Page 3 of Lady and the Camp
I’d only recently left Nashville, where I’d lived for several yearshobnobbing,as Mulder put it, with online influencers and alt-country stars (I’d datedtheShane Jordan before he went Hollywood,thankyouverymuch). Then to L.A. for more opportunity. Where I met Kristoff.
My mind raced. So much hit so hard so fast.
“Do you have any questions, Hudson?” Kelly Q’s voice came a little softer, which meant steel lightly warmed in a forge.
I swallowed. “I thought he believed in me. That he really liked me.”
I could practically smell the pity waves through the phone. The agent and attorney’s silence spoke—screamed?—loud enough to sink me another layer lower.
I’d been so naïve. Kristoff hadn’t cared about my vision that every person deserved to look and feel great even if they couldn’t afford high-end brands. He cared about his own image. No, he was obsessed. His desperation to win over the coveted young, professional, female demographic led him to date one of their wholesome, cheerful stars, and buy up a company they liked that he could then profit from.
And for what purpose? The guy had everything.
Ego, it turned out. Pure ego.
“You take care, Hudson,” Kelly Q said, back to sharpened metal. “You’re young. You’ll spring back.”
The call ended, inviting silence free from the witness of adults in professional careers.
I’d truly believed Kristoff saw me as more than a pretty, popular face he could say he discovered. Nope. He saw me as an easy target to attach blame. A girlfriend who blabbed about his financial crimes to the authorities. Which I never did. Because I hadn’t known he wasdoing crimes. Why would I be with a crime guy? Why would I sign on to be a brand ambassador with a company controlled by a shady guy?
But that didn’t matter. The story worked to gain Kristoff favor with his base. My reputation now tarnished for snitching on an innovator who many believed to be above the law, I’d been tossed away, like a disposable face cloth (which were totally bad for the environment).
Disaster. Total disaster.
I curled smaller on my bed and buried my face in a pillow, smooshing my skin against the silk cover.Give me wrinkles. I dare you.
The headlines should have been:Wealthy Man-Boy Tanks Company Mere Weeks After Takeover.
My phone buzzed beside me. And again. And again.
For some unknown reason I flipped the device over. Ignoring the infinite notifications piling up from my social media accounts, I hit my new friend, the phone keypad. I had a call to make. And it was going to be a doozy.
“Jillian?”
A pause. “Hudson? Is that you?”
I sat up, rubbing my bleary eyes. The silk pillowcase, now stained with mascara and shimmer n’ shine highlighter, served as a visual reminder of my disintegrating brand. “It’s me. I’m sorry. I’ve been a terrible friend. I owe you apologies for unanswered calls and texts, and for ditching the trip you planned. I am so—”
“The nerve of that man,” my friend interrupted. “The nerve of that obviously orchestrated video. His constant deflection. Did you see the interview inFame? Does that man even employ a PR rep?”
Words failed. Jillian should have been burned I’d flaked out on our weekend getaway a few weeks ago. I’d ditched not only Jillian but our other friends, even when I’d promised I wouldn’t.
“Marcy’s texting me,” Jillian said. “Can we add her in? Can we do video? Noah wants in too.”
Could I handle video with friends? Were they even still my friends?
Well, Ihadcalled them. Er, Jillian, and by default the others, since news traveled light-speed with the besties. Former besties. I had no idea what to call them. I knew I was on the outs.
“I’m switching to video,” Jillian decided before I could protest. Jillian, the smartest of all of us, had a PhD in brain science. She was so smart she literallystudied brains. “Hanging up and I’ll be back in a flash.”
A moment later, my phone cheerfully announced an incoming video call. Smeared make-up and all, I answered.
Jillian’s fair-skinned face appeared, her blond hair artfully tousled. A switch from her usual ponytail. Two more squares popped up, filling my screen with four faces, including mine.
“Hudson,” Marcy declared. “You look—”
“Shh. The woman just went through a public breakup,” said Noah, a.k.a. “Noah the girl,” because she’d been questioned so often why she was named Noah when it was “a boy’s name.” As if gender neutral names hadn’t rocked the world for decades. I’d experienced a bit of heat myself as agirl Hudson.
