Friends & Fauxs Read online

  “So, what now?”

  “You need to take a test to see if your marrow might be a match. As his parents, we are the best possibilities, though it’s possible that neither one of us will be a match.” Reese explained all of the technical jargon that Dr. Young had explained to her.

  “I’ll be on the next flight out. Would you do me a favor and make a reservation for me at the Four Seasons? It’s pretty close to Cedars, so at least I can spend time with him,” his voice cracked.

  “He’ll be okay, Chris. In fact, if you want, you can have the testing done right there in New York. They can call in the results to Dr. Young.”

  “Are you crazy? You’re telling me that my son has a serious illness and you think I’m gonna stay away from his bedside?”

  “But what about your games? This could all take a while. You should maybe wait until we know more before you take time off from the Knicks.”

  “Fuck the Knicks. I’ll call you when I get to the airport,” he said, then slammed the phone down.

  Reese had rarely heard Chris raise his voice or curse. It sent an ominous shiver down her spine.

  Later, when she got home, Reese got back down on her knees and again prayed to God, hoping that this time he might really hear her.

  Chapter 17

  Larry King sat forward wearing his trademark suspenders and that goofy smile he saves for attractive female guests. “So, tell us, Gillian, how does it feel to go from an unknown model to a famous Academy Award–nominated actress—all within two years?”

  Gillian smiled demurely as she considered how to answer the question. Interviews were a landmine of possible gaffes, and without Lydia, she found herself tiptoeing through them very gingerly. Even without a publicist on board, Gillian, Brandon, and Imelda had agreed that she needed to do the show, since being on Larry King was akin to being accepted as a permanent fixture in American’s collective imagination.

  “All of the attention can be a bit overwhelming,” she said. “Though I’m not complaining. I love what I do and am deeply appreciative for the fans who enjoy my work.” One thing she realized was that the public despised a whining, overindulged, and pampered celebrity.

  In typical Larry King style, he quickly shifted gears. “Most of us don’t know a lot about you, so tell the viewers about your life growing up. I hear it’s been quite interesting.” He leaned back in anticipation of her story. This was her first in-depth, hour-long interview, which was quite a coup for King, since the media and everyone else for that matter seemed totally fixated on the exotically beautiful girl who’d burst onto the scene, stealing hearts and scripts alike.

  This was where it got really dicey. She longed for Lydia, who—despite her shortcomings—always did a masterful job of prepping her for interviews. She could kill her mother for firing her, and herself and Brandon for not putting their foot down and hiring her back. She took a deep breath and tried to remember the party line that she and Brandon had agreed would work best. “Though I was born in North Carolina, I really grew up around the world. My mom and I lived in Paris, London, and Spain, so we did quite a bit of traveling.”

  “I suppose that would account for that inexplicable accent of yours.” He was clearly enamored of her.

  She favored him and his millions of viewers with her most charming smile. “I suppose so.”

  “How did it happen that you and your mom lived in so many cities around the world?” he asked.

  This was the touchy part. “My stepfather lived in Europe,” she answered simply, failing to mention the exact number of stepfathers. Under her circumstances, given the title of the movie, Gold Diggers, and how she conveniently married the producer and financier, the last thing she wanted to do was to give the impression that she’d been raised and schooled by a world-class gold digger, even though she had.

  She knew that her mother was backstage watching the feed and praying that her name, rank, and serial number would be given.

  “So he moved the family around?” It was a question that subtly got to the crux of the matter that Gillian wanted so desperately to avoid.

  She couldn’t say yes, since each move did precipitate the end of one relationship and the beginning of a more lucrative one. “After they divorced, we left Paris.” Her goal was to give out as little information as possible.

  “And rather than come home to the States the two of you struck out across Europe? That was very brave. How old were you at the time?”

  She chose to ignore the first part of the question. “I was around five, I believe, when we left Paris.” Her acting skills were truly coming in handy. No one—except Oprah Winfrey, Barbara Walters, Dr. Phil, and Larry King—would have seen the unease with which she’d answered that question.

  “Did you see your biological father much?” he asked innocently. His acting was almost as good as hers.

  She could feel the trap that was being set for her, but didn’t know how to avoid its nasty snare. “No,” she answered simply.

  “Did you ever see him?”

  “No.”

  “Have you two been in touch since you’ve become famous?’

  “My father is deceased.”

  “And your stepfather?”

  Which one? She thought to herself, but said, “I don’t keep in touch.” It was a very shrewd answer. It neither confirmed nor denied that there was only one stepfather, rather than five.

  Larry let it go, not wanting to venture into the Jerry Springer vein of gutter journalism. “Tell us about your glamorous mother, Baroness von Glich, and the influence that she has had on your life.”

  This was more familiar, if not less treacherous, territory. “My mom is an amazing woman,” Gillian fake-smiled. She could feel the pressure of a swiftly inflating ego emanating from backstage. “Through her I’ve learned how to appreciate different cultures and to have a genuine love of life, no matter its trials and tribulations.” A heartwarming smile blossomed across Gillian’s face. Forget that award-winning tear that Denzel shed in Glory, this was truly another Oscar-worthy moment.

  Backstage Imelda was near orgasm. Her name, along with her title, had been mentioned glowingly on one of the highest rated and most well-regarded talk shows in the whole world. And the way he said her name! Baroness von Glich… she could tell that he must be attracted to her. But he was married, not that such a technicality had ever stopped her in the past. Her third husband had been the husband of her then best friend that evening when her Robert Clergerie-clad toe trailed northward up his leg during an intimate dinner that they shared with her and husband number two. When it came to love and/or money, it was all out war with Imelda.

  Meanwhile, back in Atlanta, Max and Charli watched the same interview equally attentively. She was in a similar state of shock as when her mother gave her deathbed confession, but this was even deeper. Though she’d certainly heard of Gillian Tillman-Russell over the last two years, she wasn’t a moviegoer and thought that the celebrity tabloids were stupid, so she never read them. And while she may have seen a picture or two in passing, with Gillian’s chic haircut, expert styling, and makeup, the resemblance between the two had never occurred to her. She did recall one of the rappers in the club telling her that she looked like an actress, but this was after so many shots of Hennessey he couldn’t even remember her name, let alone his own. Watching Gillian on screen convinced her of what Max had been telling her for the last twenty-four hours: Gillian Tillman-Russell was her twin sister! He’d shown her photo after photo, but she wasn’t convinced of it until she actually saw her sister. Forget the mannerisms and the speech patterns, Charli could feel the connection, through TV cable and across the continent. There was no doubt in her mind that they were sisters at the least, and more likely identical twins!

  Chapter 18

  “The Oscar-nominated actress Gillian Tillman-Russell seems to be hiding a family secret,” Shaun Robinson shared with her viewers during an on-air teaser. “Stay tuned for this Access Hollywood exclusive.”


  Gillian, who had been going over a script with the TV on low, nearly popped out of her seat. A family secret! What on earth were they talking about? She marched into the spa, where she found her mother facedown on the massage table with two masseuses working her over. One Adonis look-alike worked her back over, while the other gave his full and undivided attention to her legs. They were both gorgeous. She insisted on only having men massage her, and they had to be handsome to boot.

  “Mom, you need to come quick,” Gillian said, bursting into the room.

  “Honey, I’m busy right now,” she answered, turning her head to one side.

  “I don’t care. After a commercial, Access Hollywood is running a piece about some family secret I’m hiding.”

  This got Imelda’s attention. She lifted her head. “Family secret? What family secret?”

  “That’s what I need you to tell me.”

  “I have no idea what they’re talking about.”

  “In that case, let’s go find out.” She grabbed her mother’s robe and handed it to her. Imelda very reluctantly got up from the table and followed Gillian out of the room. A squadron of butterflies swarmed in the pit of her stomach. What family secret could they be referring to she wondered.

  Shaun was just coming back from commercial break when they entered the room. “It appears as if the beautiful and talented Oscar-nominated actress, Gillian Tillman-Russell, seems to have written a family member out of the story of her life. Earlier this week during an interview with Larry King, when asked if she’d been in touch with her biological father since becoming famous, the actress replied that he was deceased.” A clip of that portion of the interview ran. “Well, Access Hollywood has learned that this is not the case. Arthur Tillman is very much alive and desperately wants to meet the daughter that he hasn’t seen since she was an infant.”

  The video cut to a photograph of a paunchy man wearing a red plaid shirt, standing in front of a doublewide trailer.

  “Mr. Tillman, why would Gillian say that you were dead?” the onsite reporter asked.

  “Cain’t say as I know,” he answered, before spitting out a wad of tobacco.

  “When was the last time you saw your daughter?”

  “’Twas shawtly afta she’s bone. Her momma just ran off wit her and dis lawyer fella one day. Hadn’t seen ’em since. Had no idea where in the world dey was.”

  “Would you like to see your daughter?”

  “’Course I wud,” he answered. Arthur turned to face the camera, earnestly. “Gillian, baby, if you’s out there in TV land, nos I luv ya, and I wants ta see ya.”

  Gillian’s knees buckled. Thankfully there was a sofa behind her. She sat there for almost a minute in a stupor. Not only was the father that she’d been told died when she was a baby alive and kicking, but he was apparently a country hick living in a trailer in the backwoods of North Carolina. “How could you?” were the only words that she could form. She turned to face her mother, who seemed to be planted in the same spot, unable to move.

  For once Imelda was speechless. It never occurred to her that the media attention that she craved so much would be a double-edged sword, fully capable of exposing her deepest, darkest secrets. Having left the United States so long ago, her old existence felt remote, as though it had happened to someone else. She’d run a long way from the poor, unsophisticated life that she’d led back then, but here it was waiting for her just short of the finish line.

  “Say something!” Gillian demanded. Though her mother hadn’t said a word, the truth was for once written all over her face. Gillian had always known that her mother was selfish and opportunistic, but she would never have thought that she’d be capable of something so low as denying her the right to know her own father.

  “I don’t know what to say, honey. To me he was dead.”

  “But what about me?” Gillian shouted. “You’ve always only thought about yourself. I deserved to be able to make my own choice, not one that was more convenient for you in your quest for the next rich husband.” By now tears were streaming down her face. Knowing her mother lied to her her entire life about something so crucial, and had not batted an eyelash over it, hurt Gillian to her core.

  “I’m sorry,” was all that Imelda could muster. There was simply no defense for what she’d done. She couldn’t tell her daughter the truth. That she wanted to run as far away from Arthur Tillman, and all that he represented, as she could get. And the closer and closer she got to the promised land, the more that the thought of him didn’t fit into it. How could she possibly explain to Gillian that the mere sight of him would have hurt not only her own but both their images? Aside from being sorry that this all came out, her most honest emotion was embarrassment. She was deeply ashamed that the whole world now knew that Baroness von Glich was once married to that tobacco chewing, beer-bellied illiterate.

  Chapter 19

  This Tillman family bombshell was manna straight from heaven for Lydia. After Imelda fired her as Gillian’s publicist, the snakes at her PR agency followed suit and fired her, too. One minute she was one of the most envied publicists in the world, and the next she’d been summarily dismissed, and then blacklisted. All of this doom and gloom, because of that privileged bitch Gillian, her nasty mother, Imelda, and that gangster wannabe Brandon Russell. To make matters worse, not only did she lose her job, but her fiancé suddenly postponed their wedding date, indefinitely, confirming her subconscious belief that he was only marrying her to have access to hot parties and A-list events. Initially, she blamed Imelda solely for her rapid descent into nobodydom, but soon decided that the real culprits were Brandon and Gillian for not standing up to Mommy Dearest. After all her hard work, they’d simply tossed her out like last season’s wardrobe.

  After days of stewing in her own juices, her rash festered like a boil; her therapist told her that she should channel her anger. That’s when she came up with the brilliant idea to write a tell-all book about the Hollywood power couple that would focus on who killed Gillian’s friend Paulette, the larger-in-death-than-in-life publicist.

  Besides having observed enough of the intimate details about the couple—little things that were amazingly revealing—Lydia had been an investigative reporter before becoming a publicist. In fact, thanks to a little spying she’d already done, she felt sure that she could add some juicy tidbits to the now-dead investigation of who killed Paulette Dolliver. Even though neither Brandon nor Gillian had been serious suspects, Lydia had a plan to link them to the murder and was sure she would sell a million copies of her book as a result. Besides, she didn’t care if the case was ever solved, writing her book was only a convenient and profitable way to get back at two people whom she’d mistakenly thought had been her friends. That was the stark irony, by protecting Gillian from her young-eating, predator of a mother she’d end up being the one devoured. As some smart writer once wrote: Revenge was best served cold.

  Within two weeks she’d written a compelling book proposal, contacted an editor at Celebrity Publishing, and was now a pen stroke away from signing the book deal, which, by the way, came with a fairly hefty advance. She picked up a straw, leaned over, and snorted up a line of powder-fine coke, chasing it down with a glass of red wine. Then she made a toast to herself. “Here’s to Lights, Cameras, and Action! The Story of Fame, Fortune, and Fatality.”

  She loved the charge of energy that cocaine gave her. The wine helped to take the edge off of it, making sure that the ride was fast, but smooth. This lovely cocktail was far better for her mood than the mix of Prozac, Ativan, and Ritalin the doctor prescribed. Besides, she needed the extra energy to meet her deadline. Though it was a serious rush, she and the publisher had agreed that the book had to come out the week before the Oscars, which meant that she had six weeks to write it, and with the help of a private investigator hired by the company, she would get it done, come hell or high water.

  She signed all three copies of the contract and got right down to work. The “confidential” police
files that her investigator had obtained were a treasure trove of juicy details that made for some very interesting reading. According to the report there had never been a shortage of suspects. Lydia nearly salivated over the scintillating details, or maybe the drooling was the result of the cocaine’s numbing effect.

  At the top of the detective’s list was Maximillian Neuman III. Here was a real snake charmer. He’s just the sort of man most women became addicted to. Max was the father of Paulette’s unborn child, yet was married to her first cousin, Lauren, whom she was jealous of. Desperate to keep news of his bastard child and the scandalous affair quiet to preserve the millions he’d married into, Max had motive to spare. He could have gotten rid of the mother and the child in one fell swoop. But, since he was in New York at the time the car was tampered with, it would have been necessary for him to hire someone to do it. The investigator had never found a link to this person, so Max, at least so far, seemed to lack opportunity.

  Next up on the list was Chris Nolan, the NBA superstar, whose now ex-wife, Reese, was also along for the tragic ride. It appeared as though she and Paulette had plotted to obtain embarrassing photos of Chris with another man to blackmail him into a larger divorce settlement than was required under the prenup. Now there’s a motive for you: Again, two birds, one stone. Though the detective was unable to find any evidence showing how Chris could have pulled this off when his team was playing the Hawks in Atlanta that night and there was no evidence of a hired gun.

  As far as Lydia was concerned, the suspect du jour was the Brandon Russell. He had ample motive, based on rumors that Paulette knew about his money laundering, and more importantly, he had opportunity, since the car was parked in his covered garage and he knew it would be, since the shower had been planned for weeks. Plus, given Gillian’s superstardom, having him be the guilty party would certainly sell more books.