Page 76 of Love, Lines, and Alibis
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Have you ever showered—okay, I guesscleanedis the more appropriate verb here. Have you ever cleaned yourself with a make-up remover wipe? Don’t judge me if I tell you that’s exactly what I did that afternoon before getting into the dress I just bought. I then had a video phone consultation with my sister who helped me rein in my hair into what she called achignonthat was held together with lots of hair pins and even more hair wax. I was feeling so fancy, I even put some foundation and mascara on.
“You clean up well,” David said when he opened the door to his apartment a few minutes later. He gave me a stare that it was impossible for me to misinterpret:You look HOT.
“I’m not technicallyclean, and we should definitely do this more often,” I said, appreciating him unabashedly. He wore a slim-fit two-piece black suit over a white shirt open at the collar. He looked like a rebellious dandy.
“Drive or walk?” he asked at the landing as he was locking his front door. “Parking is going to be a nightmare.”
“Scribe, even if none of us are wearing heels, the Shrine Auditorium is almost an hour walk from here.” I checked my cell phone. “The Uber should be here in a minute, and we’ll barely make it there as is.”
“Fine, but you owe me a walk around the city.” He was definitely the most avid pedestrian born in LA I’d ever met.
…
“All glitzy feel-good stories should always include a bit where the protagonists get all glammed up to go to a silly party,” I told David as we were being dropped off in front of the 1920’s auditorium with a Moorish Revival style where the SAG Awards were about to start.
“Make sure to add this part to the script then,” David said, smiling. He held my hand while we walked toward the red carpet area.
“Wait, is that Pedro Pascal?” I stopped in the middle of the street, pulling my hand out of his to put it on his chest. Let me clarify—David’s chest, not Pedro’s. “What is he wearing?”
“I literally don’t know what or who you’re talking about,” David said. “You do realize there’s a security checkpoint to access the red carpet, right?” He brought me back to earth and forced me to stop ogling in Pedro’s direction.
“No te preocupes,” I told David. “We’ll be fine.”
We approached the check-in point and I did what I hadn’t done ever before: embraced my family connections.
“Elena Freire Valls,” I told the security people. “Plus guest. Should be on the list. I’m the mayor’s daughter.”
Two of the security people looked at each other in resignation, as if saying,Here we go again. I guess they were going to ask me for proof of identity, but it wasn’t necessary.
Aurora Valls herself descended that instant on the Shrine Auditorium followed by an entourage of personal assistants and bodyguards, and by a swarm of cameras and journalists. I know she’s my mother, and you may think I’m not the most objective person when it comes to her, but the whole thing was like your typical deus ex machina plot device. Plus, she did look goddesslike.
“I thought you’d said you didn’t want to come,” my mom told me as a way of greeting. I realized it would appear that two people had invited me to that particular party, but I’d been too absent-minded to remember.
“Oh, I’m not coming,” I replied. “But I need you to get me through security. I’m meeting my agent at the red carpet.”
“That’s highly atypical and bizarre.” On principle, she was against all things that couldn’t be labelednormal.
“I’m atypical and bizarre.” Let me tell you, this self-assured feeling was the best high I’ve felt in a long time.
“I guess you are, bitxo,” she said. She hadn’t used the Catalan pet name with me in a long time.
“Don’t have time to go over a therapy session with you right now and ask about the use of that particular word at this particular time. I see Beatrice, and we need to talk about work,” I told my mother, and I knew if there was someone who appreciated hard work, it was her.
So she got me through security with expediency, asked for a kiss on the cheek, and let me go.
“Aurora,” David greeted the mayor while I dragged him behind me.
“David,” my mother replied with a nod.
But we didn’t have time for the two of them to dislike one another overtly in public, as I was walking in Beatrice’s direction with David in tow. I was going over the pitch in my mind but once in front of Beatrice, I somehow ended up saying something absolutely different and not rehearsed at all.
“Before we go over the pitch or you hijack the conversation, let me tell you, I hate air kisses and hugging people who aren’t my family or close friends. Also, I don’t appreciate being threatened,” I told Beatrice. “And don’t call mehoney.”
“Honey,” Beatrice started, flapping her hands, clearly flustered. “I mean, Elena, I’m sorry if I ever made you feel uncomfortable?—”
“We don’t have time for this right now. We’re not staying,” I told her. “I’m writing a movie about Dashing Henry’s death. It’ll have murder, an investigation, chases, one or two deceptions, and quite the amount of suspense and sex. It’sLA Misconductsmeets true crime, with a dash ofSpotlight. Can you sell it?”
