Watch the Girls

If I feel like I'm being watched, it's usually because I am. Someone has recognized my face, but they can't quite place me. They glance my way when they think I'm not looking. They don't realize I'm watching them back, waiting for the moment when they'll either lose interest or muster the courage to approach and say—

"Hey…I'm sorry, but are you Olivia Hill?"

It was that desperate time of night when everyone was trying to get a drink at the same time. If only it was the bartender who couldn't keep his eyes off me instead of this woman. Barely a woman, really. Her pixie cut framed a cherubic face and fleshy, flushed cheeks. Her slender stem of a neck didn't look strong enough to support her globe of a head. Aspiring actress, I guessed. In this town, weren't they all?

"Nope," I told the girl.

"Oh. My mistake." She started to withdraw into the crowd, and then halted, stepped forward again, determined. "You're Liv Hendricks, from Bullshit Hunters!"

My eyes shifted to the comforting rows of bottles shelved above the bar's backsplash, the amber liquid in them that would grant my only wish: an end to the day's sobriety.

The baby-faced girl kept standing there, waiting for me to confirm what she already knew. I felt sorry for her because there were so many of her in Los Angeles. Girls who all wanted the same thing, who almost had what it took to get it. These girls would have killed for the opportunities I'd cast off like an itchy sweater, the kind that made you miserable every second you wore it.

What I had learned about girls like this one was that most of them didn't want to act, or sing, or model, or whatever it was they'd ostensibly come to LA to do. They wanted to be seen. They didn't exist until observed, the pretty-girl equivalents of Schrödinger's cat. Living online wasn't enough for them. Twitter and Facebook and Tumblr and Instagram, Periscope and YouTube and Snapchat and blogging and all the rest were not enough. Would never be enough to make them feel like they were real, like they mattered on a planet of six billion people and counting.

"Yeah," I admitted. "I'm Liv Hendricks."

"Oh my God, I'm such a huge fan! I watched your show every day in junior high. I mean, they were reruns, but I was addicted. I'm serious. It was my crack."

I hailed the nearest bartender, a twenty-something hipster with a high and tight haircut, wearing a vest and an antiquey, collarless shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He looked like he'd come to work straight from the set of Boardwalk Empire. "Old-fashioned," I called to him. I could have been describing him.

The girl's mouth kept moving. I could barely hear her, but I knew what she was saying. The same things these girls always say.

I didn't trust her motivations, but then I didn't trust most women. As a teenager, I'd never had girlfriends who didn't treat me like a prize, someone who could get them into places they wanted to go, introduce them to the celebrities they wanted to meet, buy them clothes they couldn't afford. But once the money and the celebrity were gone, so was my entourage.

Women had an agenda too often for my comfort. So did men, but theirs was predictable. If a man asked to buy me a drink, I knew he wanted to fuck me, or at least talk me into giving him a blowjob. If a woman did the same thing, I couldn't be sure what she wanted from me, only that it was probably something I'd rather not give.

By the time the aspiring actress took a break from gushing, I had my cocktail. The whiskey heat settled into my hollow stomach. I counted what I had eaten that day. Coffee for breakfast. A cup of yogurt with blueberries for lunch (150 calories). Three slices of deli turkey before I came to the bar (60 calories). Two hundred and ten calories for the entire day. It's all about the calories. The words were branded on my brain. That's what happened when your mom put you on your first diet when you were seven.

I finished my drink, completed my buzz. Started feeling good. Chatty, even.

"Hey," the girl said. "Can I buy you a drink? It would be such an honor for me, and there are so many things I want to ask you. Please say yes!"

"Sure," I said. "Why not?"

LA Femme Online

A Star Burns Out: Whatever Happened to Olivia Hill?

Freya McBride

4 hours ago—Filed to CELEBRITY

378 Likes—78 Comments

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I woke to a shrill ringtone next to my head and fumbled weakly for my phone, needing to stop the sound before my skull shattered. When I peeled my eyes open, I found Gemma's name floating on the screen, and thought I must still be drunk. Gemma and I didn't talk on the phone. We didn't talk in person. We didn't talk period.

"Hello?" I mumbled into the receiver, sounding every bit as disoriented as I was. Why was she calling me? How had I gotten home?

"What were you thinking?" Gemma demanded in greeting.

"Can you be more specific?" I pulled the sheet up over my head. The sunlight felt like lemon juice in my eyes, stinging and acidic.

An extended silence, and then, "You don't know?"

Her ominous tone would have made me sit up if I were capable of such a feat. I tried and failed and curled into the fetal position instead. "Just tell me."

"It's better if you see for yourself. I'll text you the link."

"Is that all?" I didn't ask what the link was to. I wasn't ready to know.

"Jesus, Liv, you sound wrecked. Are you shooting today?"

"It's not Bullshit Hunters without Liv Hendricks."

Another long silence, and then, more gently, "You can't keep on like this." I would have been touched by her concern if she hadn't followed with, "It's not just affecting you anymore. What you did last night is bad for me, too. My publicist is doing her best to contain the situation, but she's not a miracle worker. You need to fix this. Make a statement. Apologize and promise you're getting help. Say you lied. Just do something. I'm sure Desiree would be happy to—"

I ended the call, and then lay there for a few minutes, waiting for the throbbing in my skull to die down. If a bottle of Advil had appeared in my hand, I would have chewed the pills like Pez.

What had I done?

I was used to waking up to this question—both existential and literal—but whatever I had gotten up to last night must have been particularly scandalous.

My phone dinged with a text from Gemma, a link to something on LA Femme Online, LA's premier feminist lifestyle and entertainment blog. I didn't click the link, nor did I look at any of the other texts waiting for me. I was already running late.

When I finally managed to sit up I discovered that I was naked beneath the blankets. Which was shocking because I never slept naked, certain that one of these days an earthquake would drive me from my apartment in the middle of the night. The last thing I needed was for someone to snap a nude photo of me and post it to one of the Tumblr boards devoted to Bullsh?t Hunters, the title spelled with a question mark so we could get away with cursing on cable.

I attempted to revive myself with a cold shower, trying not to read into the tenderized ache between my legs. I shut off the faucet and reached for my only clean towel. I needed to buy new linens one of these days, sheets and a duvet that weren't as rough as diner napkins. Towels that weren't permanently stained with self-tanner and mascara.

I'd moved into my studio loft just after I was cast on Bullsh?t Hunters, and had always intended to do an apartment overhaul but never quite got around to it. Most of the downtown loft-dwellers were creatives—artists and designers, filmmakers and screenwriters—people who transformed the interiors of their homes into shrines to edgy art and hipster culture. They made passionate, personal, pretentious statements with their walls, their carefully chosen vintage furniture, their choice of CB2 shower curtains. I didn't even have a shower curtain, just the clear plastic sheet that kept the spray contained, and my loft was bare but for a few pieces of Ikea furniture I'd bought on Craigslist to avoid having to put anything together. I had yet to hang a single picture. My exposed-brick walls and stainless-steel appliances deserved better than what I had to offer.

I started a pot of drip coffee brewing and got to work on my hair and makeup while I waited. The Bullsh?t Hunters production team used to include a hair and makeup department, but after a recent bout of budget cuts our producer, Danny, started asking the cast to arrive camera-ready.

The hardest part about being my own hair and makeup department was covering the three-inch scar slashing my forehead, a memento from the night Miranda had gone missing. A branch of the tree that had caught my BMW thrust through the windshield and carved a trench from my right eyebrow into my hairline, so deep the white of my skull had been exposed. I got a reminder of the worst night of my life every time I looked in the mirror. A night I barely remembered.

I dressed in one of my "investigating" outfits, a short pleated skirt, lacy camisole, tight cardigan, and argyle knee socks. The wardrobe was my least favorite part of the job. The only time a woman in her thirties should wear a costume like this is if her lover has a schoolgirl fetish. But Bullsh?t Hunters had been pitched to the network as reality Scooby-Doo for adults. As the "Daphne" of our merry band of paranormal investigators, my look represented femininity and girl-next-door sex appeal. In other words, I was something for the predominantly straight, male viewership to masturbate to.

By the time I was ready I had only twenty minutes to get to set. I requested an Uber so I could read the day's pages on the way. Balancing a travel mug of coffee, my bag, and the pages, I opened my front door to find my down-the-hall neighbor, Elliot, standing on the other side, his hand raised to knock. When he saw me he grinned and shoved his hands into the pockets of pants so tight they would have fit me better than they did him. Elliot was cute in a deliberately slovenly way, but he was almost ten years younger than me, and I had a strict anti–Melrose Place policy not to get involved with anyone who lived in my building.

"Elliot, I'm running really late. Can we talk later?" I skirted around him without waiting for an answer, striding fast toward the elevator and stabbing the button repeatedly.

A hand came to rest on my hip. I twisted away, my heart crashing against my chest and an irrational scream trapped behind my lungs.

"Whoa! What's wrong?" Elliot held his hands up in surrender.

"I just…you surprised me." And I didn't like being touched in intimate places without giving permission, which should have been a given.

"I'm sorry. After last night, you know, I thought—"

Fuck. Literally.

Elliot scratched the beard he was growing to make him look older than his twenty-three years. He claimed youth was getting in the way of his directing career. He didn't understand Los Angeles yet. Any second grader in this town could direct a film if he was a big enough asshole. Elliot was too nice.

"I-I just thought we were…something," Elliot tried again, his eyes full of puzzled hurt.

"Right…" Somewhere in the blackout-edited filmstrip of my memories was probably a scene that depicted me running into Elliot in the hall, inviting him in, offering a drink. The rest was easy enough to figure out.

The elevator dinged. I jumped inside. "I'll see you later. Gotta be on set in thirty."

The doors closed in his face.

Alone in the elevator, I leaned against the back wall and closed my eyes, willing the balloon of guilt in my chest to deflate, telling myself it was just sex. A random hookup. It didn't mean anything. Elliot was old enough to know that, if nothing else.

Besides, according to Gemma, I had more important things to feel guilty about.

T