Cover Girl Confidential Read online

  Copyright © 2007 by Beverly Bartlett

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  5 Spot

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

  The 5 Spot name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: March 2007

  ISBN: 978-0-7595-7206-5

  Contents

  Copyright

  Praise For

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Beverly Bartlett’s

  PRAISE FOR

  Princess Izzy and the E Street Shuffle

  “Leaves the reader frantically flipping pages to solve the fantastic riddles hidden within . . . an original and captivating debut.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Clever . . . dresses up chick-lit conventions with aristocratic titles and predicaments.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Bartlett unwinds the tale of the royal couple’s exile with impeccable comic timing and an engaging, chatty narrative.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  “Humorously captures how seriously people take the minutiae of royalty.”

  —Library Journal

  “Most serious journalists stay the course. A few chuck it all and move on. Fewer still go completely ’round the bend and take to writing off-the-wall novels. Their names are, say, Carl Hiaasen, Dan Jenkins, and a new kid on the block, Beverly Bartlett . . . Bartlett has more insane, imaginative stories within stories than anyone could guess. She pulls them all into one of the most unusual and entertaining books to come along in a while. What on earth will she do for an encore? I can hardly wait to see.”

  —Louisville Courier-Journal (KY)

  “I tore through this . . . in one weekend; the twists and intrigue kept me from putting the book down. If you want chick lit with a twist, Princess Izzy will not disappoint.”

  —Velocity

  “Bartlett steps beyond the chick-lit model enough to attract romance fans and generate new ones as well.”

  —Louisville Magazine

  “A terrific summer book because it is fun, it’s light, and it has a mystery to it . . . I couldn’t put it down.”

  —Robin Fisher, “State of Affairs,” WFPL radio (NPR affiliate)

  Books by Beverly Bartlett

  Cover Girl Confidential

  Princess Izzy and the E Street Shuffle

  To my parents, my husband, and my sons

  Acknowledgments

  I’ll never forget the first time I encountered a refugee family, newly arrived in the United States. Exhausted from a long flight, far from home, with only a few words of the language, they arrived with only what they could carry and piled on top of one another in a single donated bed, trying to find the rest they would need to build a new life. I never viewed the concept of starting over quite the same way again.

  Thanks to Kentucky Refugee Ministries and Catholic Charities, many such families and individuals have found and made a home for themselves in Louisville, and the city has become more interesting and diverse because of it. The refugees I’ve met here share the spunk, determination, and on occasion the style of the main character of this book, Addison McGhee. But however superficial Addison may be, I hope her family’s story sheds a little light on what it’s like for new Americans.

  In addition to my husband and parents and friends—all of whom helped make this book possible—I want to thank the refugees in Louisville who have enriched my life, the refugee agencies that are truly welcoming strangers to a strange land, and Kris Herwig and Steffani Powell, who both took time from their important work to discuss immigration law with me.

  Author’s Note

  While the events of this book are entirely made-up (and often ludicrous), I have taken literary license and used real names and places in order to make the fictional world I’ve created more vivid and familiar. I have completely invented all of the personal quirks, foibles, actions, or comments attributed to some characters who bear the names of real celebrities. Those inventions do not reflect reality and are, in any case, only supposed to represent the subjective report and imperfect memory of one exacting fictional character, rather than any sort of objective truth. George Clooney’s ab muscles, for example, may be disappointing to Addison McGhee, but I have no reason to believe they are not impressive by normal standards. If necessary, I’m sure I could scrounge up some volunteers to check.

  Prologue

  I licked my lips slowly, provocatively.

  George Clooney clipped his pen to the chart he was holding and looked at me curiously.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked, his head cocked in that devilish way he cocks it.

  “Nothing that you couldn’t cure, Doc,” I replied. I popped my tongue against my teeth on the word Doc, as if I’d practiced it a lot.

  I had.

  I reached down to snap open the top button of my blouse. As I did so, I imagined my mother, four states away and still wearing the veil, gasping in horror and disgust. Then I unbuttoned another.

  George did his best to look intrigued. But since I’d done this a thousand times that very day, I think he was just bored.

  “You appear to be healthy enough,” he said. He winked.

  “No, no,” I said, “I demand a physical.” This time I winked. I released another button.

  I grabbed his tie, used it to pull him close to me. I could smell on his breath the garlic from the salad dressing at lunch. Men! I thought. They can actually eat dressing on their salad. I’d had vinegar. No calories. No fat. No carbs.

  “Aren’t you dating Dr. Carter?” George asked. “And that new male nurse in radiology? And the hernia patient?”

  “Not right now,” I whispered into his ear as I loosened his tie with one hand and ran my hand through his hair with the other. “Not at this very moment.”

  He nuzzled his rough skin against my cheek until his lips found mine. He pushed me down on the hospital bed. He was heavy against me. I moved my hands along his waist. His stomach was softer than I expected. Maybe he should drop the salad dressing, I thought.

  I was supposed to groan with pleasure, but the garlic and the soft stomach and the constant retakes were spoiling the mood. I tried to think of something pleasing. I imagined the headline my publicist expected in the next Entertainment Weekly: NEWCOM
ER ADDISON MCGHEE AND RETURNING GEORGE CLOONEY REVIVE ER!

  I yowled.

  The director called “Cut,” then sighed heavily.

  “Addison, Addison, Addison,” he said, shaking his head dramatically. “This isn’t HBO.”

  Days later, I ran into George. He had the uncomfortable look of a man who can’t place a name.

  “Madison, isn’t it?” he said.

  I started to correct him. Then thought the better of it. It was one of those parties after the Oscars. To get me in, my agent had to call in several favors—and create life-size posters of my new Sports Illustrated cover to mail to the party organizers. He’d had no favors left to get me a date.

  “So you’re doing all right for yourself,” George continued. “Sports Illustrated cover, eh? Gauze bikini?”

  I nodded, and he sighed with relief at having gotten it right.

  He turned to his date, an auburn-haired woman who looked brainy in the most willowy sense of the word. “Didn’t you say you saw it on the newsstand?” he asked her.

  “No,” she said.

  “Well then,” he said, awkwardly.

  I gave a self-deprecating wave, as if to say that she hadn’t missed much. “I don’t think it’s out yet, anyway.”

  He repeated himself. “Well then.”

  “Who are you here with?” his date asked, smiling in what I imagine she thought was a we-girls-like-to-chat-about-our-guys kind of way. Of course, if my guy were George Clooney, I might like to chat about him, too. Garlic, stomach, ill-advised return to ER, and all.

  I smiled gamely, raised my drink: “Just me and Jack Daniel’s,” I said.

  I wasn’t serious about the Jack Daniel’s. Are you kidding? My parents would die. Plus, that’s 150 calories right there. I was drinking Diet Coke, which I thought I could pass off as Jack Daniel’s and Coke, if pressed. I had read that men now think it’s very cool for women to drink manly drinks like that, even if heavily diluted with a noncaloric soft drink.

  George had apparently not read that article. He looked a little shocked. His date looked more shocked. Surely this reaction wasn’t about the Jack Daniel’s? Maybe the part about being dateless?

  I nervously tugged at one of the dangling ringlets I had left around my face; the rest of my hair was pulled up in what I thought was a casually sophisticated way. I had spent virtually all my remembered life in America, but I never knew, at moments like this, if I had made some cultural faux pas or was just naturally awkward and socially ill at ease in any culture.

  Then Tom Hanks walked up, his newest Oscar slung casually across his hip and Rita looking bored on his arm. I was spared any further awkwardness, for suddenly I wasn’t even there.

  Well, that won’t last long, I thought. Someday, even Tom and Rita will know who I am. Someday.

  Chapter 1

  That was three long years ago.

  I’m pretty sure that Tom and Rita know who I am now. My face (and body) have graced a thousand magazine covers, a huge moving billboard in Times Square, and some pretty seedy Web sites—those without my authorization, of course. I’ve been fawned over by presidents. (Well, I guess technically by one president.) Threatened by first ladies. (Well, again, one.) I’ve attended all the best premieres, adorning the arms of all the nation’s most eligible bachelors. (Mostly arranged by my publicist, but still.) I launched a morning television show that was dubbed by leading academic journals as the most scandalous blurring of entertainment and news since—well, since the last time they were scandalized. They’re so sensitive sometimes.

  I was celebrated in talk shows and women’s magazines for being an inspiration to young women of color the world over. And then, when things went bad, I was hounded by some of the same people for having a quick temper and bad judgment about men.

  I suppose they were right about my judgment. Though, in my defense, I do not have a lot of experience. I’ve been photographed on red carpets with more men than I can count, but actual dates are few and far between. I spent a lot of lonely nights in pricey hotels before becoming the bride in one of the most spectacularly controversial and short marriages of our times. And the nights after that were lonelier still.

  In a roundabout way, I guess, that’s how I ended up here, in prison, serving time on a trumped-up felony charge and awaiting a deportation hearing. My agent is thrilled. “You’ve never been more famous,” he said in his last letter. (That’s the great thing about prison. It encourages the long-lost art of letter writing.) But my father is terrified that his little girl will be sent back to the country he fled all those years ago. I guess I’m a little scared, too.

  Last night, my lawyer—an old high school friend—visited. I will confess with some shame that I hadn’t thought much about her during my heady rise to fame. I assumed she was still living it up in unincorporated Slater County, Nebraska, riding in the back of pickups and getting chased out of the parking lot by Wal-Mart security. I never dreamed she would have gone to law school and moved to Albany, New York. This oversight on my part was not personal, I hasten to add. I failed to think about her not due to any fault of hers—nor, for that matter, any particular disinterest in Slater County. Cassie was, and I guess still is, the best friend I ever had. And those were good times in Slater County. It’s just that when you’re trying to pro-ject an air of sophisticated beauty, stylish grace, and informed commentary, the last image you want bouncing around in your head is any memory at all from high school—with the baby fat and the pimples and the really sad crushes on impossibly glamorous older men. (In my case, the PE instructor, Mr. Stinnett.) Kate Hudson tells me that everyone feels that way, but I think it was worse for me. There weren’t many immigrant families in Slater County, and my early attempts at assimilation had only patchy success.

  Cassidy Von Maur was one of the people who accepted me, however. And though I’d rarely thought of her or high school in the intervening years, I recognized her right away when she showed up in the prison visiting room a few months ago.

  “Cassie?” I said, not quite believing my eyes. Then, more confidently, I squealed with glee, “Cassie, my lassie!” (This was my oh-so-cool greeting for her in high school. You can see why I prefer not to think about those years.) I continued with another high school classic: “Get out of here!”

  She smiled, said that she preferred Cassidy now, and explained that she had heard I needed a good immigration lawyer. “Lucky for you,” she said, “I am one.”

  Once you’re famous, you know, that’s how things happen. Whenever you need something, it shows up at your door. Cassie was exactly what I needed. It felt so good to have someone to giggle with again.

  But during last night’s visit, she ignored my efforts to reminisce. She lectured me, sternly. She narrowed her eyes and looked exceedingly cross. She said that she didn’t think I was taking this whole thing seriously enough. She pointed out that if I got deported to my father’s homeland—the only other country I had legal standing in—I would be in a hopeless, helpless situation. “You don’t speak the language,” she said. “And you don’t have a lot of—” She hesitated, then spit out the ugly truth. “—skills.”

  I cringed. Making small talk on television for hours at a time is a lot harder than people think. But I said nothing.

  “Furthermore,” she continued, “you’re famous the world over for being photographed in shameful costumes.”

  I started to protest. The world over? I seriously doubt that. I’m not Madonna, after all. I’m quite sure there are a few remote Siberian villages or an odd South Pacific island or two where people are completely unfamiliar with my work—or at least my “costumes.” But my vanity got the best of me. I didn’t want to talk about the places where I’m not famous. So instead I just said: “I don’t know about shameful . . .”

  “Cotton balls?” Cassie said incredulously.

  “Oh,” I said.

  I don’t know how I’d forgotten about the award-winning Vanity Fair cover in which I am clothed only in cott
on balls—and not very many of them, I might add. That cover was the talk of the nation for a while. My own show hyped it tirelessly. Baxter Bailey, the rumpled weatherman, would constantly find smudges that needed rubbing off his map. “Got a swab, Addison?” he’d say, with a mischievous grin. And Hughes Sinclair, my dapper and dashing co-host, would chuckle and warn Baxter not to borrow too many, as I appeared to be running quite low.

  Cassie smirked. “I think it’s a safe bet they would consider cotton balls shameful,” she said. “And in case you’re unaware, this is not a culture that takes shaming lightly.”

  She said my only hope of surviving in my father’s homeland, really, would be for me to marry as soon as I arrived. But because I’m twice the age of the average child bride there— “easily, twice the age,” Cassie emphasized, somewhat meanly—I’d be considered too old and, given my well-publicized past, too previously married for any decent man there to be interested.

  I waved my hand gamely to show that I did not care. “I’m done with marriage,” I said. “So that’s no loss.”

  Cassie sighed. “This isn’t a joke, Addison. You’ll be surviving on your wits in an economy that doesn’t value wit. You won’t last three months.”

  I looked at my fingers, noticed that I needed a manicure, and then thought, for the first time, about my chances of finding a good manicurist if I got deported. My paternal grandmother has terrible nails. So do all my aunts. The evidence suggests that theirs is not a culture that highly values cuticle health. I gulped. (Discreetly, I hope.)

  “Couldn’t they just deport me to London or something?” I asked.

  Cassie snorted. “London?” she said. “Oh yeah, London is just begging the United States to send over any spare convicted felons we have on hand! Begging!”

  She sighed and started over in a more even voice. “That’s just not the way it works, Addison. When people get deported, they get deported to their home country. You don’t get to pick and choose.”

  I nodded.