Chapter Three: Picture Perfect
Three Weeks Later
It’s eight thirty on a Saturday morning and I'm sitting at my desk listening to a message from Mr. Anderson in regards to some club night that went wrong with one of his clients. I want to reach inside my telephone and squeeze the life out of him but quite honestly he’s not worth the effort, nor my manicure.
I can see Barker outside my office door chatting away with Mr. Ayala and I'm even more annoyed. I didn't invite her here to make friends. She’s been in Los Angeles for a week and she has a thousand friends calling to hang out with her. And I'm guessing Mr. Ayala isn't an exception and he‘ll be number thousand and one, if I don't stop it from happening. So you can say I'm a bit bitter, but she should have been here two weeks ago after that Victoria Secrets fashion show. But instead she was whisked away to Milan for four days and then to some ten-day charity event that she just couldn't say no to.
Yes, I'm a big girl but I just moved to Los Angeles and I needed familiarity. And for over twenty years, she’s been my familiarity. She’s been here for a week and if I hadn't asked her to come to the office for a few hours this morning before we could ‘hang out’, as she calls it, she wouldn't step foot in here. She called me here yesterday afternoon after a long night out again and the conversation hadn't ended very well. I knew she couldn't see my eyes roll in honor of her latest chronicle, but I do know that she probably knew I was doing it at the time.
“Stop rolling your eyes at me, V,” she had said before she continued rambling about her latest encounter with her celebrity crush of the month. Or was it week?
I can't think back to a moment where I didn't have her in my life. She’s always been on the other end of the telephone or a foot away from me and although at times I want nothing more than to reach over and strangle her, like Mr. Anderson and every other incompetent staff member of mine, she’s my best friend. My only friend.
She insisted to having me listen to her ramblings about running into Lindsay Lohan the night before at a fashion show and how she thought Lindsay was pretty cool. I honestly didn't give a damn what she thought of the teenage alcoholic but I listened. For years it had been this way, she goes out and does all these ‘cool’ things and I'm the one that listens. Call it being a masochist or whatever but in some ways I live my life vicariously through hers. So while I could give a damn about her perception of another loser celebrity, I love hearing her stories. If she woke up the next day and didn't tell me what she did, detail for detail, I would immediately think something was wrong. Imagine the travesty!
“So what are you doing today?” she'd asked as she yawned in my ear. “We should go to the gym today. I feel like a cow this morning. I'm starting to think I shouldn't have eaten that third cheese and garlic cracker last night.”
“It’s three o'clock in the afternoon, Barker, it’s hardly morning,” I knew she'd just woken up by the constant yawning symphony on her side of the conversation. “And I have a meeting in ten minutes, I can't leave.”
“Another meeting? You promised, V,” she wasn't whining but I could hear the disappointment in her tone. Yes, indeed I had promised. I promised that when I took this new job, I wouldn't be glued behind my desk twenty-four seven. I promised I would have fun. And I am. It’s just that my kind of fun includes paperwork, phone calls and meetings all day while hers include Celebrity stalking and high-end fashion shows. Its what I do and what I love. She keeps telling me that I work too much and that I need to relax. I am relaxed, it’s just when I am asleep and no one can see me.
“You know I have a job to do here and I can't just drop everything when you decide you want to be my best friend again, Aundrea.” Did I mention we fight like cats and dogs? It’s all out of love, I assure you.
“Don't be a bitch, Vanessa. You've been cooped up in that office for who knows how long and you just started. What am I supposed to do? Stay here? Since when?” she'd copped an attitude by then and I smiled because in this relationship, I'm the bitch. Surprisingly, right?
“I didn't say that,” I was sorting through hundreds of photos on the large conference table in my office and she could tell I wasn't really paying much attention to her. Again it’s all part of knowing each other so well. “I'll see you later, okay?”
“Did you have ‘the’ meeting yet?” she'd asked me but I could tell she was acting as if the question was a random one. She knew the meeting had been scheduled for yesterday so the question was stupid. I'm firmly opposed to the term ‘there is no such thing as a stupid question’ and I stick to it.
“You should see some of these photos, Barker. She’s atrocious,” I said to her before flipping through the photos on top of the large conference table in my office.
“When are you going to let that go, V? He’s a loser,” she knew how to piss me off and after that comment I’d simply hung up on her without another word.
When I got home last night after being stood up for ‘the’ meeting, I was furious. I don't know if she was even home or not but I'd gone to my side of the condo, gotten in my Jacuzzi and had gone to bed shortly after that. But because we know each other so well, she’s woken up shortly after I did this morning and had gone down to the gym with me without a word. By the time we'd finished our individual workouts, we'd managed to speak to each other. Don't get me wrong, we weren't mad at each other for very long. I'm typically mad about ninety-five percent of the time. But she’s never upset; she’s always the happy one.
I've never understood that fact, but I never question her about it. She truly is happy with her life and I am too, I assure you. But Aundrea Barker is different in the deepest meaning of the word.
When I was six years old I cried and cried to my parents about taking me to the park where all the kids went. That wasn't such a huge request other than the fact that I wasn't like those kids I wanted to play with. I was the ‘rich’ little girl with pretty hair, cute smile and designer shoes. I was the ‘spoiled’ one, and while you may think that’s the life, I assure you, it wasn't. Yes, I wore designer shoes the moment I left the womb, which explains the shoe fetish that haunts me to this day.
I didn't get to go to sleep-overs and birthday parties like the other kids. Instead I was taken to piano lesson on Mondays, cheerleading on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, gymnastics on Thursday and pageants on Fridays. I've had a busy schedule all my life and I don't know anything different. So at six years old I did the unthinkable, I told my father that I didn't want to be in gymnastics anymore. You can imagine the devastation my parents went through. What was I going to do? What were they going to enroll me in? I already had a tutor during the weekends, so that couldn't have been done on Thursdays. I didn't want to do anything; I wanted to be a kid. I loved cheerleading, piano and the tutoring, at six I was convinced that my life was over. I'd quit on something and that wasn't the way I was being raised, but I was disappointed and relieved at the same time. Once a quitter always a quitter, my father always said. Once free always free, I say.
I went to school the next day and on my rare walks back home with the nanny, I saw her. I didn't know her name at the time and I didn't care. All I knew was that it was Thursday and I didn't have anything to do after school. I asked my nanny, I think her name was Kendra, if we could go into the playground for a few minutes. I don't think I waited for her response, now that I think about it. At the far end of the gated playground, by the sandbox, was a little girl being cornered by a slightly bigger girl with pigtails and a scowl on her face. I didn't know what the mean girl was yelling about but I do remember being furious instantly. I'd never felt that way before and before my nanny could stop me I had a good hold on the pigtails.
When my nanny managed to get me off of piggy, I was crying. I never cried. But I felt this need to protect the other little girl. That other little girl was Aundrea Barker and from that day forward, I would do just that. I was her protector in everyone’s eyes when in reality she was my savior.
But she’s not being my savior right now. She’s flirting away outside my door with my client’s personal assistant and she’s annoying me. Out of all the people she could have handpicked to befriend, she picks Mr. Ayala. And what that means in the long run is that she has picked, Justin Timberlake.
The above mentioned is sitting on the black leather sofa outside my door, headphones are yet again in his ears and he’s the least bit interested in the conversation Barker and Mr. Ayala are having. His assistant to be is on her cell phone next to him and I'm hoping she just stays quiet during this meeting. I find the scene in front of me strange because Aundrea should be all over this one. Don't get me wrong, I don't mean all over Mr. Timberlake, but all over the hype that surrounds the man. And while I do have to admit that he is huge in the industry, I also have to say that Aundrea Barker is what men call ‘the shit’ and well right now, ‘the shit’ could give a damn about ‘the hype’ and vice-versa. I should have let Mr. Timberlake, Mr. Ayala and Ms. Bomar, in my office right away instead of making them wait half an hour like they did to me yesterday but I didn't. Now I have to hear about how funny and nice Mr. Ayala is on the way to Rodeo Drive. Fun.
I finished listening to my messages and I stand to open my door and as soon as I do, I can feel it. I feel the hostility that emerges silently when Mr. Timberlake looks up at me from where he’s sitting. I smile at him and look at Barker with a silent ‘having fun?’ that she immediately rolled her eyes to.
“I'll see you later, Trace,” she says to the short man and if I'm not careful I will roll my eyes at the scene of her kissing his cheek. “I'll be across the street,” she says to me before waving goodbye to Mr. Timberlake and Ms. Bomar. He does wave back to her and surprisingly he smiles at her too. I must have missed their introduction to one another while I listened to my stupid messages.
“Good morning,” I say without a word to Barker as she walks toward the elevator. Surprisingly, Mr. Ayala nor Mr. Timberlake watch Barker as she walks. “If you can all have a seat at the large conference table, we can get started. The sooner I can get views and suggestions across, the sooner we can go enjoy our Saturdays.”
“Right,” comes from Mr. Timberlake, who walks ahead of his two assistants and takes a seat, you guest it. My chair. So he’s apparently still not liking the idea of me and he wants to play games, I see.
I close my door and turn to the conference table and I want to smile when Mr. Ayala bumps ‘the hype’ on the knee and makes him move. Good little assistant!
“Coffee?” I'm being polite, I don't want to give them coffee. They lost that luxury yesterday when I was called half an hour after a meeting was supposed to happen to inform me that Mr. Timberlake hadn't known about the meeting on time and was re-scheduling. It seems Mr. Superstar still doesn't understand the concept of…well…me. I schedule and he shows up. That’s how it’s supposed to work and that’s how it’s going to be whether he likes it or not.
“We're good, thank you,” says Mr. Ayala who I have to give credit to because he has Mr. Dickhead’s itinerary in front of him. Ms. Bomar is sitting back and I can tell she’s nervous. Good.
“Great,” I say and I take a seat in my vacant chair, crossing my jean clad legs and looking at Mr. Timberlake who is sitting to my right. “First I would like to address with you, Mr. Timberlake yesterday’s occurrence,”
“We are really sorry about that, I honestly forgot to remind him,” she actually interrupted what I was saying and Mr. Ayala gives her a look.
“Yes, I'm aware,” I say with the fakest smile I could muster at the moment. “I spoke with Mr. Wright and he promised that he would keep a closer eye on appointments you need to keep, Mr. Timberlake.”
“She forgot, it happens,” he says and my blood boils when he mocks me. “Ms. Mart-tee-nez.” Little fucker!
“I realize you lead a very busy lifestyle, Mr. Timberlake but I am also very engaged in trying to make sure that lifestyle fits the image the record company and WEG aspires for you. When a meeting is set back by something as small as a simple reminder from an assistant you chose against our better advice, things become stressed. People become stressed. I don't like to be stressed, Mr. Timberlake. At all.”
“Again, I'm sorry, I assure you I will make sure everything works accordingly. It was my fault for not letting Rachael know in advance that Justin needed to be here. I left the studio early and I wasn't thinking. I apologize.” Mr. Ayala seems to be catching on to who the boss in here and I have to admit that I like that. He doesn't seem so bad after all and listening about him on the ride to Rodeo almost seems appealing. Almost.
“I have plans in an hour, so if we can start whatever we're here to do I'd appreciate it,” It seems as though Mr. Timberlake doesn't know why we are having this meeting and I look at Mr. Ayala for the explanation.
“Sorry,” he says and for some reason I believe him. What are you doing here, Mr. Timberlake, you ask? Well we are going to talk about that pretty little girlfriend of yours and how she’s bringing you down. That’s what you're here for. But I don't say that instead I clean it up a bit…
“We're here to discuss the media. Mr. Timberlake,” I say with a smile before standing and grabbing the stack of photos I have on my desk. With one swift move I slide them across the conference table, spreading the hundreds of photos across it. Mr. Timberlake doesn't even flinch and neither does Mr. Ayala. Ms. Bomar looks at several photos before returning her attention to me. “These have all been in magazines, tabloids and television during the past three months.”
“You want to have a meeting, on a Saturday, about photographs taken of me while I pump gas? Or go to the gym? Let me guess, you would like me to wear a three piece suit every time I leave my house so that I ‘look’ accordingly to the ‘image’ you want to create?” Mr. Timberlake looks as if he’s ready to explode but as you can probably guess, I don't give a flying fuck.
"More to the point," I turn the conversation in the direction that it was initially intended, "I specifically brought these photographs here so you could get a look at the 'image' you're creating for yourself. Check these photos out and tell me if you see anything similar about any of them." Crossing my legs and pointing my open-toe Jimmy Choos, I wait patiently for him to connect the dots. Should've known that it would all go flying over his head.”
"So you're stalking me and my girlfriend. Is that it? Is that what this meeting is all about? Because really, Miss Mar-tee-nez, I have better things to do with my time than look at photos of Cameron when I've got the real thing waiting for me at home," he chuckled, and passed the photos over for his assistant to get a look at. Sure enough, he didn't disappoint. More and more, I was beginning to like his 'former' assistant. Anything better than the cowering kid who was sitting as far away from me as possible. Very proficient.
"I think what she means, J, is that ... well in every picture either you or Cam are giving the finger to someone. Or scowling. You both look ... well, pissed off," Mr. Ayala was ranking high on my good-boy list and I‘m starting to think we can work together. Maybe.
Bingo! I knew I could count on him. At least the 'former' assistant had a fucking clue. Unlike the so called almost-genius-IQ-having-star before me and the recent college graduate next to him.
Smiling, I reached over and handed the photographs to the cowering girl that no one had bothered to introduce me to yet. Doesn’t matter to me. As far as I was concerned, Mr. Ayala would remain Asshole's assistant as long as I was working with them. According to my files, it was a few months, close to a year, so Mr. Timberfuck better pep up! Mr. Ayala seemed to be the only one in the group who knew what the fuck was going on.
"Look those over and take note," I said to the poor girl. "This is prime example on how NOT to be perceived by your fans. Now Mr. Timberlake, not to bring up old history and all that, but when you were with your ex, Ms. Spears, you seemed to have some sense, a lot more of it actually. You know, smiling for photo ops. Treating the press like human beings, like yourself.” I’m literally dying inside because I want to roll my eyes but I continue, “It has come to WEG's attention that since you began this new relationship, you've turned into ... how shall I put it?" I pretended to mull the word over, even though I knew exactly what word I was referring to, "A Grade-A asshole, I think would be appropriate. This is not the way to make friends and influence people."
Reaching over, he grabbed the photos from Ms. Who-gives-a-damn and gave them a second look. He scoffed, the nerve. "First of all, do NOT bring up Britney, ever. That is a part of MY life that is over and done with. Something I do not discuss with anyone anymore. PERIOD. You’ve got a few bad pictures of me, so what? I get fucking tired of being stalked everywhere I go -- tell me how would you feel being followed around when all you want to do is get a burger and eat? Let me know because I can't even do that! Tell me you wouldn't have the same reaction! Because excuse me for saying this,“ he’s mocking me now as he continues, “what’s the word I’m looking for? You're a real ball-breaker, Vah-ne-SSAH. No way would you stand for that shit without giving a finger or two when you're trying to eat and talk in peace. Or WALK TO YOUR FUCKING CAR."
"Touché," I admitted with a smirk as I hold the picture of him getting into his car, middle finger flying high. "I, however, am not the one who decided to pursue a career in show business, especially a career where over fifty percent of my fans are under the age of sixteen. That Sir, was your choice, clearly not mine. So if you want to keep the career image where you're know as 'a hell of a guy', as you said in last month's People magazine, this is not the way to go about it. Am I making sense here? Any clouds lifting from the smog you've surrounded yourself with?"
He bristled, most likely at the sixteen and under remark. "With Justified, I widened my fan base extensively to not include little girls anymore. And I'm sure my adult fans can understand why someone would not like being followed all over town when they're trying to go out for a decent hike." He’s referring to the photos of him and his cousin slash wanna-be assistant , hiking in the Hills last month, where he was caught on film shouting profanities at paparazzi, not to mention throwing sticks at them.
I shrugged. "I don't make the rules, Mr. Timberlake. I didn’t make you famous, you did. I just follow them, strictly. If this talk was coming from Mr. Wright or ven Mr. and Mrs. Harless, instead of myself, I'm sure your reaction would be a bit less volatile, wouldn't you say? Do you have a problem with how I'm here trying to NOT ruin your career? Because hanging around with a pock-faced known coke addict isn't giving you any help on staying at superstardom status."
“Excuse me?!” he standing over me and for a milli-second I think he’s going to actually throw a punch at me for insulting his girlfriend but I recover even quicker. “Look bitch! I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, coming in here and treating everyone like shit! But not with me!”
“I apologize Mr. Timberlake if I have offended you in any way but I only speak the truth, that is, when it comes to my purpose at this position. I am very good at what I do and will continue to be whether you want to agree or disagree. Am I a bitch? Yes, I am and you telling me so, does nothing to my feelings. PERIOD. So I suggest you have a seat, Mr. Timberlake and while how I treat everyone is non of YOUR business, what IS your business is that your ‘girlfriend’ is bringing you down about seven notches on the good human-being scale.” I look up at him and then look at Ms. Stupid and Mr. Ayala, raise my eyebrows to see if they have anything to say before returning my line of vision to a shit-faced Mr. Timberlake and I smile. You don’t scare me, Brat! Suck it up!
“Like I said, fuck you! Oh, never mind, I hadn’t said that yet,” he’s fuming and something inside makes me want to laugh but I maintain my professionalism as I stand. I’m about an inch from being eye level with him and for the first time I realize that he’s quite a bit taller than me. But the height doesn’t intimidate me one bit, I fold my arms over my chest and I look into his eyes. I can see myself in them. Weird.
“If we’re going to have a professional relationship, Mr. Timberlake, you have to stop dreaming. What you just said, will never happen,” I smirk at him and then turn to my desk to grab a court order before pressing it against his chest lightly. I ignore the fact that although he has a thick sweatshirt on, I feel the hardness of his chest. “We WILL discuss these pictures, specifically the ones mentioned on that paper, Mr. Timberlake. Today, tomorrow, the day after that or the next, frankly it doesn’t matter to me. It WILL be done.” He doesn’t grab onto the sheet of paper and it actually slides down his front to land by my shoe.
“Can we have a few minutes?” I’d forgotten the other two were in the room and I look over at Mr. Ayala when he asked the question.
“Of course Mr. Ayala, why don’t I make this easier,” I look at Mr. Timberlake and he’s actually staring at me in an odd way and I have to look away because I’m feeling a bit weird. He’s freaking me out a bit, I must admit. “Why don’t I call you tomorrow and we can schedule another meeting around, Mr. Timberlake’s recording schedule?”
“Listen, I don’t need another meeting to be scheduled, Ms. Cruela! What I do with my own middle finger, girlfriend or ex-girlfriend is none of your business. So you can take your meetings, pictures,” he says this as he shoves the stacks of pictures onto the carpeted floor. I’m a pro at handling diva sessions and Mr. Timberlake was no different. I don’t even flutter my eyes, I’ve seen this all before. Been here done that, “and bullshit and shove them up your fine ass!”
“Justin!” Trace and Ms. Idiot say at the same time and I want to laugh. Do they think this actually bothers me? PLEASE!
“Oh it’s okay, don’t worry yourselves with your employer’s behavior, I assure you that I‘m certainly not. After all, it’s his career, not mine,” I’ve had about ten minutes too much of this drama so I’m going to dismiss myself from my own meeting and I’m going shopping. Screw the diva and his tantrum! “Why don’t you busy yourself cleaning up that mess you boss made,” she actually stands and begins stacking the photos and I feel sorry for her. Stupid idiot! Make him do it!
“Let that go, Rachel!” Mr. Timberlake seems to be flabbergasted that I’m not shrinking back at his harsh words that he doesn’t even realize he yelled at her. She looks up at him and I give her credit for rolling her eyes at him but she DID stop cleaning the mess. At least she’s loyal. “Don’t think this is over!” He’s talking to me now, apparently.
“Oh I’m sorry, Mr. Timberlake but in no way, shape or form did I say it was. As a matter of fact, you’ve spent the last five minutes indicating that it WAS over, now didn’t you?” I get my bag from my desk and I walk around him and he’s right behind me like a damn stalker. Persistent little fucker! “I’ve got an extremely busy schedule and I must run. You know how that is, Mr. Timberlake. I’m sure you can find your way out.”
“Look! I’m not…” he starts to say but I’ve had enough, so I cut him off. How rude of me.
“Have a good day recording, Mr. Timberlake,” I look behind him and I wave goodbye to the assistants, “I pray to God, to have mercy on you two. Until a later date, have a great day!“ I’m out the door and walking down the cubicle aisles before Mr. Superass can say anything. I can feel their eyes on me as I enter the open elevator door and I‘m not smiling.
Not until the doors close in front of me and I’m at least one floor down, do I yell. “MOTHERFUCKER, WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU‘RE MESSING WITH HERE?!”
The doors to the elevators opens two floors down and Barker is standing there with a smile on her face. I don’t know what’s so funny but she steps onto the elevator without a word. I can tell it’s only a matter of time before she laughs out loud.
“So I’m guessing the motherfucker is Justin, then?” She asks as the doors open once again at the underground parking garage. She starts to laugh hysterically and I’m a stupid sucker for her so I laugh too, like an idiot. I walk past her toward my car and it’s the first time I’ve laughed since I’ve arrived in Los Angeles, like really laughed at something. Funny how that works, I’m laughing hysterically about something that actually isn’t funny at all. I have to deal with this motherfucker for the coming year.
I think some True Religion jeans are in order. They’ll make everything better.
LoveStoned by Lynn
Story Tags: interracial wallsex celebrityj enemiesturnedlovers
