The Redhead Plays Her Hand (Redhead #3)(34)
Author: Alice Clayton

“Yep.” I sighed tiredly, the weight of the day beginning to weigh on me.

“Is that all you’re going say?”

“I’ll be home soon, Jack,” I replied, hanging up.

This wasn’t his fault, not by a long shot. But the roller-coaster of emotions had just bottomed out, and I was exhausted. I looked at Holly, who was furiously typing on her phone.

“We’re done for the day, right?”

“Yep,” she answered with a rueful grin. I hugged her, grabbed my bag, and headed out to my car. Where I turned the music up as loud as it would go and took the long way home.

This is the life you chose . . .

Yep.

I pulled into my drive and noticed Jack’s car was home. I sat in my front seat for a moment, collecting myself. This day had been a mix of extreme highs and lows. Highs being holding my own throughout a press junket that could have pulled me under a wave of bullshit. Once you got past the questions you knew they had to ask, some of the reporters actually gave me some great feedback about the show. Not only had they watched it, they enjoyed it. It was a heady thing, knowing that people were seeing your work and getting something out of it. Lows being obvious, and something I wanted to forget about. But I couldn’t, that was the old Grace. The sweep everything under the carpet, lock-it-up-in-the-Drawer Grace. That’s where I was tempted to send this entire debacle with Jack and the pictures. But nope. I was an adult now, or at least I was playing one on TV. The truth was, I wasn’t mad about the pictures—at least not mad at Jack. How could I be? He was just as much a target here as I was. As I engaged in my front-seat contemplation, I saw the curtains flutter a bit in the front window, the dining room. Squinting, I could make out the shape of Jack moving around, lighting candles.

Interesting. What was he up to? With a smile, I got out of the car and let myself in the front door, just catching sight of him heading back into the kitchen. Kicking off my heels and setting down my bag, I glanced into the dining room. The table was set, candles were lit, flowers were arranged. Rounding the corner, I spied him in front of the stove, every burner going, every pot and pan in California either full of something or burned in the sink. Pasta crunched underfoot, alerting him to my presence. As he spun around, I laughed out loud when I saw the state of his shirt, which was covered in sauce.

“What are you doing?” I laughed as he slammed the lid back down on something that spittered and sputtered on the burner.

“Dammit, I wanted to have everything done when you got home.” He grabbed a spoon and flicked tomato something or other all over the backsplash. Which is what a backsplash is for, I suppose . . .

“What’s all this, George?” I asked, coming to rest on a high stool out of the line of fire.

“I just wanted to make you dinner, something nice. Turns out cooking is really bloody hard!” He struggled with a colander. The colander was winning. “I’d kiss you but I’m dirty.”

“I like you dirty. I’ll risk it.”

He smiled, but kept his eyes on the colander and the pasta that was now escaping. “I felt terrible about today. I just wanted, I wanted to do something that could— Oh, damn this linguine,” he mumbled.

“Can I help you? Please?” I slipped down off the stool and walked to him. Quietly I finished draining the pasta, leaving it in the colander.

He stood next to me, leaning over the sink, face troubled. “I just hate that this happened, that they would use me to go after you in this way.” He sighed.

“I know,” I answered, leaning into his side. He smelled like garlic. He smelled wonderful.

“I wish I could tell you this kind of thing won’t happen again, but it will, Grace.”

“I know.”

“It’s gonna get worse.”

“I know.” I sighed into his shoulder. “But the good outweighs the bad.”

“Does it?”

“Of course it does. Now feed me this wonderful dinner.”

I went back to my perch as he finished. I could have helped more, but I wanted to let him do this for me. Over dinner we talked about some of the better parts of the day, and we went about the business of getting past this. Past the bullshit. Past the part where someone, several someones actually, went out of their way to try to hurt both of us. We both sighed into our linguine several times.

thirteen

I loved spending quality time with my new trainer, Megan.

“As far as I can tell, you were doing great, Grace, and then you crashed your system with that stupid diet. You worked out too much, you weren’t eating enough, and your body responded by holding on to everything once you started eating again. It’ll take some time, but we can get a little of this off, although you’re pretty much where your body wants you to be.”

“My body wants me to be high in the sky, twisted like a pretzel?”

“In the meantime, we work on your inner strength.” She laughed, ignoring my feeble joke, as she downward dogged me on the balcony. Megan was an actual exercise physiologist, with a degree and zero interest in being an actor. She had her own workout facility high above the city in the Wilshire corridor. She was organic, honest, and a breath of fresh air. Literally, up this high, you could smell the ocean above the smog. I looked forward to these workouts.

“I just want to get back to where I was, that’s all.” I sighed through my legs as she had me switch poses.

“I’d like you to be even better than you were before.” She winked. “What does your boyfriend think about everything?”

“Please. He thinks the more for him to love, the better.” I snorted, her hands on my hips as she coaxed me into another shape. And it was true. Jack loved me for who I was, hips and all. Just wish the press did. After Holly put out a statement ridiculing the website that posted the pictures of Jack and his costar, the press pounced on me. And again, every time they showed Jack with this younger actress, they did a side by side of me. Always at a weird angle; always with me looking bigger than I was. For God’s sake, I was a size 8! But that was a tank in Hollywood, apparently, and no one was going to let me forget it.

But in the other camp, a smaller but quite vocal group of women online were expressing their support. More than one blogger had written about the fuss being made about my weight, increasing the dialogue about women on film and TV and the thin-thin-thin image we were all supposed to mold ourselves into. Not gonna lie, those bloggers made it easier for me to grin and bear this idiocy.