Val nods and hits send on the email. “OK, then here it is. Two access codes to the Black Bash. But don’t say I didn’t warn you tomorrow when this shit hits the fan.”
“Thank you so much.” I check my email and when it comes in, I download both attachments and forward one directly to my date and then turn to go.
“Hey,” Val calls after me.
“What?” I say, still walking towards the studio door. I’m already late since filming went on longer than expected and I just want to get to the party.
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
I don’t even turn back. “I do, Val. I do.”
I say that with a confidence I don’t feel though. Because while I know what goes on at a Black Bash, I’ve never been the guest of honor before. And tonight, I am.
The drive downtown is stop and go, as is typical on Friday nights, and by the time I get there, it’s nearly ten o’clock.
I pull into the old building’s garage entrance and flash my access code via phone at the man with the scanner. This place is about to be torn down to make room for some trendy new lofts, so I’m sure the Bash organizers figured it was the perfect place for a party.
The location is never the same from year to year. It’s all very hush-hush until after Halloween and then that’s all anyone in Hollywood is talking about—the stars afraid they will be the ones on display that year, and the media excited to get even with celebrities who may have treated them badly.
One person each year is the guest of honor. The epitome of bad behavior. The one person who deserves to be shamed above all others.
And this year it’s me.
That Buzz bitch has had it in for me for more than a decade. She blames me for what happened. And no matter how many times I tried to explain myself back then, she never accepted my apology.
Threatening that editor a few months back was probably a big mistake, but it felt good to use my status and power to fuck up her plan of getting an interview out of me.
I drive up to the top level of the parking garage and park the car. Another set of headlights flashes at me from down the row, and I get out and adjust my suit.
Marjorie steps out of her car wearing the houndstooth suit Lauren Bacall made famous in The Big Sleep. She eyes me up and down as she approaches. “Looking good, Bogie.” She slips a masquerade mask over her eyes and I do the same.
I smile down at her. “Ready?”
She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I’m not sure, but I’m going through with it.”
She wraps her arm in mine and we walk into the party together.
Chapter Twenty-One
#NUNYA
IT’S dark and there must be a smoke machine somewhere to add to the eerie effect, but it’s not necessary because this party is creepy as hell. Everyone is dressed up and no one looks familiar. I just hope no one recognizes me until I find Vaughn.
God, I pray, please don’t let him be cheating on me. I don’t think I could take it.
With that little prayer I walk forward into the cavernous room. The party is really all six floors of the building, but only the top two have ‘exhibits’.
The exhibits are partitioned off with thick white canvas sheets hanging from the ceiling to make a sort of cubicle. And even though I know that there are things inside the makeshift rooms that I don’t need to see, curiosity gets the better of me and I peek inside. On three sides, each sheet is displaying a looped video of an unlucky actor.
I wander through the crowd, not taking a drink from any of the servers—who are all dressed up as the Invisible Man and that makes everything triple creepy—because I don’t actually trust that the drinks aren’t drugged.
I’m here for one reason only. To find my husband and ask him what the hell is going on.
A curtain opens as I walk past and I catch a glimpse of some nude photos of a famous starlet and the sounds of a sex tape playing. Jesus. So that’s what this is about. The hall of shame. The pictures that couldn’t be posted publicly for fear of being sued? The sex tape someone paid to have scrubbed? Because while I might’ve been depressed for a few weeks this year, I was certainly on top of my celebrity gossip until very recently. I never saw or heard of that sex tape.
I follow the person who came out of the tent-like room right into the next one.
This time it’s a picture of a famous singer with two black eyes and her assailant’s mug shot. So he was arrested? That was never in the news either.
The singer’s music is playing in the background, but her frantic call to 911 is superimposed over it.
I leave the tent, repulsed at how they are invading her privacy. Why is that anyone’s business? Why do people think just because you’re famous that they get to know every detail of your life?
I mean, I get it. It’s wrong for him to hurt her and he deserves to be held accountable. She needs help. But how is this helping her? How is exposing her most private moments helping her?
Suddenly there’s a hum of murmurs circulating through the party. People are leaning in to whisper, all looking at the elevator. I watch with them as the outdated counter over the top of the doors calls out which floor it’s on.
It dings that it’s arrived on six, and then the doors open. A collective gasp goes up from the crowd as Vaughn appears dressed as Humphrey Bogart. On his arm, and clinging far too tightly to my husband, is a blonde woman dressed as Lauren Bacall.
People start muttering Grace, around me.
“Grace!” someone calls out. “Why did you let your husband bring you to this?”