I stepped up to the oversized door, swallowing a ‘wow’ as I gripped a knocker and rapped twice. I cleared my throat and got ready to call out her name, but stopped when I heard the lock disengaging.
The door swung open and Mia cocked her head to the side, bright eyes twice their normal size as she took me in. “You came?”
“Of course,” I said, flashing a grin.
She didn’t return it, but I saw something in her eyes that looked a lot like relief. She held the door open and let me step inside. As loud as her personality was I expected neon walls, a wooden chandelier, Warhol prints, and furniture that was more fashion than function. Instead, the walls were bare. The open concept floor plan just looked vast and empty except for a cluster of cardboard boxes and shopping bags in what I suspected was supposed to be the living room. The only real color was the array of wine and liquor bottles lining the island. Well, that and the lime green leggings Mia had on.
She flipped her hair over her shoulder, walking over to one of the boxes labeled ‘K stuff’. “Want something to drink? I have water, wine, beer, club soda?”
I shook my head and she abandoned the cardboard box and went to the fridge. She emerged with a Miller Lite, studying me as she popped the lid.
“Scott had some stuff to do, that’s why I--” She turned her back to me, chugging it like she was in the Sahara and just found a bottle of water. Once she was done she dropped it in the trash can with a metallic crunch that told me she drank booze like a fish drank water. As much as I wanted to find out the truth about her sheisty friend, it was fairly obvious she didn’t want to talk about him. Besides, I was there to support her, not make her more uncomfortable which meant it was probably time for a subject change.
I walked to the island, running my fingertips across the granite countertop. “You just moved in?”
“Sure, six months ago.” She leaned on the opposite side of the counter and shrugged her denim clad shoulders. “I’m kind of a gypsy. No use unpacking because I just can’t stay in one place. It’s in my blood.”
And my attempt at steering the convo out of dicey territory put me right in a pile of awkward. Everyone knew about the show moms who made Mommy Dearest look like mother of the year. They were driven and if you stood in the way of the direction they believed their kids’ career should go, they would plow right over you. School, family, even childhood was put on the backburner as they worked for their lil' one’s big break. And once that break came, they were right there; pulling the strings, acting like their ability to turn their children into a commodity meant they were owed respect and gratitude.
If all the show moms in LA were put on a single team, Charlene Kent would be the MVP. Before I even started following Mia closely I remembered news articles about her mother nearly costing her starring roles because producers refused to deal with her. Before her fourteenth birthday there were rumors that Mia was thinking about emancipating herself. She’d laughed them off, but from the way her face hardened as she talked about blood, maybe there were some truth to it.
She tossed a look at me and snorted. “You can stop looking at me like I’m gonna break into a million little pieces.”
I let out a nervous chuckle, swatting the truth away. “I wasn’t--”
“You were,” she glowered, standing upright. “Worried bringing up my mom would send me spiraling back into the dark pit. Ask me anything about her. I’ll show you how fine I am.”
This whole thing was proof of how fine she wasn't. “Mia...”
“Ask me.”
“How’s your mother doing?”
“No idea. I haven’t talked to her since my birthday.”
The photos of Mia smiling, happy on her eighteenth birthday took on a whole meaning.
I met her gaze slowly. “You were free.”
She was the one that broke away first, turning back to the fridge. Back to the booze. Besides the fact she wasn't legal, it was nowhere near the socially accepted time of getting plastered.
“You think that’s a good idea?”
The hiss of the gas escaping from the bottle and her prompt guzzling of it was my answer. She was throwing down like it was Friday night with a tolerance that would impress the most prolific of frat boys. I thought coming over would help her, but right now, I just felt like I was making things worse. After all my talk at the meeting, I wasn’t even following my own suggestions. I was doing the exact opposite...I was driving her to drink.
I stood up, at a loss for what to do. “I know you’ve got a lot on your plate--”
“Huh,” she interrupted, gesturing around the quiet expanse of her apartment with her empty bottle. “It looks like I have nothing on my plate. My personal assistant stopped answering my calls and I’ve been receiving delicately worded emails from producers. They all apologize but they’ve ‘found new talent’ or are ‘going in a different direction”.”
I gave her a sympathetic nod. “They’re just being overly cautious. They'll be back once everything calms down.”
“Once everyone finds some new star to stalk? Once the Mia Kent Suicide Watch ends?"
I cringed, remembering my horror when I saw that TMV, one of the more dick-ish celebrity gossip new sites, actually had a countdown widget on their front page. They docked the time with every new article published about Mia.
“Once they realize that you’re here to stay,” I said, taking the anger and trying to turn it into something positive. Something empowering. “Once you make a comeback.”
She wagged a finger at me. “No Whitmore and Creighton stuff, remember?”
I held up my hands innocently. “I didn't say anything about contracts or Whitmore and Creighton. You’re going to make a comeback whether you sign with us or not, if that’s what you really want.”
She didn’t look remotely convinced of that. “Yeah right.”
“I am right.”
“My mom says that I’m done. That I’ve completely ruined my career.” Her face changed, every line deepening, wrinkles and a world weariness coloring her eyes that seemed like too much for someone her age. “My little sister is her latest project. Maybe she'll get it right this time.”
I didn’t miss the contradiction. “I thought you hadn’t spoken to her since your birthday.”
She pulled her long hair into a low bun, her eyes narrowing. “The media’s already called me plenty. Brat. Idiot. Washed Up. Might as well add liar to the mix.”