Даниэла Стил - Finding Ashley [calibre]

Chapter 6

Hattie slept fitfully on the flight from Dublin to L.A. They changed planes at Heathrow, and she had a screaming baby next to her for most of the flight. She was tired and felt physically sick when they landed in L.A., after their stop in Chicago. She had been to L.A. for a screen test when she was young, and had hated it so much she had sworn she’d never return. But she was here now for Melissa, and forced all other thoughts from her mind. She would have done anything for her sister. She felt as close to her now as she had when they were young girls.

She took a bus to downtown L.A., and checked in to a hotel on Sunset Strip. The area looked questionable, with homeless people on the streets, but the hotel was cheap. And she knew none of the convents in the city. It was simpler to stay at a hotel. She changed into her habit, thinking it might protect her when she left the hotel for dinner at a diner nearby. She always felt safe and invisible when she wore it, and the waitress poured her a free cup of coffee because she was a nun, and wouldn’t let her leave a tip.

She used the business center when she got back to her hotel, dazed by the time difference and the long trip. She researched the three actresses online, and saw that the actress who had recently retired had a thirty-three-year-old son. So Fiona hadn’t been wrong. She had obviously adopted a baby the year Ashley was born, but it was a boy. The young actress whose famous mother had died lived in Beverly Hills and was the girlfriend of a punk rock star. Hattie found her phone number and address online, on a website that listed celebrities and their private information, which was not unusual to find online, home addresses and phone numbers. She stared when she saw the information. The girl was beautiful in photographs, but looked nothing like Melissa.

The third actress whose name she had gotten from Fiona was still working, very famous, currently making a film, and she had a daughter, also thirty-three years old. The fan website said she worked for an organization that provided legal and medical assistance for abused inner-city children, and had a degree as a social worker. Her husband was an entertainment lawyer with a well-known firm, and she had two children. There was no photograph of her, and the little Hattie read about her made her sound like a normal, well-educated woman with a good heart. The brief article about her said that she had graduated from the School of Social Work at Columbia University, where Melissa had gone to college. But neither the social worker nor the young actress were named Ashley, so they probably weren’t the right ones. But Hattie wanted to meet them anyway. They were the only leads she had.

Hattie jotted down both phone numbers, still amazed by how easy it was to get the contact information for celebrities. They really had no privacy. She decided to call them in the morning. She wanted to try the actress first. She went back to her room then, lay down on the bed in her habit, fell asleep, and didn’t wake up until the sun was streaming into her room at nine o’clock the next day. She didn’t remember where she was for a minute, thought she was in Dublin, and then remembered that she was in L.A.

Hattie went back to the coffee shop, in jeans and a T-shirt this time, had coffee and toast, and went back to her room to make the calls. She had thought about it that morning. She had told Mother Elizabeth that she wouldn’t try to meet the girls herself, but now that she was there, the temptation was just too great.

The young actress’s name was Heather Jones. Hattie dialed her number, expecting to hear voicemail, or an assistant, and a young voice said hello. Hattie was shocked for a minute, and on the spur of the moment claimed to be a reporter wanting an interview.

“From where?” The voice sounded blasé and not particularly interested, but she didn’t hang up, and Hattie thought frantically and said it was an Internet magazine for teens, and invented a name. She said it was new, and their readers were crazy about her. Heather Jones giggled then and sounded pleased. “Do you want to send me a Q and A?” she asked casually, and Hattie scrambled for what to say next.

“I’d rather meet you in person. It won’t take long.” And much to her amazement, the girl trustingly agreed, and gave her an appointment at four o’clock that afternoon, at her home in Beverly Hills. It had been easier than Hattie had dreamed. She had no idea what to say to her, or how she’d bring up the subject of Melissa, but she was in it up to her neck now, and was determined to follow through.

She tried to reach the second young woman then, whose number had been on the Internet. Her name wasn’t Ashley either. When she got voicemail, Hattie left a message.

She took a cab to the house in Beverly Hills, and arrived on time, and felt as though she were living a movie. It reminded her of her brief stay in L.A. eighteen years before. Heather Jones’s famous rocker boyfriend was lounging at the pool, when a maid opened the door and led Hattie past the pool into the living room, where Heather was on the phone, waiting for her. She ended the call as soon as Hattie walked in, desperately afraid that they would ask her for credentials she didn’t have, but Heather Jones smiled at her and offered her a drink, which Hattie declined. The actress lay down on the couch, and invited Hattie to take a chair facing her.

“You’ll be using existing art?” she asked her blithely. “We just did a PR shoot, my assistant can send you whatever shots you need.”

“That’s perfect, thank you,” Hattie said, feeling dazed. It was all so Hollywood and everything she had run away from. She was a nun, not a reporter, but she reminded herself that she was doing it for her sister. She was trying to think of questions to ask her that teenagers might be interested in. She asked her about her early career, the movies she’d been in, which one meant the most to her, what her dreams were for the future, and what message she might want to send to her teenage fans. The actress loved talking about herself, and it wasn’t difficult to keep her engaged. Then finally, Hattie slipped a pertinent question into the mix at the end.

“How do you think it affected you, knowing that you were adopted? Did you feel closer to your famous mother, or competitive with her?” The actress stared at her for a moment as though Hattie had spoken to her in Chinese.

“Adopted? What are you talking about? I wasn’t adopted. Is that on the Internet?” She looked shocked. “I was born in Italy when my mother took six months off between movies to have me.” And then had obviously come home with a baby, claiming she’d given birth to it abroad, while taking a break in Italy where no one had seen her. She was one of the children who had never been told she was adopted. “I don’t know where you heard that. Everyone says I look like my mother, but we were always very different. As you know, my mother had a terrible substance abuse problem. It made me determined not to be like her. I wanted to have her talent, but not her problems. She died when I was seventeen. She OD’d in our swimming pool. I found her. I’ve never done drugs and I don’t drink because of it. And as you know, Billy Zee, my first husband, had a problem with heroin addiction, which is why I left him. In fact, I’d like to remind your readers never, ever to mess with drugs. I want you to put that in the article. That’s the most important thing I have to say.” She was so earnest that Hattie was touched. She wasn’t a very interesting subject, but she had a poignant naïve quality, despite her striking good looks and the skin-tight white jumpsuit she was wearing.

“Of course, I’ll put that in, in bold type,” Hattie assured her. “I want to thank you for your time, and your message to our young readers,” Hattie said, trying to sound sincere, and feeling slightly guilty.