t have flirted with death in L.A.’s trendiest swimming hole, now would I? Jessica jumps when I recoil, immediately shaking her head.
    “I’m sorry, Carly. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
    I nod absently and gnaw my inner lip, staring at the floor for a moment to collect my thoughts. Normally, I’d walk at a comment like this—interview over, zero fucks given. But I don’t. Only the handful of people who were actually there know the truth of that night. It was a private party. What people think they know is that I was pushed into the pool and hit my head. That’s the story Jerrie spun. Why in the hell everyone kept their mouths shut, especially this reporter sitting across the table, is beyond me.
    I shrug, because what can I say? This does, however, put “Jessica” into a much smaller social circle. Dumbed down as I am by the Neurontin my doctor has me on, I simply can’t place her. “Are you ready?” I force a smile, trying desperately to change the topic of conversation. Her concern mellows into a wary nod.
    “Do you mind?” she asks, pointing a manicured nail at the recorder.
    “Knock yourself out.”
    “I promise to make this as painless as possible.” She clears her throat and reads the first question from her list. “Carly, you were less than a year old when you landed your first role on Life on Easy Street , a show that went on to become America’s highest-rated sitcom and win tons of awards. How did you get into acting so young?” The question is total fluff, but her look turns graveyard serious. Is she for real? I’m not sure whether to laugh in her face or feel sorry for her. I sip my coffee, relax my shoulders and swallow the tickle at the back of my throat. Questions like this I can answer in my sleep. This interview has to be a home run. Mocking my interviewer is a surefire way to strike out.
    “My mother was a Price Is Right girl when she was young. She still had connections in the business when I was born. I was a really happy baby. Always smiling, never crying. One thing led to another. I was offered the part before I left the audition.”
    “Is your mother still your manager?” Her question is good-natured enough, but it sours my stomach.
    “No.”
    “What about your father? Is he still in the picture?”
    “No.” My tone could freeze lava.
    “Do you care to elaborate?” She lets out a bemused giggle at my deadpan responses.
    “No.” I fix her in an emotionless stare. She squirms, but gets the point.
    “Moving on.” She adjusts her glasses and