If I feel like I’m being watched, it’s usually because I am. Someone has recognized my face, but they can’t quite place me. They glance my way when they think I’m not looking. They don’t realize I’m watching them back, waiting for the moment when they’ll either lose interest or muster the courage to approach and say—
“Hey…I’m sorry, but are you Olivia Hill?”
It was that desperate time of night when everyone was trying to get a drink at the same time. If only it was the bartender who couldn’t keep his eyes off me instead of this woman. Barely a woman, really. Her pixie cut framed a cherubic face and fleshy, flushed cheeks. Her slender stem of a neck didn’t look strong enough to support her globe of a head. Aspiring actress, I guessed. In this town, weren’t they all?
“Nope,” I told the girl.
“Oh. My mistake.” She started to withdraw into the crowd, and then halted, stepped forward again, determined. “You’re Liv Hendricks, from Bullshit Hunters!”
My eyes shifted to the comforting rows of bottles shelved above the bar’s backsplash, the amber liquid in them that would grant my only wish: an end to the day’s sobriety.
The baby-faced girl kept standing there, waiting for me to confirm what she already knew. I felt sorry for her because there were so many of her in Los Angeles. Girls who all wanted the same thing, who almost had what it took to get it. These girls would have killed for the opportunities I’d cast off like an itchy sweater, the kind that made you miserable every second you wore it.
What I had learned about girls like this one was that most of them didn’t want to act, or sing, or model, or whatever it was they’d ostensibly come to LA to do. They wanted to be seen. They didn’t exist until observed, the pretty-girl equivalents of Schrödinger’s cat. Living online wasn’t enough for them. Twitter and Facebook and Tumblr and Instagram, Periscope and YouTube and Snapchat and blogging and all the rest were not enough. Would never be enough to make them feel like they were real, like they mattered on a planet of six billion people and counting.
“Yeah,” I admitted. “I’m Liv Hendricks.”
“Oh my God, I’m such a huge fan! I watched your show every day in junior high. I mean, they were reruns, but I was addicted. I’m serious. It was my crack.”
I hailed the nearest bartender, a twenty-something hipster with a high and tight haircut, wearing a vest and an antiquey, collarless shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He looked like he’d come to work straight from the set of Boardwalk Empire. “Old-fashioned,” I called to him. I could have been describing him.
The girl’s mouth kept moving. I could barely hear her, but I knew what she was saying. The same things these girls always say.
I didn’t trust her motivations, but then I didn’t trust most women. As a teenager, I’d never had girlfriends who didn’t treat me like a prize, someone who could get them into places they wanted to go, introduce them to the celebrities they wanted to meet, buy them clothes they couldn’t afford. But once the money and the celebrity were gone, so was my entourage.
Women had an agenda too often for my comfort. So did men, but theirs was predictable. If a man asked to buy me a drink, I knew he wanted to fuck me, or at least talk me into giving him a blowjob. If a woman did the same thing, I couldn’t be sure what she wanted from me, only that it was probably something I’d rather not give.
By the time the aspiring actress took a break from gushing, I had my cocktail. The whiskey heat settled into my hollow stomach. I counted what I had eaten that day. Coffee for breakfast. A cup of yogurt with blueberries for lunch (150 calories). Three slices of deli turkey before I came to the bar (60 calories). Two hundred and ten calories for the entire day. It’s all about the calories. The words were branded on my brain. That’s what happened when your mom put you on your first diet when you were seven.
I finished my drink, completed my buzz. Started feeling good. Chatty, even.
“Hey,” the girl said. “Can I buy you a drink? It would be such an honor for me, and there are so many things I want to ask you. Please say yes!”
“Sure,” I said. “Why not?”