I throw on shorts, a hoodie, and Doc Martens, and tuck my hair up into a baseball hat. Then I locate the keys to the rental in the bowl on the kitchen counter.
As I open the door to the silver Audi, my phone buzzes again. I buckle my seat belt and check the screen, hoping it’s him.
Sandy. I groan and pick up. “Sandy, can you give me an hour, please? I had too much champagne last night.”
“Paige.” Her voice sounds serious. “Where are you?”
“On my way to Rainer’s mom’s,” I say. “Call you in an hour.” I hang up, feeling only slightly guilty… but I have to prioritize. I type Rainer’s home address into the navigation system.
Somewhere, in the recesses of my mind, I see him, arm around Britney, but I let the image retreat to where it came from. Just because I’m a terrible girlfriend doesn’t mean he’s doing the same thing.
I drive through the canyon and down into Beverly Hills, following the navigation’s instructions. The streets are so flat and wide here, it makes you feel exposed even in a car. And unlike Santa Monica, no one walks. There isn’t a person outside.
I pull up to the Devons’ giant, columned home. It reminds me of Cher’s house inClueless—all white pillars. Two cars sit in the driveway—but Rainer’s black Range Rover is nowhere in sight.
I type in the gate code he gave me and swing around. I’ve only ever been inside this house and met his mother once, and as I climb the steps and ring the doorbell, my stomach feels like it’s been set to boiling. I’m nervous. I wouldn’t blame him if he doesn’t want to see me. What if he’s told his mom how horribly I behaved last night? She will hate me, too.
But nobody answers. I ring again. Once more. Nothing.
I go back to the car. There is another missed call from Sandy. I dial Rainer’s number again. It just rings and rings. Where is he?
I think about his favorite places. Venice. The beach in Santa Monica. Urth Caffé. I pull out of their gate and then over to the curb. I have no idea where to go. Driving around in search of Rainer in public places doesn’t feel like the best option, but I can’t just go home. I need todosomething.
And then I hear a tap on the window.
I look up to see a man in a black sweater. He’s saying something, but I can’t understand through the glass. I roll down the window, just halfway, and when I do, I see another man behind him, holding a camera. Suddenly the lens is right up against the glass. It happens in three seconds, no more.
I’m blinking, trying to catch up, when he starts firing questions at me. “How long have you been cheating on Rainer?” “When did it start?” “Has the affair been going on since you began filming?”
What?
I get it together to roll my window up, but the camera is still there, in my face. I can still hear him yelling questions, but I focus on the car. I shove it into drive and pull out, away from him.
I start driving down Beverly, and my phone goes off again. This time it’s Alexis. I answer on the first ring. She’ll know what the hell is going on. “Jesus, darling, where are you?” she says.
My voice comes in panicked hiccups. “I fought with Rainer last night. I’m trying to find him.… And photographers just yelled at me about an affair.… Going to Urth—”
“Do NOT go to Urth!”
“I thought maybe—”
“Listen to me,” Alexis says, her voice serious. “You are to come directly to my house. Immediately. Do you understand?”
“Have you heard from him?” I ask. “You’re making me scared.”
“Good,” Alexis says. “You should be.”
I meet Alexis at her place—a small house in West Hollywood close to the Grove, a shopping center she hates but still frequents.
She’s standing in the open doorway when I pull up. She’s wearing a bathrobe over yoga pants, and her hair is up in a loose ponytail. I feel a flare of jealousy that she looks this good sick.
“Did anyone see you?” she says. She cranes to look down her street—a tree-lined block that is fairly empty for a Monday in L.A.
“I don’t think so?” I follow her as she motions for me to come inside.
She closes the door and exhales dramatically. “Where were you last night?” She’s looking at me with a mixture of curiosity and accusation. And suddenly I realize what I’ve just done: I’ve come to Jordan’s girlfriend for help.
“The MTV Movie Awards,” I say. “You know that.”
