A Scandal at Eastwick Page 7

  “If you brought us here to get us to plead your case to Paulette,” Mariel said, “you’ll be sorely disappointed. We don’t have that kind of power over her. Nor would I want to.”

  James stiffened a little but still said nothing.

  But you came, Lia thought. You came because you wanted to hear what I had to say, to know exactly what I know.

  This was delicate. Already accused of blackmail once, Lia certainly didn’t want to open herself up to the charge again.

  “I just think it could have been anyone,” Lia said again. She turned to James. “I mean, your mother has a strong personality—there must have been other people there who had reasons of their own to…to try to extort her.”

  Still the same harsh, silent gaze, but this time Lia noted something angry about it. They both seemed to be holding their breath, trying to decide if she was indeed going to go there.

  She was.

  “I mean, people can pull accusations out of anywhere,” Lia said, heat flushing to her face. She knew that people thought being an actress (or a failed one, or whatever she was now) meant that she had full control of her emotions, but it was not true. She could only channel emotions, sometimes of other people, mostly her own. If anything, she felt her emotions rather too strongly. “I mean, take your art store.”

  The two words were like a thunderbolt to James McKenzie. Mariel had a better poker face: where James half-rose from the table, locked up, and sank back down, Mariel folded her hands in front of her, face stiff and unmoving, waiting for what came next.

  “I’m not going to tell anyone about that,” Lia said quickly. “It’s none of my business, and I only know what anyone might know about it. I’m just saying that if we want to start pointing fingers, we could realistically point them at anyone, and it’s foolish to—”

  “It’s foolish to threaten us,” Mariel said quietly. She kept her voice low, but her words were like acid. “What about the art shop?”

  Lia struggled to choose her next words carefully. It was embarrassing to admit that she even knew about the art shop, because really she had only found out through a series of social media stalking that had led her down obscure paths and hidden tracks. It had been three years ago, when Lia was having one of her very familiar bouts of self-doubt and despair (in her time spent in Los Angeles, she always seemed to be cycling between that and a bull-headed stubbornness sometimes tinged with a streak of hope that her dreams would come true, that she was just around the corner from a big break, as so many of her friends had been before theirs). She had looked up her old classmates from St. Clair, because that was what she did in those times, comparing her own success to theirs, trying to judge by the curated pictures whether she had won or lost in her life’s gamble.

  Naturally, she had circled soon enough to Harry McKenzie, the last boy she had dated before flying from St. Clair. Not because she missed him, per se, but because she had to know how their lives were stacking up against one another’s, if she was indeed, as she feared, the bigger loser. She saw images that did sometimes strike jealousy in her heart, over the years: Harry at college, surrounded by handsome, preppy boys and sunglass-wearing girls, laughing and carefree, with no auditions and no rent to worry about. Harry at his new condo, probably bought or heavily subsidized by Paulette McKenzie, sharing drinks on the balcony. Harry traveling, Harry drinking coffee in St. Clair, Harry with a slew of girlfriends who popped up every six months or so, never lasting that long.

  Lia knew it was unhealthy, but it was her obsessive habit every time her own world felt too cruel. This particular time she looked, Harry’s profile had nothing new of import, so, she had cycled between some of his family members, a few cousins and James, trying to find anything of interest.

  James’s profile had recently followed an account called “@McKenzieArt11Studio,” which, naturally, Lia had clicked on, leading her to a bare bones account of “the metro area’s newest renowned art studio, featuring collections from Bovère and Claude Igliolo.” There had been a few photos beneath, mostly of green-and-blue watercolors and some rather crude clay sculptures, and then one photo, at the very beginning, of James and Mariel McKenzie standing outside a narrow little shop on the water, James beaming, Mariel looking grim. Neither were tagged in it, but the caption read ‘Proud New Owners.’

  The discovery was intriguing enough that Lia spent some time researching the place. Rent in St. Clair and surrounding areas was not cheap, and she had to imagine that the couple had some help in securing the place. But, why not link to the profile in James’s and Mariel’s own social media accounts? Why the disconnect, the apparent secrecy? Lia followed the little shop with some interest over the next few weeks (nursing her wounded pride over a few failed auditions) and saw the removal of the photo of James and Mariel, and then one day realized that James was not following the shop anymore at all. At first she thought they might have sold it—but a website came next, and when Lia clicked on the link, she found a description of the store owners as “a husband and wife team hailing from St. Clair.”

  Three months later, the shop, the site, and all social media accounts were gone.

  “What about the shop?” Mariel repeated, and Lia blinked, the long history of her stalking retreating back in her mind.

  “Well, it didn’t work out, obviously,” Lia said. “And perhaps if you wanted to start another—” She cut off at Mariel’s harsh look. But even worse than Mariel’s was James’, which looked vindictive, absolutely red with loathing.

  “That wasn’t our fault,” James sputtered, and Mariel held out a hand to stop him.

  “We didn’t come here to talk about that,” she said coolly.

  “What?” Lia said. “It happens. With retail, I mean. It’s hard to get something like that going and—”

  “We were robbed,” James said, this time ignoring Mariel’s look of warning. “Our suppliers wanted us to pay 50% more than the market rate for the Van Hausens! And the city charged us some sort of special ‘art dealership’ tax that was complete nonsense, just because it didn’t like that we were from St. Clair.”

  “You must have been well-funded, though, to buy the building in the first place.” A shot in the dark, but a good one. James’s face flushed.

  “You have to be to start an art dealership,” James said. “It’s risky, but that’s what makes the successful ones so lucrative. You can’t go halfway in. You have to go all the way.”

  “James, you’re the one who wanted to keep quiet about this,” Mariel said. “I always told you that your mother—”

  “Leave her out of it,” James said crossly. “It’s my money. I can do whatever I want with it.”

  “And you did,” Mariel said, with mock lightness. She turned her penetrating gaze on Lia. “I don’t know how you know about the shop,” she said. “Did Harry tell you? Did he find out?”

  “It would be like Harry, telling everyone,” James said bitterly. “My mother knows too, then, hmm? Expects me to hit her up for a loan soon?”

  “Or blackmail,” Lia said quietly. James and Mariel went pale and exchanged a look.

  “Preposterous,” Mariel said. “We don’t need to blackmail Paulette for anything.”

  “Except money,” James joked, cowing at Mariel’s reprimanding gaze. “Anyway. There’s no way that my mother would give me any money to start something new. Nor do I intend to ask her.”

  “Are you starting something new?” Lia asked, and the couple looked at her suspiciously.

  “We always have ideas,” Mariel said. “So what?”

  So what? James and Mariel McKenzie had just admitted that they had lost a great deal of money a few years ago, and were in need of an infusion of it somewhere soon to pursue new goals. Furthermore, the money they had lost must have been a significant portion of James’s trust fund—perhaps all—and he was nervous to tell his mother for fear of her disapproval.

  Did that provide a convincing enough case that it was they who had blackmailed Paulette? Lia didn
’t know—her instincts told her that James, no matter how resentful he grew of his mother, would never resort to blackmail. What about Mariel? Mariel with her square shoulders, her practical words, her sharp gaze. Would Mariel see it merely as a business transaction, something mechanical and unemotional, devoid of shame? Would she be capable of coordinating it?

  “What about Mrs. McKenzie, your mother?” Lia tried. “Do you know anything about her that you think people would want to use against her?”

  “Of course not!” James cried. Mariel, when Lia turned to look at her, frowned deeply and shook her head. “This is—preposterous! You lured us here under false pretenses, and now you’re trying to say—you’re blackmailing us!”

  Lia blushed. “That absolutely is not—”

  “I think we’re done here,” Mariel said, cool and collected. Lia felt the eyes of the other patrons drifting towards their little group. “James, come on. We don’t need to sit here and listen to this any longer.”

  James rose, face still blotchy with anger. What if James had already asked his mother for more money? What if she had refused? Was it a far stretch to think that a man capable of that kind of anger would be capable of some sort of crime?

  James leaned in, face just inches from hers. “You think that just because you dated Harry that I must be the bad brother, hmm?” he said. “You think that Harry is just perfect? Well, he’s not.”

  “James,” Mariel said.

  He ignored her. “You want to know about criminal activity? Not some stupid, legitimate business that had the cards stacked against it from the start? Why don’t you try asking your ex-boyfriend about his arrest, hmm? Or are you really just trying to blackmail everyone you can for a little more money?”

  “I’m not…” Lia began, aware that James’s voice had grown louder and shakier as he spoke, so much that one of the café attendants had paused, latte in hand, torn between coming to check on their table and getting her manager.

  “That’s enough, James,” Mariel said, and wrenched him away from Lia. Her face was smooth and impassive; whatever Harry had done, she wasn’t going to show what she thought of it.

  James spared Lia one more wrathful glare and then turned his back on her.

  Mariel’s square heels clicked as the couple made their way out of the café. Lia sunk lower in her seat. On the whole, she had learned more than she had expected to, but she felt exhausted, embarrassed, spent. Maybe she was being foolish. Maybe all she had to do was mind her business for a few more days and leave St. Clair for good—who cared if everyone in the town thought that she was a blackmailer? They’d never prove it, because it wasn’t true.

  Lia’s phone rang. Lucas. He had suggested they exchange numbers after the Paulette debacle. “Hello?” Lia said.

  “Are you still in town?” Lucas said. “Look, there’s something that you should know.”

  Chapter 20

  Lia had realized almost immediately that being out in L.A. was not what she wanted: she liked the craft, and she hated the hustle. She wanted to act as a hobby but didn’t like trying to make it a career. And yet she was there, and she had committed herself, so she felt like she couldn’t go back on it.

  Her parents had been less than thrilled about their daughter’s Hollywood ambitions, and indeed had adamantly refused to give her the money they had saved for college so that she could put herself up for a few months at least. Lia thought that fair, even if her eighteen-year-old self had thrown a spoiled tantrum at the time. Certainly she would have no guaranteed skills after four years of auditions that would lead (presumably) to stable full-time jobs.

  The peaks and valleys of her life in Hollywood were difficult; harder still were the fleeting friendships, the endless networking and social climbing, the reminder each day that her shelf life was limited, that she hadn’t had the same “big breaks” as younger, prettier, more talented actresses (her agent said).

  And the longer Lia was out there, the more she questioned her decisions—her judgment, even. She was not running from some horrible home, some awful family, some part of the country with few opportunities and few prospects. She had left good friends, a boyfriend who cared about her (at least as much as a high school kid could), and a town that had been her own, even if it had its problems. She felt the stark difference of her life in Los Angeles and wondered if she had thrown everything away. She had not found better friends. She had not found a stronger career. She had not found more wealth, even, that might have soothed her disappointment. She dated, here and there, but the actors were awful and the producers worse, and it was nigh impossible to find anyone who didn’t fit those two categories—aspiring or otherwise.

  The closest she had ever come to something like success had been three years ago, when she had auditioned for a pilot on a big network. She had auditioned next to a gaggle of other actresses who looked exactly like her, and what was worse, a handful in the final rounds who were her complete opposite, suggesting that the show might be taken in a new direction entirely. Lia had a good relationship with the casting producer, who had moved up the ranks since they had first met a few years ago on the set of a commercial. She had received more than the usual number of positive affirmations after her audition, and what’s more, no one was exceedingly nice to her on the way out, offering to pay for her parking as a subtle recompense for what they knew would ultimately be wasted time.

  And then? Bliss. Lia’s agent called: she had gotten the part. She was to play an E.R. doctor on another of those medical shows that centered on high-stakes medical cases and the complicated love lives of residents. The script changed every so often, as higher-ups at the studio watched the budget numbers grow higher and higher and wanted to make more and more modifications to insure a return on investment. By the time Lia filmed the pilot, one of the co-leads had been fired, the setting had changed from Chicago to Las Vegas, and zombies had been added. Lia had a sneaking suspicion that her character already had been graced with a latent zombie infection, and was a little hesitant to see how that particular arc would play out.

  The pilot had been shot: the process was thrilling, terrifying, anxiety-inducing, and surprisingly, all at the same time, mundane. Lia tried to balance her hopes that finally this was it, finally she would make it, with the more sober expectations of having been in Hollywood long enough to know that the merry-go-round rarely took you anywhere at all. Still, her agent was getting calls. She had booked two more commercials and was in talks with the zombie doctor show to sign a more robust contract, after the premiere. And even though pilots could often go nowhere, Lia was assured, time and time again, that the show was “too big to fail,” that no matter what, the pilot would see air time, and the show was guaranteed at least eight episodes.

  And then? She should have expected it. But when she had just let all of her walls down, when she had just started to believe that this would be it, when she had finally made the call to her mother and told her excitedly of her change in fortunes, had convinced half of her family to keep their weekday evenings clear for the next four months (Thursday, she thought it would be Thursday, but of course she couldn’t be sure)—only then did she receive not a phone call, but stone-cold silence, for weeks.

  Finally she reached out to some other cast members, and it was through them that she heard: the pilot was cancelled. Something to do with early screenings and not testing well, though a few of the people she talked to spoke of some affair a producer had with a B-list actress, a lawsuit that meant he was backing out. Lia was aghast. Surely it was too late for that? Surely all the money and contracts and time meant that something would have to air? They had to have something to show for all of it. She had to have something to show for all of it—for this opportunity, for Los Angeles, for her decision to throw her life away on a dream.

  But no. That was the lesson that Lia had taken that day, a lesson reinforced when her agent dropped her the next month (her fourth overall), when the commercials and other promising opportunities vanished as q
uickly as the pilot had, once it was clear that Lia was not about to become a fresh new star. It didn’t matter with what fervor Lia pursued her dreams. It didn’t matter that she had been so sure, when she was young and starry-eyed and sheltered, that she would be one of the chosen few. Hollywood was full of people with dreams, and each and every person there thought at one point or another that they were a special enough snowflake to make it. No, Lia was never meant to be a leading lady—fate had ordained her to be an extra, one of those pitiable people who never learned to give up early enough, who had cast herself whole on the altar of hope and ambition, to be entirely consumed by the flames.

  And now? Lia had known that St. Clair was home to her no longer. But it was a cruel reception to be so wholly rejected by the nostalgic world of her past. To be iced out, to know with certainty that she could never be welcomed back. Not that she wanted to—Lia repeated that refrain to herself, over and over.

  But oh, how she wished to be!

  Chapter 21

  Lucas had Lia meet him at his condo in town, after she had steadfastly refused to meet him at the yacht club.

  “Sorry,” Lucas said sheepishly when she arrived. “I just figured you’d prefer not to wait for me to get home.”

  It was four o’clock now; Lucas had initially suggested they meet at two. Lia had spent the interim eating lunch at the cheapest café she could find, trying to focus on searching for apartments in various east coast cities even though the details of Paulette’s blackmail kept swirling in her mind. She wanted to talk to Harry next—she had to—but she could only imagine the reception she’d receive. His mother hated her, now his brother and sister-in-law…and Lia didn’t think she would be a favorite with the girlfriend, either, if she tried to speak to Harry alone.

  “Tea? Coffee?” Lucas suggested, ushering her into his loft. It was sickeningly beautiful, the kind of place built on generations of family money and a respectable job. Lia’s family was comfortable, but never so rich as this. The place was all exposed brick and wooden beams, huge windows and streaming sunlight. Lucas ushered her over to the kitchen with its farmhouse sink and double ovens and invited her to sit at one of the counter stools.