Chelsea got into the idling Defender. She’d have the length of the car ride to mentally prepare for the meeting with Beau.
“Where are we going?” Fran put the car in gear.
“The valley.” She fumbled for her phone. “Ventura Boulevard in Encino. I’m looking up the address.”
“That’s my neck of the woods.”
“You live in Encino?”
“Reseda,” was Fran’s breezy reply.
“I lived in Canoga Park a long, long time ago. I consider myself a valley girl, still.”
“Are you from Los Angeles?”
“Is anyone? No, I’m from New York. Upstate.”
“Me too. Downstate, though. Queens, home of the amazin’ Mets.” The pride in Fran’s voice was unmistakable.
“A city girl. I grew up in the stickiest of the sticks. On a farm.”
“There are farms in New York?”
“Watch it, city slicker.” Chelsea said around a smile. “Yeah, New York has farms.”
“What was the name of your town?”
“I’m sure you’ve never heard of my hometown. Ah, here it is. Marchetti’s Ristorante and Pizzeria on Ventura. I’ll put the address in the GPS for you.”
“Thanks.” Fran fiddled with the climate control. “Is Canoga Park where you lived when you were Sabrina Butler in Landon’s Way?”
“Now that’s a blast from the past. And you were far too young for that show when it was on.”
“I watched it when it was in reruns. My friends totally wanted Melbrina to get together.” Fran took her eyes off the road to gaze at Chelsea for a moment. “You know about Melbrina, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Chelsea made her tone absolutely neutral and didn’t elaborate. Where is this going?
“They were head over heels for Sabrina Butler.”
“But you weren’t?” Why did Chelsea have to ask that?
“No, I am—er, was. I was part of a posse of teen gays who latched onto any kind of representation whether it was real or imagined. We all wanted Melbrina to be true.”
Chelsea now had confirmation that Fran was not straight. It sent a quiver down her spine, which immediately made her feel uneasy. How long had it been since she had felt a visceral reaction to words simply spoken aloud? Her assistant’s sexuality was immaterial.
“I was watching it recently again with my roommate. You were fantastic in that show.”
“That implies I was less than fantastic in other moments of my career.”
Fran was silent for a moment. “I don’t think it implies that at all. I’ve only known you a short time, but I’ve noticed you do that a lot. Put yourself down. It also makes it seem like you think I’m being insincere, but I’m not. Sorry if I’m speaking out of turn, but it bothers me. I would’ve thought you’d have learned how to accept a compliment by now.”
Now Chelsea was quiet while she wrestled with Fran’s assessment.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that—”
“No, you’re right.” Her self-confidence was not what it once was. She felt like she was doing everything wrong, and her life had veered off course, and no matter what she tried, it seemed impossible to get it back on track. “Thank you. It’s very kind of you to say so.” It was what she usually said when stopped by strangers who praised her for one performance or another, but her canned response only seemed to annoy Fran further.
“I won’t claim I’ve seen everything on your IMDb page, but the stuff I have seen? You’ve been super-memorable in it. Which is great for some of the projects you’ve done because they are not memorable. Your talent is far above what you’ve been in lately. You raise mediocre stuff to your level. You exude intelligence and passion. It’s all in your eyes—” Fran abruptly stopped talking. “I should really shut up now.”
Chelsea was speechless. Fran had never been quite this forthright before. It was a mix of criticism and compliments, but it felt genuine, like someone was finally telling her the truth. She had been in one shitty project after another, but nobody was offering her anything good. Silence accompanied them for a few minutes and her voice sounded stiff when she finally said, “What do you suggest I do about it?”
“No. I’m definitely shutting up. It’s really not my place.”
“I asked. I want to know what you think.”
Fran appeared to be considering a response as she navigated the on-ramp of the 405. Then she shrugged. “I have no idea. I love film, but I’m only an audience member, a consumer. Nobody’s coming to me for advice. I mean, what does your team say? Joyce? Your agent? Aren’t they supposed to help shape your career? Assist with your decisions?”
Chelsea had opened the door. Now she had to walk through it even though it made her slightly uncomfortable to talk about Beau with Fran. “Even before my breakup, I wasn’t booking much. I wanted to be home with Petal and Forge.” She paused there. No. She wasn’t going to confess to Fran all her fears about Beau’s inability to support his children. “When it became clear that I needed to make work a priority, I took whatever was offered. We—the team and I—have been operating by that guiding principle ever since.”
“And once you start doing a certain kind of role, that’s all you’ll get offered.”
“Exactly.” She was relieved she wouldn’t have to explain anymore.
Fran tapped the steering wheel in a contemplative way. “If you could be in any movie that’s ever been made, and make the role your own, what would it be?”
“I don’t think that’s a helpful—”
“What? You haven’t thought about it?”
Of course she had. She had even been close to starting a production company about five years ago in order to have a firmer hand in steering her career and developing roles for herself, but then her family had imploded and all that had been put on the back burner.
“Come on, there has to be something or someone you’re inspired by, or that you admire.”
“There is, but you probably haven’t seen it. It’s old.”
“I love old movies.” Fran’s energy seemed to shoot up toward the sunroof. “Try me. I’ve seen a ton. And I have an encyclopedic memory.”
“Cool Hand Luke.”
“Oh, yeah. Paul Newman. Of course I’ve seen it.” She nodded thoughtfully. “A classic—but if I remember correctly, it only had two female roles—one was male-gazy eye candy, the other Luke’s dying mom. That was a good scene but it was more a showcase for Newman, not the mom.”
“Yeah. I’d want the Newman role.”
Fran seemed impressed, and nodded with enthusiasm. “Good choice. Tell me why.”
“Well, I’m not putting myself in Paul Newman’s category—”
“Why shouldn’t you? He won an Oscar and so have you.”
“He won Best Actor. I won Best Supporting. He was nominated something like ten times. I’ve only been nominated once.”
“So far.”
“Plus, he’s an icon.”
“So? You’re an icon in the making.”
“You’re sweet.”
“Whatever. I’m not blowing smoke. Why do you want to be Cool Hand Luke?”
Chelsea was getting excited talking about the business, and she couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. She turned in her seat so she could look at Fran. “How many female roles are there that embody all the humanity, the ambiguity, the contradictions of Luke? The fire? The depth? He’s so flawed, yet so virtuous. That character isn’t just a meal—it’s a banquet. And Newman ate every bite and licked all ten fingers afterward.”
“I’ve seen you do that, you know. Express layers—ambiguity, desire, fear, hope—all those. Not long ago, in fact, when I was watching Landon’s Way. Every scene between Sabrina and Melody has that.”
She scoffed. “How can you even compare the two—a major, award-winning motion picture from practically the golden age of cinema with a shoestring television family drama on a second-tier broadcast network?”
“It’s not the medium that’s important, it’s the performances. Both you and Newman have that ability to make people feel something—audiences empathize with you.”
“I had no idea what I was doing in Landon’s Way. That wasn’t acting.” Chelsea faced forward. All these enormous feelings between the two of us, and nobody had the decency to tell us it was written all over our faces.
“You mean…” Fran shot her a sidelong glance. “Those emotions between you and Melody were real?”
Chelsea couldn’t believe she’d let that slip. She was completely comfortable in her bisexuality, but it was private. It wasn’t a secret to her family and close friends, and Fran fit into neither category. Maybe there was a tiny part of her that wanted Fran to know they shared something in common besides New York State. But it was unwise.
“I can see you’re uncomfortable.” Fran’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “It’s none of my business.” Silence descended in the car for a mile or so. “Sorry. I can’t help it,” Fran burst out. “I just want to say—a million Melbrina stans would be freaking out if they knew those feelings were real.” The exhilaration in Fran’s smile and her clearly repressed excitement utterly disarmed Chelsea. “I mean, imagine if they had written it into the show. What that would have done for queer kids at the time? Sorry, sorry. I’m gonna zip it, lock it, and throw away the key.” She mimed those actions over her lips and tossed an invisible key behind her.
Chelsea couldn’t help but laugh. What was it about Fran? She somehow had the knack of putting Chelsea at ease. “I was so naive. I thought we could just be quiet about it. That it was nobody’s business but Katie’s and mine—Katie played Melody.”
“Are you still in touch with her?”
“No.” Chelsea groaned and put a hand over her face. “There was this big meeting with the show, the network, both of our management teams. It was deemed best that we quietly end our relationship before the press got wind of it. If it came up, we were supposed to tell the media we were simply work colleagues and the best of friends.”
“Deemed best for who?” Fran’s indignation sent a curl of warmth through Chelsea.
“Everyone. Then they ended Katie’s contract and she blamed me, never forgave me for it.”
“I can’t believe they forced you into the closet. Made you be straight.”
“Whoever said I was straight? You’re not about to pin me down with a label, okay?” Instantly, Chelsea felt like she had rolled over and shown her pink, soft underbelly, and was just begging Fran to give her a hard, sharp poke. The sharing was nice, but monumentally stupid. Had she taken leave of her senses? There were about seven questions locked and loaded in the horizontal lines that furrowed Fran’s forehead, and Chelsea didn’t want to answer any of them. “And I want to remind you of the NDA you signed. Any mention of this would be actionable.”
That shut Fran up, and despite herself Chelsea felt bad about how those questions were now trapped behind her downturned lips. It couldn’t be helped. “Now, I’m not sure how this meeting with my ex-husband is going to go.”
“Um, do you want me to take notes?” Fran darted a glance at her.
“Not necessary.”
“Should I stay with the car?”
“No. I don’t think they’re officially open yet, but get a slice if you can. The pizza is fantastic. Just be nearby, in case I need you.”
“Got it,” Fran said.
“This place was somewhere Beau and I went in the early days, when we had just started seeing each other. I was jobless, and sort of at loose ends after five seasons on Landon’s Way. Beau used to deliver pizzas here. This was before he broke out. People don’t remember that I was the more established actor back then.”
Fran nodded, back in assistant mode.
They pulled into a strip mall that had seen better days. It was early for lunch, but this was when Beau said he could meet. His yellow Maserati was parked right in front of the restaurant—she’d always hated that car. They parked next to it and stepped inside. The air was humid with the fragrant aroma of marinara sauce.
Fran stopped in the restaurant’s shabby vestibule and pulled out her phone. Chelsea moved beyond the vacant hostess stand and into the dimly lit dining room, letting her eyes adjust from bright daylight.
Beau was the lone occupant, sitting in the last booth facing the door. “Hey,” he said loudly. “I already got us a pitcher and a pie.”
She almost turned around and walked out. Even from this distance she could tell he was loaded. Anger surged through her.
“Half cheese, half pepperoni, just like the old days.” He met her where she stood, motionless, where linoleum met the sticky carpet of the dining room. As he hugged her, she was enveloped in the familiar woody notes of his aftershave, but beneath that was the sour smell of whiskey and beer. “Come on, sit. I’m glad you wanted to meet. Surprised, but glad.” She followed him to his table, where the beer pitcher was already half empty.
Jesus Christ. It‘s eleven in the morning. She got right to the point. “What’s so important that you have to bail on your kids after being away for two months?”
The charismatic smile that Beau was known for, that earned him millions, froze on his face. “I texted with Petal about that, didn’t I?” His eyebrows dipped like he was trying to remember.
“You canceled, but you didn’t give a reason. I want to know the reason.”
“C’mon, Chels. I just got back from two months in the frozen tundra of Toronto. I needed a breather, and Tommy’s having a bachelor party in Vegas this weekend.” Beau had been a loving partner in their early days, but his behavior had been devolving into selfish, juvenile hedonism for many years and had accelerated toward recklessness since the divorce had become final.
“For his fourth marriage! You seriously want to party instead of seeing Petal and Forge?” Chelsea couldn’t believe it. This. This right here is the reason we’re no longer together. I tried to get you help, but you didn’t want it.
“I work hard.” The stubborn set of his jaw was a familiar sight. “Don’t guilt me for wanting to let loose now that the shoot is over and I can release the pressure valve a little.”
She waited while their pizza was brought to the table. Beau grabbed a slice before the server could put down their plates and cutlery. As soon as he was out of earshot, Chelsea leaned in. “Petal isn’t doing well. She needs her dad. And Forge has taken it upon himself to be the man of the house. I don’t even know where he heard that phrase, but he believes it. He thinks he has to be silent and strong, but he’s still our little boy.”
“I told him that. It’s what my father told me when he got sick.”
“You’re not sick. You are completely capable of fathering your children.”
“And I will! As soon as I get back from Vegas.”
Chelsea regarded him, at a loss for what to say. He had promised he wouldn’t let their separation affect his relationship with Petal and Forge. What had happened? Was it a case of out of sight, out of mind? And here he was cramming pizza into his face without a care. “I’m worried, Beau.”
“You’re always worried.” He was all bravado, but shame lurked in his eyes when he finally looked at her. “Will you let them come next weekend instead?”
She sighed. “Yes.”
“And I already told Petal we’d get together for dinner during the week. She wants to go to Pink’s. Why don’t you come? We’ll have a nice family meal.”
“We can’t do that. That place is always mobbed with tourists. Every cell phone will be trained on us.”
“So what?”
“Look, if you want to invite that kind of scrutiny, that’s up to you. But being seen together will only stoke the popular but erroneous belief that I’m pining away and itching to get back together with you.”
Beau’s pint glass halted on the way to his mouth. “And you’re not?”
Chelsea shut her eyes in frustration. Why was she the only one moving on with her life? Sure, she hadn’t moved very far, and she could admit after two years that being alone was tremendously difficult, but she and Beau were never going to recouple. Even if she had yet to reenter the dating world, she knew Beau had not been a monk. Far from it. “You should know better than to ask.”
Fran appeared at their table, her face pale. “I’m sorry to interrupt—”
Beau held up a hand. “No selfies right now, sweetie. We’re having a private conversation.”
“Beau, this is my new assistant, Fran.”
“Oh, right. Sorry, Fran.” Beau gave her the movie star grin. “So you’re the new Lorraine? Jerry told me he talked to somebody new.”
Chelsea shot him a glance. Where was Jerry? Beau’s PA was usually never very far away. And why was Beau out alone, especially if he was drinking?
Fran ignored Beau and squatted beside her. “There are seriously about fifty photographers outside the front door right now.”
Chelsea’s blood froze. “What?”
“They all arrived at once, descended like a plague of locusts.” Fran glanced toward the front of the restaurant. “One minute I’m texting your facialist, the next they’re all over the parking lot. They haven’t come in yet.”
“They won’t. They’ll wait for us to come out,” Beau said.
Chelsea resisted looking toward the door. “They will. It’s only a matter of time before one of them decides to get a pizza and a quick photo.” She eyed Beau. “What did you do?”
He raised his hands in a gesture of innocence. “You know this was not me. This is Lorraine’s MO. I don’t care enough about my image to organize a pap ambush.” He began to laugh.
She kicked out at him, but missed. “What is so fucking funny?”
“Didn’t you fire Lorraine because she was leaking your movements? Looks like it wasn’t her.”
Now was not the time to think about that. “I absolutely cannot go out there. They can’t get pictures of us together.” Her breaths started to come more quickly, and she searched wildly for an escape. The gossip about her wanting to get back together with Beau was ever-present background tabloid speculation. This would bring it to the forefront again. Fran got her attention with those deep brown eyes.
“Sit tight, Chelsea. I’m going to figure something out. There has to be some way to sneak out of here.”
“The delivery operation is through there, in the rear of the kitchen. You can leave through the back door.” Beau chomped on another slice, appearing completely unbothered by Chelsea’s distress.
Fran stood. “Thanks. Be right back.”
* * *
The kitchen was a hive of activity, but everyone looked up as Fran burst through the swinging door. Besides several people dressed in kitchen whites attending to various cooking tasks, there were two men in street clothes folding pizza boxes in a little alcove near the back of the kitchen. And there was a wooden-framed screen door that led to the back of the strip mall. She made a beeline for it.
“Hey lady, you can’t be back here,” one of the pizza box folders said to her.
“I know.” She exited through the screen door and surveyed her surroundings. There were several scooters, presumably for delivery orders. It was where the restaurant’s dumpsters were kept, along with drums of what was probably used cooking oil. The area was big enough for garbage trucks to come through, so she could potentially get the Defender back here.
She stood and thought. The swarm of photographers had created a mob around the front door, and they surrounded both Chelsea and Beau’s vehicles. If she went out there to bring the car back here, they could all easily follow her and get evidence of Chelsea sneaking out the back door. Not ideal. She gazed at the pizza delivery scooters.
One of the street clothes-wearing dudes came outside and lit a cigarette. “You with Chelsea and Beau?”
“Yeah. Listen, how much to borrow a couple of scooters?”
He grinned. “Trying to escape the paparazzi? This kind of shit never happens here. Celebrities don’t usually come to Encino.”
“How much?”
He shrugged. “Not my circus, not my elephants. Talk to Dominic.”
Dominic shoveled ice into a large white bucket while they talked. He was amenable to a deal. Next problem—he wouldn’t take Venmo. She returned to the table. Chelsea looked like she was about to undergo a root canal, she looked so miserable. Fran found herself desperate to make the situation better for her.
Chelsea’s eyes reflected trepidation and hope at once. “Well?”
“Do you have any cash? I need five hundred dollars to borrow two pizza scooters and buy the silence of everyone in here.”
“Look at the newbie.” Beau sounded impressed as he took out a wad of bills and peeled off a bunch of hundreds. He gave five to Fran and left several more on the table. “A sound investment. I was only going to lose it at the poker table tonight anyway.”
Instead of the relief Fran expected, Chelsea’s frown deepened. “Pizza scooters?”
“Like a Vespa. You know, they have those boxes on the back so the pizza stays warm?”
“I’m not getting on one of those things. I don’t know how to drive it.”
Fran had not thought of this, but it made sense. If Chelsea was nervous in a car, there was no way she’d want to operate a scooter.
“It’s not that hard,” Beau condescended. “Remember, we did it that time in Bermuda.”
“I rode on the back, and I don’t care if it’s hard or not. What are we supposed to do? Drive it on the freeway?”
“I don’t see another way.” Fran looked toward the restaurant’s entrance and saw one of the photographers come in. He talked to the hostess, but his ginormous lens casually rested in the crook of his arm and was pointed right at them. The tall booth hid Chelsea from view, but Beau was on display, and they all heard the quiet whirr and snick of the shutter opening and closing. “We have to go. Now.”
A large man entered and approached the photographer. He used his bulk to persuade him back toward the door and outside again.
“Oh, good. There’s Jerry. Perfect timing. You’ll have to ride on the back, Chels. Just like in Bermuda.” Beau slid from the bench. “Go. I’ll distract them while you make your getaway.”
Chelsea grasped Beau’s hand. “Be careful. You’re not driving, are you?”
“Of course not. Jerry loves to drive the yellow beast. See you next week.” And with a roguish grin, he was gone.
Fran walked behind Chelsea to shield her from potential photographs. They entered the kitchen and everyone stared, but not one of them had a phone out. Dominic stood by the back door, a helmet in each hand.
Chelsea gave the kitchen staff a little wave. Her posture straightened and the worry disappeared from her face, replaced with cool confidence. There was carefree laughter in her voice when she said, “Sorry to disrupt your workday, everyone. Your pizza is the best.” And the movie star smile was the same one Fran had seen on magazine covers. It could knock a person over. One of the dishwashers started clapping.
“We’re only going to need one scooter.” Fran exchanged the cash and fastened the strap of her helmet.
He shrugged. “You’ve got it for an hour. We’ll need it for the lunch rush.”
Chelsea tucked her hair under the helmet and donned a pair of sunglasses—another form of disguise. Fran took Chelsea’s bag and stowed it in the pizza delivery box. Now that she looked at it, the box overhung the back part of the saddle. It was going to be a tight squeeze. She started the engine and gestured for Chelsea to come out.
She threw her leg over the seat, and Fran immediately felt the warmth of her thighs flanking her ass. “You said you live in Reseda, right?” Chelsea said over the whine of the idling scooter.
Fran nodded.
“Go there. We’re not taking this thing on the freeway.”
Shit. She saw the sense in it, but she absolutely didn’t want to take Chelsea to her place—for many reasons. The scooter bucked as she put it into gear, and Chelsea’s hands grasped her waist and sent heat up Fran’s spine. It was going to be a long ride.
* * *
Chelsea’s heart beat a mile a minute as they lurched forward, and it was only now that she bothered to wonder how much experience Fran had with driving this thing. They slowly made their way down the alley behind the strip mall, but then Fran increased their speed when she pulled out onto a side street and made a right onto another street that ran parallel to Ventura. Smart. They didn’t need to take the main road, and they could get far away from Marchetti’s without the media knowing.
She relaxed slightly. The side street had stop signs at every intersection, and it took effort for Chelsea to control her torso so her chest didn’t bump against Fran’s back every time she slowed to a stop. Chelsea kept her hands low, gripping Fran by the denim belt loops just above her hips. The helmet smelled musty, like old sweat, and she was grateful there was no face shield to impede her access to fresh air.
At the next stop sign, Fran said, “I’m going to turn onto Ventura. I’ll have to go faster. Will you be okay?”
“Yes.” It was kind of her to ask. After she made the turn and they seemed to be flying down Encino’s main artery, Chelsea gave in and wrapped her arms around her, pressing her body against Fran’s back and resting her chin on her shoulder. Fran stiffened momentarily, but then her body relaxed and she leaned back, as if giving permission for Chelsea to use her for support, to borrow her strength. Chelsea felt ridiculously pleased by that release of tension.
Now their bodies were touching from knees to shoulders, and Chelsea was hyperaware of the warm, snug fit of Fran’s bum wedged against her thighs, at the stomach muscles that flexed beneath her fingertips with only a thin layer of cotton T-shirt between. Added to all this was the low-key vibration of the motor radiating from beneath and between her legs. She pressed her mouth to Fran’s shoulder and the stink of stale sweat dissipated as she breathed in the clean scent of laundry detergent.
Chelsea couldn’t remember the last time she had been this aware of someone else’s body so close to hers. Even while buffeted by the cool wind, she felt hot, and it was a heat whose source was deep within her, below her belly, at the base of her being. It was as if she were a furnace that had ignited from being so near to Fran. It felt molten—dangerous, but exhilarating too.
Before she knew it, Fran had pulled into a stuccoed low-rise building that had open-air parking underneath. She steered the scooter into an empty spot and killed the engine. She dismounted quickly, took her helmet off, and whipped out her phone. “I’ll get you a Lyft. I can return this to the restaurant and pick up the car.”
Chelsea sat there, trying to make her bones reassert themselves from their current jellified state. She suddenly had a powerful thirst. “Could I get some water?”
Fran lowered her phone. “I just ordered your car. Want me to run up—”
“Cancel it. Let’s go to your place. I need a moment. And a bathroom.”
The flat line of Fran’s mouth told Chelsea she wasn’t happy about this, but she led the way up to the second floor and into her small unit. The front door opened into a modest sitting area with a sofa and a recliner. A peninsula-style counter separated the room from the kitchen, also small, with cheap Formica countertops and old appliances.
Fran busied herself clearing empty beer bottles from the coffee table and tidying the kitchen. When she unfolded a dish towel and placed it over the piled-up dirty dishes in the sink, Chelsea let out a laugh.
“I didn’t know I’d be having company today.” Fran’s defensiveness was cute. She opened the fridge. “Would you like anything? I have…beer or strawberry Jell-O. Sorry. Those two pathetic items are all I can offer.”
Chelsea couldn’t stop grinning. “Just some water, please.”
She poured Chelsea a glass of water. “Have a seat while I check the state of the bathroom.”
From the sofa, Chelsea saw that Fran went past the bathroom into a bedroom and closed the door. The sounds of tidying—drawers opening and closing, rustling papers—followed. What in the world—did Fran think Chelsea would want to see her bedroom?
When she came out, she closed the door behind her and went into the bathroom, quickly exiting with an armful of towels. She reopened the bedroom door and threw the towels in and closed the door again. All the door business reminded Chelsea of a play she had been in years ago. A British farce right here in Reseda, she thought as she bemusedly watched Fran’s antics. There was another room across the hall, but Fran didn’t go in there at all.
“Bathroom’s usable.” Fran flopped into the recliner.
Chelsea didn’t move. “Is that TV stand from Ikea? I think I had the same one years ago.”
“I have no idea. It belongs to my roommate. This chair is mine.” Fran stroked the threadbare arms of the chair with affection. “A chair like this could never be accused of being fashionable, but it sure is comfortable.”
Chelsea gave the chair a haughty once-over. “It’ll be a dark day indeed when maroon pleather comes back into fashion.” Despite the scruffy furnishings, she felt comfortable in Fran’s small living room. It reminded her of her first place in Canoga Park. “Here’s what I think we should do. You return the two-wheeled pizza deathtrap and come back with the car. I’ll wait here. Maybe take a nap in your very ugly chair. Test these claims of comfort you’re asserting.”
Fran clapped her hands on either side of the headrest, as if they were the recliner’s ears. “Don’t you listen to her,” she said to the chair. “You’re beautiful to me.”
Chelsea laughed again. It was incredible that she felt so at ease after the stress of less than an hour ago.
“You shouldn’t have to hang around my janky apartment. An Uber can be here in minutes.”
“I’m getting the feeling you don’t want me here.”
“No.” Fran’s eyes looked everywhere but at Chelsea. “I’m just a little embarrassed by my place. It’s no mansion in Pacific Palisades.”
This gave Chelsea pause. Fran didn’t strike her as someone who cared about keeping up appearances, but then she didn’t know her very well either.
Fran cracked her knuckles and twisted her fingers into what looked like a painful configuration. “It’s fine if you want to stay here.” It didn’t look fine. “I just ask that you stay out of the bedrooms. Trina, my roommate, is obsessed with privacy, and…I guess I am too.”
“So we have that in common.”
Fran still refused to look at her, but she nodded and looked down at the nubby brown carpet.
Chelsea couldn’t fathom Fran’s changed mood. She wracked her brain as to what might have made her so somber. “Hey, I know it wasn’t you who engineered all the paparazzi showing up.”
Fran gazed at her in confusion.
“It couldn’t have been you. You didn’t even know where we were going until I told you in the car.”
“It wasn’t me. I wouldn’t even know how to contact a member of the gossip media.” Fran went from confused to ultradefensive in an instant.
“I know. That’s what I just said. Lighten up, Francis.”
“Please don’t call me—oh.” Fran flashed her a sheepish grin. “Stripes. Lighten up, Francis.”
Chelsea smiled. Nobody ever got her movie references. She’d have to further test Fran’s movie trivia knowledge at some point. “I’ll stay out of your bedroom.” Chelsea couldn’t help teasing her a little more. “Don’t worry. Your addiction to medieval battle armor is safe with me. I won’t go looking under your bed for your collection of chain mail pajama bottoms.”
“The only thing you’ll find under the bed is the jar of toenail clippings I’ve been collecting since childhood.”
Chelsea hesitated. She couldn’t glean whether this was a joke from Fran’s serious expression, which was pointed at the floor again. But then she raised eyes filled with mischief and Chelsea giggled. “You had me worried there for a second.”
“And teeth. I have a jar of teeth as well.” It was so cute how she tried to suppress her smile, but it was a losing battle.
“You didn’t want to trade them for cash from the tooth fairy? I’m assuming you’re talking about your own baby teeth?”
“Yeah, and wisdom, from when I had those out when I was sixteen. A few that got knocked out during my world-class kickboxing career. And my grandmother’s. Hers aren’t baby teeth, though. I have her full upper palate.”
“That is alarmingly grotesque, and this has been one of the strangest conversations. I know you’re joking about the kickboxing. I remember you telling me how much you loathe exercise. I’m ninety-five percent sure you’re joking about the rest of it, but all those details have me wondering if there really is a jar of teeth under your bed.”
Fran waggled her eyebrows in a totally dorky way. “I’ll never tell.”
A key sounded in the lock. A moment later a tall, curly-haired woman stood blinking at them. “Hi, Franny,” she said. “I’ve heard of bringing your work home with you, but this is ridiculous.”
Fran stood. “Chelsea, this is my roommate, Trina.”
“Hi, Trina. I’m awfully sorry to be here violating your privacy.” Chelsea levered herself off the couch and shook her hand.
Trina looked completely unbothered. “No worries at all.”
Fran scratched the back of her neck. “Hey, are you doing anything right now? We had a little mishap with the press and I have to return a pizza scooter to Encino and get Chelsea back home. Can you give her a ride so I can do the transfer to get her car back?”
Trina, not fazed by the inclusion of a pizza scooter in Fran’s summary, was the epitome of laid back. “No problem.”
“Does that sound okay to you, Chelsea? I know you just met Trina, but she’s super trustworthy and has a ton of experience being a PA. She taught me everything I know. It’ll only be a few minutes back to the restaurant.”
Chelsea smiled politely at Trina but directed her words to Fran. “I would rather not go back to where there might still be photographers hanging around.”
Fran grabbed a hat from the coat rack by the door. “How about you go incognito? You can borrow this.” It was a black baseball cap with the royal blue and orange insignia for the New York Mets, a little faded and obviously well-loved.
“You’re going to give her your lucky hat?” Trina sounded surprised.
“It’ll protect her.” She gave Chelsea a severe look as she handed it over. “It’s just a loaner. Not for keeps.”
Chelsea put it on. “It’s a lovely hat, but I don’t think it’s going to render me invisible. We need a better plan.”
Fran opened the map on her phone. “We can designate a place to meet, then. You can wait in Trina’s car. There’s an El Pollo Loco right down the street. How about I meet you in their parking lot?”
“That’s perfect. I’m starving,” Trina said.
That was when Chelsea realized she was hungry too. She hadn’t eaten any pizza with Beau. “Sounds good. Let’s go.” As they exited the apartment, she couldn’t help noticing how much happier Fran looked when she shut the door behind them.