Born to Die - Lisa Jackson [2]
How depressing was that?
Shelly Bonaventure had to make it, she had to. She couldn’t very well go back to that Podunk town in Montana with her tail between her legs. Hadn’t she been prom queen of Sycamore High, voted “most likely to be famous” her senior year? Hadn’t she taken off, shaking the dust of that small town from her shoes as quickly as possible? And hadn’t, in the beginning, her star shined brightly, rising with promise and a few plum roles? A recurring role in a soap opera before she was twenty! Hadn’t she worked with the Toms—Cruise and Hanks—and Gwyneth and Meryl and . . . and even Brad Friggin’ Pitt? Okay, so they were small parts, but still, they were legit! And she’d been a double for Julia Roberts! Then there was the vampire series What’s Blood Got to Do With It on cable. She’d paid her dues, by God. But, she realized, those flashes of fame had been a while back, and lately she’d been relegated to corpses on CSI, a few commercials, and voice-overs for low-budget animated films.
If she didn’t land the part of Estelle in this new series, she could kiss her B-listed career good-bye and open her arms to a reality show for has-beens. She shuddered at the thought.
Hollywood, she thought miserably, the land of worn-out casting couches and broken dreams.
She winced against another jab of pain that nearly buckled her knees. “Sweet Jesus,” she whispered, then half crawled, half stumbled, to her small galley kitchen, where she dragged open her refrigerator door, saw the sparse contents inside, and felt depressed all over again. After retrieving the half-full bottle of Pepto, she unscrewed the cap and took a swallow of the pink ooze. Quivering, she replaced the top, put the remainder of the bottle back on the shelf, then sat on the floor, her legs extended, as she took in long, deep breaths.
God, she felt bad.
Maybe she should call her doctor, at least leave a message with his answering service. Slowly, she pulled herself to her feet and wondered, again, where was Lana?
Well, certainly not on the counter, where three days’ worth of coffee cups, dirty glasses, and Lean Cuisine trays littered the chipped tile.
Her stomach still aching, she made her way to the bathroom, told herself she couldn’t let this town beat her down.
Hadn’t she suffered through bulimia?
Hadn’t she done whatever it took?
And even if she wasn’t classically beautiful, she’d been told her face had “character” and “intelligence.” Her auburn hair was still vibrant; the skin around her green eyes and full lips without too many telltale lines.
With a glance in the mirror over the sink, she cringed as she wedged herself into the tiny bathroom. Despite the pep talk to herself, the years were beginning to show, if only a little. She used a ton of products to keep her complexion flawless, and she wasn’t into Botox. Yet. Though she wasn’t ruling it out. Then again, she wouldn’t rule anything out that might force Father Time back a step or two.
But he was a persistent son of a bitch, she thought and pushed the flesh on the sides of her jaw backward in an attempt to see if she really needed to be “tightened up.”
Not yet, thank God. She didn’t have the money for any kind of “work.” And she wasn’t ready to write some kind of trumped-up tell-all book, which her agent had mentioned. She wasn’t even thirty-five yet, for God’s sake, at least not for a few more days; she wasn’t ready to spill her guts just yet. And truth to tell, she didn’t have that much to write about; her life had been pretty dull compared to a lot of her peers.
Noticing the whites of her eyes were a little bloodshot, she removed her contacts, then found the bottle of Visine she kept in the medicine cabinet. After unscrewing the bottle cap, she tilted her head back, blinked in the drops, and resealed the bottle. She closed the mirrored front of the cabinet and caught a glimpse of a shadow behind her.
What?
Her heart clutched and she jerked around. The room was empty; the door behind her open to the living