Page 34 of The Last Days of Lilah Goodluck

“Where, then?” she asks. “A hotel?”

“I think so. Something with security and room service.” I take a deep breath. “It should only be for a day or two.”

“They’ll see that you’re boring and go back to chasing pop stars and actors around town in no time,” she jokes. “Lilah, are you okay? Your face in that photo... You look so sad.”

“It was nothing. Just weird lighting or something.”

“That’s the excuse you’re going with?”

I sigh. “The truth is, I hardly know the man, and I doubt I’ll be hearing from him again. It’s not worth worrying about.”

“I didn’t realize you’d been in touch with him again. You really don’t want to talk about it?”

“No,” I confirm. “Not right now. But thanks. I have an appointment to get to.”

“Okay. Let me know if you change your mind. Or if you want some company in your hotel room.”

“Will do.”

My phone chimes, and a text message appears on-screen.

Josh:How could you do this to me?

Josh:I was giving you time to calm down and you fucking cheat on me? You’re such a bitch!

What an entitled prick. Kicking Josh out is fast becoming the best choice I’ve ever made.

“Stay in a haunted hotel” wasn’t on my wish list before, but what the heck? The Hollywood Roosevelt is a Spanish-style building from the 1920s. The first Oscars ceremony was held here, and the ghosts of Marilyn Monroe, Montgomery Clift, and Lucille Ball have been sighted on the premises. My loft suite has a modern king-size four-poster bed, a big comfy armchair, and a desk. It is both cool and comfortable, and only a few blocks’ walk from my second appointment of the day.

But more about that later.

Booking into a hotel in the middle of Hollywood might not seem smart for someone on the down-low. However, it’s not like I plan on leaving my room for the next twenty-four hours. It sucks to lose a day, but this will blow over. In the meantime, the bathtub is calling my name. My apartment doesn’t have one, and hot water and bubbles are sublime. The heat is particularly great on my neck and hip. Though I make sure to keep the new bandage on my wrist from my afternoon’s adventure out of the water.

Now is the time to wrangle my cell. I block Josh for both being a dickhead and a hypocrite. My bad I hadn’t already blocked him after I caught him cheating. But the feeling of liberation is immense. Just pure freedom. The amount of energy I exerted when we were together telling myself that we worked is embarassing. Live and learn.

Now might be the time to get a new phone number. I delete over a dozen messages from curious contacts who’ve seen my picture in the paper: an acquaintance from work, someone I knew in college, a roommate from way back when. They all have questions, none of which I have any interest in answering. Most of these people I haven’t heard from in years. Making friends as an adult is hard, though I also might just not be any good at it. I always had books to keep me company.

I do answer a message from Mr. Pérez with an apology. He found a photographer standing in the front garden. Staying away from home for now is the right choice.

Next is an email from my insurers confirming they’re writing off the Prius. The repairs would cost more than the vehicle is worth, apparently. I call Mom and Dad and update them on my whereabouts. Mom’s cousin had texted her about my situation. But I manage to explain things without too much trouble. Sort of. After the lotto win, they seem open to almost anything happening when it comes to me. Then I nuke anything and everything from the media. Including the offer of a stupid amount of money for a tell-all interview about you-know-who. Like I even know him that well.

I don’t mean to google myself. My fingers must have slipped, as wrinkled and waterlogged as they are. The moment it’s done, I know it’s a mistake. Dread sits heavy in my stomach. People always say, “Don’t read the comments.” But when you accidentally go viral, “Don’t read anything” would be better advice.

The body positivity movement has claimed me. Which is cool. However, most monarchists think me fat and common. Same goes for many of Alistair’s stans. The few that are shipping us are being buried under the avalanche of online hate. Anonymous sources say the king is horrified. Again. (You would think he had better things to do.) There has been no sign of Alistair himself, so they make his absence a statement. He is embarrassed. He is heartbroken. He is in an emergency meeting with his people. And my personal favorite, he and I have made up and eloped to Mexico. How exciting. Nothing new to report about Daria Moore. Though of course there is plenty of speculation. And Lady Helena declined to comment, but she did flip the bird at a photographer from her front patio. What a woman.

She was right about how understanding what parasites the paparazzi are requires firsthand experience. There’s nothing like having your life reduced to clickbait. Let alone the whole damn world having an opinion about you. So gross and weird.

I have to convince myself to get out of the bath. Staying in it feels safe, though my skin is going to shit. I climb out and wrap myself up in a fluffy white robe. It’s been a while since I stayed at a hotel. All I have with me are the contents of my purse. I washed my panties, bra, socks, and tee with soap in the basin and hung them on towel racks. Happily, local stores can deliver whatever else I need.

This is not so bad. No sign of any ghosts yet. However, if I were a deceased Hollywood star, I wouldn’t show up until after midnight. It would almost be common to haunt the halls before then. Make people work for the scares by staying up late. I am determined to give my poor liver a day off. But I can still order room service and read a book on my cell. I am perfectly fine dealing with this all on my own. No one else needs to be bothered by this bullshit. I’ll do the sensible thing and hide away for a day or two, then get on with my wish list. All good.

“Yes! Success.”

Two whole bowling pins topple noisily onto the wooden lane, and I do a dance in my borrowed shoes. It’s important to celebrate your own small triumphs. The bartender said the speakeasy is usually busy, but not tonight. Lucky for me. Though it is past eleven on a weeknight, and this is LA, and some people will party any time of the day or night.

The Hollywood Roosevelt has several bars and restaurants. This one is an old gaming room on the mezzanine level. Lots of polished wood and a wealth of liquor bottles lined up on the shelves behind the bar. And two bowling lanes, which is great. I have never bowled before. As demonstrated by my current performance.

The truth is, I got lonely in my room. A good book is usually more than enough to keep me company, but my mind kept wandering. Being stuck in a hotel room, no matter how nice, got old fast. Down here, however, the vibe is good, and the music is loud. The pins are set up again, and I stretch my neck, pick up the bowling ball, and do my thing. Such style and grace. The ball unfortunately heads straight into the gutter.

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