Kamille
“Kamille, blow a kissy face!”
“Can you two stand closer?”
Kamille snuggled against Chase and smiled for the cameras. They were walking the red carpet at a new club downtown where they were attending a charity fashion show.
They had been dating for a whole month now, but this was only their second public appearance at an event. Chase preferred to go to one of their favorite little restaurants in West Hollywood or Beverly Hills, where the (well-tipped) maître d’s helped to shield them from paparazzi, or to stay in.
Mostly, Chase preferred to stay in. In bed. Which was just fine with Kamille. Lately, they had gotten into the habit of ordering in, and making love, and drinking lots of champagne, and making love, and watching old movies or sports games on his giant plasma screen, and making love. It was heaven.
Really, her life was so perfect now. She and Chase were blissfully happy together. The Lolita perfume ad was getting a lot of attention, and she had just started shooting the Flower Power jeans ad today. Glamour magazine had interviewed her as part of an article on up-and-coming new faces in Hollywood.
She had been mentioned in other magazines and in the blogs, too—some of it was positive, some of it was not so positive (did that blogger really have to call her fat just because she had curves?), but who was she to be picky? It was all good. Giles had told her that by this time next year, with hard work and luck, she could be right up there with Gisele and Heidi.
“Hey, Chase? Care to make a comment about what happened at Industry last night?” one of the cameramen called out suddenly.
Kamille felt Chase’s entire body go tense. She turned to him slightly and whispered, “Industry? What’s he talking about?”
“Let’s go inside.”
“What?”
“I’ll tell you when we’re alone. Let’s go.”
Kamille had never heard his voice take on that cold, hard edge. It was all she could do to keep smiling as she blew a kiss at the line of reporters and cameramen and headed into the club, clutching Chase’s hand.
Inside, the fashion show was in full force. The rap artist Atomic was acting as MC as various models paraded down the catwalk, dressed in funky resort wear. Kamille recognized several other celebrities in the crowd: more pop stars, actors, other models. She would have enjoyed meeting them and also checking out the fashions, except that Chase was dragging her away from the main room, toward the bar. Something was definitely wrong.
At the bar, he ordered two drinks: a Scotch on the rocks for himself and a glass of white wine for her. Then he picked up the drinks and nudged Kamille into a dark, quiet corner, out of the other guests’ earshot.
He downed his Scotch in one gulp, some of it spilling on his beautiful blue Zegna suit. Kamille stared at him, alarmed. She had never seen him like this. “What is it, Chase? What’s going on?” she whispered.
“Fucking reporters,” Chase burst out. He lowered his voice. “Zoe, my publicist, called me about it this morning. Some tabloid sleazebag took a picture of me at Industry last night.”
Kamille felt her blood go cold. “What . . . picture? I thought you were out with your teammates.”
“I was. Thing is, we got a little drunk. You know, typical boys’ night. I had this breakfast thing at seven A.M. sharp, though, so I got up to leave. Alone, mind you. So I’m at the valet waiting for my car, and this girl comes out of nowhere. Next thing I knew, she’s got her hands all over me and she’s insisting I go back to her place with her. I tell her no, thanks, but she won’t back off. I think she was high on something. I finally had to say some pretty nasty stuff to her, and she got the message. But not before some asshole reporter takes a picture.”
“I don’t understand. How bad can it be? It’s just some random fan-girl attacking you, right? You must get that a lot.”
“Yeah, but the picture could be . . . open to misinterpretation.”
Misinterpretation? “So you’ve seen it?”
“Zoe texted it to me. ’Sides, it’s on the fucking Internet now.”
This was all news to Kamille. She had been holed up at a shoot all day and hadn’t been online. And why was Chase swearing so much? It wasn’t like him. “Can I see it?” she said out loud.
“What?”
“The picture. Can I see it?”
Chase sighed. “Fine. You’re gonna see it eventually, anyway.”
He pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket and scrolled around. After a moment he held up the screen for her to look. “Here. Satisfied?” he grumbled.
Kamille squinted to see in the dim light. She took the phone from him and enhanced the image.
The picture showed Chase with some petite blonde in a black minidress that revealed way more skin than not. Slore couture. Her arms were snaked around his neck, and her head was tipped up to his.
The thing was . . . he wasn’t exactly pushing her away. His arms were wrapped around her waist. And his head was bent down low, as if he was a millisecond away from kissing her.
The headline read:
CHASE HOOKS UP WITH FAN AT L.A. CLUB
(KAMILLE: “WE’RE THROUGH!”)
Kamille realized that her hand was shaking. In fact, she was shaking all over. “What the fuck, Chase?” she cried out. Now she was the one who was swearing.
“I told you, Kamille. Goddamned reporters, they make this shit up.”
“But, this picture! You’re practically making out with her!”
“You ever heard of Photoshopping? Jesus, I can’t believe you’re buying this.”
“Photoshopping?”
“Yeah. They use computers to manipulate pictures. Didn’t they do that to you and that Bill Boxer dude, what’s-his-name, Miles?”
“I know what Photoshopping is. And it’s Milo.”
“Yeah, Milo. The magazines were running stories about you guys for weeks, saying you were together. Was that the truth?”
“No.”
“So why are you taking their side now? After all the crap the tabloids have been saying about me for months. For years!”
“I’m not taking anyone’s side! God, why are you putting words into my mouth?”
“You said it, not me.”
Kamille balled up her fists, feeling this close to bursting into tears. But why was she so upset? Chase was right. The tabloids had made up that stuff about her and Milo. And she had always believed Chase when he said those stories about him, from before they were dating and even the recent ones, too, were garbage.
So why was she having doubts now? Was it because he was acting so . . . angry? And self-righteous? Like he had something to hide?
“I need another drink. You want one?” Chase started for the bar.
“No. I want to go home.”
“What? We just got here.”
“I want to go! The night’s ruined, and besides, I have a splitting headache,” Kamille snapped.
“Jeez, why are you mad at me? I didn’t do anything.”
“Whatever. I’m going home. If you want to stay, fine. I’m sure there are plenty of fan-girls here you can hook up with,” she said before she could stop herself.
“Yeah? Fuck you!”
“Fuck you!”
Kamille felt as though her head were going to explode. She threw her glass of wine in his face and stormed off. As she passed the bar, she saw two girls gaping at her.
“Ohmigod, did you see that?” one of them said.
The other one held up her cell. “I got a picture! That’s Chase Goodall and his new girlfriend. That model, Kathy something. I read about her in Glamour. I’m totally Tweeting this.”
“Totally!”
Kamille had to fight the impulse to grab the bitch’s cell out of her greedy little hand and smash it against the wall. Instead, she began running, and kept running, out of the club and past the red carpet, the line of paparazzi. The fucking paparazzi. She heard the cameras snapping away behind her.
“Kamille, how ’bout a comment on the picture?” one of them shouted.
“Are you and Chase breaking up?” another one added.
The November night had turned chilly. Shivering in her thin silk wrap, Kamille remembered suddenly that Chase had driven them to the party. She glanced around frantically and spotted a black Town Car parked halfway down the block, its engine idling. She hurried toward it, opened the back door, and slid in.
The driver whirled around. “Hey, what are you doing?”
“I’ll pay you two hundred dollars to drive me home,” Kamille said breathlessly. “It’s not far from here.”
“What? I’m supposed to wait for my client.”
“Three hundred. Just drive. Please!”
The driver sighed. Then he turned around and pulled into the street.
Kamille wasn’t sure what time it was when the doorbell rang. She glanced up at the alarm clock—was it midnight already? Where was Kass? Oh, right. She had mentioned that she was closing up at the restaurant tonight.
Kamille tried to prop herself up on her elbows and climb out of bed. Her head hurt. Everything hurt. And where did that half-empty bottle of vodka come from? Oh, yeah, she’d poured herself a drink (or maybe several drinks) after the nice driver dropped her off . . .
Staggering to her feet, she saw that she was still wearing her sapphire-blue Valentino dress, which she’d rented for the night. It was badly wrinkled, and there was a stain on the bodice from the wine she’d thrown at Chase.
“Shit,” she muttered. “Shit, shit, shit.”
The doorbell rang again. Kamille hobbled into the hallway. She had one Louis Vuitton satin mule on, one off. Had she left it somewhere, like Cinderella? She’d better find it, since the shoes, too, were rented. She was making good money these days, but not good enough to buy the major labels. Not yet.
“Who is it?” she called out.
“It’s me, Chase. Babe, I need to talk to you.”
Hot rage welled up in her chest. She never wanted to see Chase again, ever. “Go away!” she shouted.
“Please. I’m so sorry. Just let me talk to you for a minute, okay? One minute.”
Kamille hesitated. Then she unlocked the dead bolt and opened the door.
Chase was standing there, holding a massive bouquet of cream-colored roses. Their perfume filled the air between them, heavy and sweet. She glanced up at his face, at the tears trickling down his cheeks. Ohmigod, he was crying! She had never seen him cry.
“Chase!”
“Kamille, let me talk. I was so wrong to yell at you like that, at the club. I’ve been under a lot of pressure with the team. My pitching wasn’t a hundred percent this season. I want to make sure they renew my contract instead of trading me away. I want to stay in L.A., I want to stay with you.” He shook his head. “And this tabloid crap, it’s really been weighing on me. It’s like they’re trying to destroy my reputation, and there’s not a damned thing I can do about it. Zoe’s working on a counterstrategy, but she’s not a miracle worker, you know? I’m a good person, an honest person, I just wanna live my life and be the best ballplayer I can be. And, most important of all, I wanna be with you. Forever and ever. If I lost you over this, or over anything, I couldn’t go on living.”
Kamille melted. “Oh, Chase.”
“Kamille.” He rushed in and clasped her fiercely in his arms, crushing the roses between them.
She took them and buried her face in the petals. “Thank you for these,” she murmured.
“I’ll buy you a thousand roses, if they’ll make you happy. I love you, Kamille.”
“I love you, too. So much.”
He scooped her up and carried her to the bedroom, kissing her over and over, whispering her name. She nestled against him, wondering how she could have doubted him—doubted them. They were meant to be together. And no one was going to stand in their way from now on: not the press, not the fans, not anyone.