Of course, I should have guessed sooner. Who else could have been behind a stunt like this? Who else would have a motive? I studied the picture intently – OK, the girl in the photo, although none of the images showed her face, could have been me from behind. But so could a thousand other girl’s in LA.
I picked up my cellphone and called up a name in the address book. The call rang out, eventually going to voicemail. Frustrated, I spat a swear word and tried another number. Again I got the same response. I reasoned, through cold anger, that Jenny’s friends would either be sleeping at this time of day or they saw my name on the screen and decided to blow me off.
There was one name, though, someone who Jenny thought was one of her toadying sycophants but who had once told me she only hung around on the periphery of that group as a friend of a friend and that she really thought Jenny was a whore.
“Hi, Melissa?” I asked when, to my relief, the call was picked up.
“Hi, Kylie,” Melissa said. “What’s up? Congrats on the movie. I’m so jealous!”
“Thanks,” I replied. “It’s really exciting and I’m so thrilled to have the chance, but I was calling about something else and I wondered if you could help me. Have you seen the stuff in the papers about me today?”
Melissa said she hadn’t, and when I explained the circumstances behind my call she went quiet.
“I was there last night,” she said eventually. “I wasn’t partying like the rest of them because I’ve got a photo-shoot today. It seemed weird at the time,” she added, “but I wasn’t really paying much attention. There was the usual asshole paparazzi hanging around outside the club, but inside there was one guy with a small camera who was taking photos. None of the security bothered him either, which is why I noticed. Then I saw he was with that girl who works for Damien Taylor, you know, your director guy.” She went off at a tangent at the mention of Damien’s name. “Now he’s sexy,” Melissa purred. “OK, he’s older, but so hawt! You should make a move on him, Kylie.”
“I know what you mean,” I replied, steering Melissa back onto the reason for my call. “But you say this guy was taking pictures of Alexandra Eagleton? Damien’s assistant, is that right?”
“That’s her,” Melissa confirmed. If the papers say it’s you, they’ve got the wrong lady ‘cause he was taking photos of her, Alexandra what’s-her-name.”
I chatted to Melissa for a minute, not wanting to be rude to her but inside my head I was screaming.
Oh my God! It was Alexandra in those photos!
But why? Why would Alexandra be involved with one of Jenny’s plots?
The spider incident came rushing back. Alexandra had suggested the scene in the first place. But how could she possibly know about my phobia? Of course, the answer to that was also obvious. Jenny knew about my fear of spiders.
Then I recalled the oddly pleased look on Alexandra’s face when I’d turned to look at her as Damien gently led me off the spider set.
Jenny had told Alexandra who had then engineered the whole debacle.
Jenny I could understand, she’d want to ruin it all for me out of spiteful jealousy, but what was Alexandra’s angle? Was Alexandra trying to get Damien for herself?
Then panic set in when I realized that she’d followed Damien out of the office. She’d deliberately planted the tabloid so Damien would see it, and then, when he’d stormed out – which she could have bet a year’s salary would be his reaction – she followed after him. This could be her chance. She could be on hand to offer comfort, and I could imagine what kind of comforting that would involve.
I needed to get the hell out of the office and find Damien before Alexandra could tell him any more lies.
He didn’t pick up my calls, and when I try for the twentieth time the call went straight to voicemail.
“Shit,” I spat as I burst onto the street outside the studio.
My legs felt weak as I tried in vain to hail a cab. I could feel the panic rising in my chest, swelling in my throat and making it hard to breathe.
“Please, God,” I whimpered. “Not again. Don’t do this to me again. It isn’t him, it’s Alexandra and Jenny. Punish those two. Please.”
Finally I managed to get a taxi to pick me up. I gave the driver Damien’s address. “If you break a few laws I’ll pay you double,” I said shakily as the tears threatened.
We set off with a squeal of tires and the smell of burning rubber.
When we arrived at Damien’s house the gates were closed. I paid the cabbie his well-earned fare and walked up to the intimidating gates. After pressing the code into the keypad the gates swung open and I rushed past their silent, gliding bulk.