FOUR

 

Whatever plans I'd had to stay in bed when Monday morning arrived were destroyed as soon as Jess came strolling into my room.

“I'm not going. She's mean,” I said, holding onto the blanket as she tried to tug it from me.

“I deal with bigger jerks than entitled celebrities, and you don't see me hiding out in my bedroom.”

“That's because you're made of steel.”

“No, it's because if I don't go to work, who's going to pay the bills?”

I groaned, loosened my grip on the blanket. “All right, I get it, I'm a lousy roommate. But... she's mean.” I made another play for the blanket, now that I'd tricked her into loosening up too. She was too quick though.

“And what about all of that stuff you said about seeing this through, standing up to her, not being intimidated?”

“I said that before I met her.”

“What exactly are you afraid of? That she'll invite you to join another threesome?”

I regretted telling her about that incident as soon as I did, because all weekend she'd been teasing me about it, bringing it up in conversations where it didn't belong. She seemed to find the whole thing hilarious. “Or are you afraid that next time you might actually take her up on it?”

I opened my mouth in outrage. “What is that supposed to mean? Why would I...would I...?”

She shrugged. “You insist you're not asexual, and I believe you. But sooner or later you're going to have to let someone into your pants. That's all I'm saying.”

“Oh, and you think that someone should be Autumn Anders and a bunch of women I've never met before?” I couldn't believe what I was hearing, from my best friend of all people. Why the hell was everyone so invested in my sex life and whether or not I was getting laid?

“You could do a lot worse.” She shrugged again, as if it was as simple as that.

“I could also do a lot better. Are we really having this conversation? I'm her assistant, for God's sake! I'm not sleeping with her. She's not my type anyway.” I could have gone on listing all the reasons why the idea was absurd, but Autumn not being my type wasn't one of them. With her big, oceanic blue eyes and flowing blonde locks, plus a body the envy of models the world over, I would have been hard-pressed to find someone who didn't find her beguiling. She had universal beauty, a rare thing.

“Exactly, you're her assistant. So get your butt out of bed.”

There was no use arguing with her. She would have stayed there scolding me all day, missing work herself, just so I couldn't chicken out. I loved her ninety-nine percent of the time, but that morning, I wanted to kill her.

 

“There's my favorite virgin!” was the first thing Autumn said when I turned up at her mansion later that morning. When I grimaced she cackled wickedly.

“Good morning, Miss Anders,” I said in a small voice. I was relieved to see that she was at least clothed, though not very much. She wore a bra top and tiny, tight flannel shorts, so short they might as well have been panties. Her hair had that tousled look; she hadn't been up long. Her eyes were slightly puffy, but she still looked gorgeous. She shouldn't have, but she did. She smelled great too, like flowers. Roses, maybe? A warm, soft scent that seemed so contradictory on someone like her, who had made a name for herself by being hard as nails.

She let me in, and I felt her eyes on me as I took in my surroundings. I'd never been inside a mansion before. Actually, I'd never been outside of one either. Not directly. I tried not to drool, and closed my mouth when I noticed it was open. Unfortunately, it didn't stay closed long.

“All of this space for one person. Seems a bit excessive.”

She cocked her head to one side and regarded me with what looked like fascination and confusion. Had I been in her shoes I would have worn the same expression.

“What's it to you how I spend my money?”

“Sorry, I don't know why I said that."

“You just can't help yourself, can you? This is our second encounter and you're yet again passing judgment on my way of life.”

“I'm sorry, Miss Anders, that wasn't my intention.”

Nothing about her expression suggested she had taken offense, she simply stared at me in wonderment. I didn't like that. I was the normal one here! If anyone should have been staring it was me.

Eventually she stopped, walked to her kitchen. Not knowing what to do, I followed her. The house seemed to grow as I traveled through it. There must have been at least eight bedrooms, and countless reception rooms. There were probably rooms she hadn't even visited before.

“You're not going to last, you know.” She pulled open the fridge, took out a beer.

Although I didn't have a clock or watch to hand, and pulling out my cell phone to check the time would have been too obvious, I was certain it was still morning.

“I, I don't know what you mean.” I watched her open it and take a big, thirsty gulp as though the drink was giving her life.

“You working here. You'll never last. Too sensitive. I've made just about every assistant I've ever had leave in tears.” She spoke with pride, smiled to herself before taking another swig of her drink.

“I don't cry easily.”

“You haven't seen me angry.”

What was this? Was she trying to get me to quit? For someone who had trouble keeping hold of an assistant, she sure wasn't handling this the right way.

“So you might as well leave now and do yourself a favor,” she added nonchalantly.

She was trying to get me to quit. But why?

Something sparked inside me, that resilience and stubbornness that ignited whenever I was ready to give up, or when someone insisted I couldn't do something. Suddenly all I wanted to do was prove her wrong. When she looked at me she saw a wimp – a juvenile virgin who thought the world was filled with rainbows and butterflies and happiness. She wasn't alone; I'd been that girl to everyone for as long as I could remember. But no one ever saw the fighter in me, the tenacity that burned fierce.

Giving up wasn't an option.

“You've given me no reason to leave, so if it's all right with you I think I'll stay.” It wasn't so much a request as a statement of intent. Unless she fired me I wasn't going anywhere.

She raised an eyebrow, looked me up and down, taking forever for her eyes to make the journey, her attempt at trying to intimidate me no doubt.

“You think you'll be the one to tame the big, bad Autumn Anders?” she said, letting out a bitter snort. “You think you're the first to try?”

I had no idea what she was talking about, and put it down to the drink, even though it wouldn't have taken effect so quickly.

“Everyone thinks there's a nice side to me, and that if they just peel the layers of shit away, the years of misery, they'll find it.” She laughed. “But they keep peeling, and you know what they find? Just more of the same. Because this is the only me there is.”

I got the feeling this conversation wasn't about me or my job, so I kept quiet until I was sure she'd finished speaking.

“And just so you know, I'm not the one who wanted you here. The label thinks I'm incapable of functioning without help. So they sent a little kid to babysit me.” She threw back what was left of her drink, having finished it in record time. “And I, in turn, make their lives a living nightmare. Maybe everyone will get the message soon and leave me the fuck alone.”

I prayed that the look I was giving her didn't reflect the pity I felt for her. Nobody took kindly to being pitied.

“Everyone needs help sometimes.”

“I'm not everyone. I'm better than most.” This pronouncement was surprisingly devoid of all smugness; it seemed almost as though she didn't believe it herself. She slid the empty bottle across the counter to me. “Get rid of this for me. And when you've done that, you can get started on my laundry. There's enough in there to keep you busy for a few hours. I'm going back to bed.” She was gone before I could ask her where the laundry room was, or to tell her that, historically, the duties of an assistant didn't extend to doing laundry. I had a feeling that the latter would fall on deaf ears, that she didn't care what my title was – to her, help was help.

I tracked down the laundry room after a couple of minutes, getting lost along the way. Seriously, the house was like a maze. Rooms with nothing in them but doors leading to more rooms. A child's playground of hiding places. And sure enough, just as she'd said, the laundry was waiting for me. Two piles stacked high in baskets. There must have been at least a month's worth of clothes there!

“Disgusting,” I mumbled, shaking my head. It would take me hours to get through everything.

There was a stack of magazines on the counter, probably left by the last maid/assistant, which I busied myself with while I waited for the loads to finish. Walking out now and never looking back was still an option, I reminded myself, after my fifth or sixth sigh of the morning. But that was what she wanted, that was what she expected. It was just laundry, after all. Nothing life-threatening. Nothing I couldn't handle.

“Hey. How is it? Are you doing anything exciting?” Jessica's enthusiasm traveled down the phone line, loud even over the sound of the washer spinning.

“Sure, if you consider doing somebody else's laundry exciting. I've been doing it for the past three hours. I'm bored out of my mind.”

Her laugh wasn't helping the situation. “Laundry? That's not your job.”

“Try telling her that.”

“What's she doing now? What does her house look like? Is it awesome?” I didn't think my plight was of any interest to my friend; the wacky world of the lady of rock mattered so much more. I felt like putting the phone down on her.

“She's sleeping. The house is huge. Seems pretty lonely though.”

I heard her munching; I'd caught her on her lunch break, but now regretted the call as it reminded me that I hadn't eaten at all that day, besides a burned bagel the owner of our local bakery gave me free of charge.

“I gotta say, Elle, I'm not impressed. I was expecting wild stories of scandalous liaisons involving other stars, not laundry. It makes filing an injunction sound like a trip to France.”

The tedium of doing laundry didn't frighten me nearly as much as the thought of the scandalous liaisons. I would have taken dirty clothes over that any time. I didn't bother relaying this to Jess, because she already thought I was boring.

She spoke briefly for a couple more minutes until she had to get back to work. Another hour and a half passed down in that cramped, stuffy room before, to my relief, the work was done. It had begun to feel as though I would never get through it.

Autumn's bedroom was the fourth door I knocked on my search to find her.

“Autumn,” I called gently.

“What?” she answered groggily, as though I'd just woken her.

“I've finished your laundry.”

“So what do you want, a prize?”

“No, I just wanted to know what you wanted me to do next.”

Silence. It went on for so long I thought she'd fallen back asleep. But after a while she said, “Well, are you coming in or not?”

I wanted to stay outside, afraid of what state of undress I might find her in. I entered cautiously, and found her stretching on her bed, her big, blonde hair messier than ever before. Funnily enough, she didn't look any different from the way she did on stage.

“I didn't expect you to still be here.”

“Where did you think I would have gone?”

“Home. But you're not very smart, I can see that. Either that or you need this gig a lot more than I thought. What is it, your parents cut you off?”

I frowned, ignoring the fact that she'd just insulted me. “I don't know what you mean.” What did she think I was, some trust-fund brat who had never worked a day in her life? She couldn't have been further from the truth.

“It's always refreshing to see your type doing manual labor. It restores my faith in natural justice.”

My frown deepened. My type? “You're wrong about me.”

“Really? Let's see, privately educated, vacations in The Hamptons, probably had a couple of horses where other less fortunate kids had to settle for a hamster. Am I close?”

“Not at all.” I didn't know why her words had surprised me so much, considering she hadn't been the first person to say something similar. I'd heard it all my life. It came with the territory of being raised by Catholic schoolteachers, of (mostly) using the English language correctly, of dressing like a repressed nun because anything else would “send the wrong message to men” – as my mother said. I'd tried to loosen up before I arrived, in order to fit in; but clearly my gray pencil skirt and white shirt combo, coupled with my hair tied up in a bun, had sent a completely different message. She thought I was a snob.

“Whatever impression I gave you, I can assure you you're wrong. It took my parents years to save enough for my college fund, and even then I still had to work in a bookstore to pay for my living expenses and coursebooks.” What right did she have to call me out for presumed privilege when she lived in a house with a million rooms and no other guests? It was on the tip of my tongue to say it.

She laughed. “Someone's defensive.”

And pissed. “Was there anything else you needed me to do for you today, Miss Anders?” I couldn't keep the acrimony out of my voice.

She didn't answer immediately, only stepped past me and made her way to her walk-in closet. Having just spent the past four-and-a-half hours washing what I thought was her whole wardrobe, I couldn't believe my eyes when she switched on the light. The racks were full to the brim, as though nothing was missing from them. How much clothing did one person need, especially this woman, who didn't seem to like wearing anything at all?

She leafed through her selection, and I risked a cheeky glance at her butt, unable to help looking at the way the shorts were hitched up, revealing a bit of her left cheek.

“What will the weather be like this afternoon?”

What did she think I was, a meteorologist or a climatologist or something? “I don't know.”

“Well you should. How am I supposed to decide on an outfit if I don't know what the weather will be like?”

“I'm sorry. Next time I'll check before I leave.”

She handed me a T-shirt and some faded, pale denim jeans to hold, then some underwear. I stood there like a clothes horse while she undressed in front of me, stripping down to nothing! The whole time her eyes were fixed on me, the faintest smirk on her lips as she watched me trying to look everywhere but at her.

“Do you know how many women and men would sell everything they owned to be in your position right now?” she said. The torture seemed to last an eternity; the temptation to look growing more intense. Even as her clothes lay at her feet, she didn't move from her spot in front of me. “Millions, if my Twitter followers are anything to go by. And yet here you are, doing all you can not to look at me.”

Her shallowness didn't shock or bother me; I'd been expecting it. But this teasing, using her body as a weapon, that I hadn't seen coming. Was it all a power play? There didn't appear to be a suitable explanation for it.

“Don't you know it's rude not to look at someone when they're speaking to you?”

I gulped. The painting behind her head, on which my gaze lay, was beginning to lose its coherence. Even without seeing her smirk I could certainly hear it.

“Look at me.”

I did as she commanded. Now I saw the smirk.

“What's the matter, isn't this a more appropriate place to be naked? Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I never want you to get comfortable around me.”

Well there was no chance of that happening. She was, quite literally, the meanest person I'd ever met.