Sequel: You Could Be Happy ›
Wilted and Faded
i'm all i wanna be
I groaned as I rolled over in my large double bed and lifted my arm to shield my eyes from the blinding LA sun that shone through the full-length window opposite me. Squeezing my eyes tight shut to try and keep out the bright light wasn’t working so I turned over again to bury my face in the pillow.
“Dude, stop moving”, came a disgruntled voice from my right.
I squinted one eye open and looked over at my best friend in the world, Christian, who was sprawled out on his back in only his black boxers with his legs and arms flung out like a starfish, his raven black hair sticking up in every direction.
To an innocent bystander, or tabloid ‘reporter’, the scene would look suspicious. Almost-naked model and scantily clad party girl/scene queen/sometime model/rockstar’s daughter together in bed spells hot sex and a juicy story (however fabricated). But that was most definitely not the case with Christian and I, we’re just best friends, plain and simple.
“Remember who’s bed you’re taking over, pal”, I grumbled.
“Someone called earlier”, he mumbled.
“Who? I didn’t hear the phone ring,” I asked, neither of us moving from the oh so comfortable bed.
“That’s cause you sleep so heavy that a fucking earthquake couldn’t wake you.”
“Whatever”, I sighed as I pulled myself up and lay across his washboard stomach to press play on the answering machine that lived on the bedside table.
“You have one new message”, the electronic woman’s voice filled the room.
“Why are there no male answering machines?” Chris asked from under me.
“Hi Ruby, it’s me.”
I grimaced as my eldest sister, Louisa’s voice filled the large bedroom.
Obviously seeing as my dad’s a rockstar and all I have a few siblings. His first wife was his high school sweetheart and they had Johnny, who’s 29 and a record producer living in San Diego, and Louisa, 28, she is a successful divorce lawyer in L.A. After my dad had divorced their mother he got together with his then manager and they had three children. Missy, 26, is a stylist in New York and the twins Freddie and Ryan, 25, just opened a club in downtown Los Angeles.
Soon after that relationship ended my dad met my mother, Rachel Harris. She was an up and coming model in London and was landing huge contracts with all the big labels, and had appeared on the cover of British and French Vogue. A year after they were married I was born. They separated when I was 3 and my mum moved us back to London where I grew up. When I was 15 my mother died after a short battle with cancer and I moved to L.A. to live with my father.
People tell me that my dad was never the same after my mother returned to England, that he was heartbroken when she left and had even followed her to the airport to try and make us stay. It was true than he never had another long-term relationship, I read about his flings in the tabloids but there was never a steady girlfriend that I was aware of. Not that it would have been difficult to hide one from me, we never really kept in touch other than birthdays, Christmas and the odd phone call every couple of months.
When I moved to live with him in L.A. you’d think things would change, right? If anything they got worse. I fell in with the ‘wrong crowd’, not that there’s a right one for a fifteen-year-old in L.A., and soon I was drinking, smoking and not being the wholesome little girl a rockstar’s daughter should be.
I shifted a little to make myself more comfortable and listened to the rest of my sister’s message.
“I was just calling to remind you that we’re supposed to be having lunch today. I’ve got some exciting news to tell you! Anyway see you at the café at one.”
“How can she be so cheerful at this time in the morning?” I asked Chris.
“Maybe she’s on something”, he mused sleepily.
“What time is it anyway?”
Chris looked at the expensive watch on his wrist, “Twelve thirty.”
“Shit”, I mumbled as I crawled over him and made my way to the bathroom adjoining my bedroom.
Stripping off my leopard-print boy shorts and white tank top I jumped in the shower. Quickly dressing in denim shorts and one of Chris’s red plaid shirts I shoved my feet into red patent wedges and grabbed my black Chanel purse.
“I’ll be back later”, I said to Chris, who was already asleep again, before pecking his cheek and leaving the apartment.
Slipping into my black Mercedes I glanced at the clock and smiled, ready in 15 minutes I think that’s a new record.
“Dude, stop moving”, came a disgruntled voice from my right.
I squinted one eye open and looked over at my best friend in the world, Christian, who was sprawled out on his back in only his black boxers with his legs and arms flung out like a starfish, his raven black hair sticking up in every direction.
To an innocent bystander, or tabloid ‘reporter’, the scene would look suspicious. Almost-naked model and scantily clad party girl/scene queen/sometime model/rockstar’s daughter together in bed spells hot sex and a juicy story (however fabricated). But that was most definitely not the case with Christian and I, we’re just best friends, plain and simple.
“Remember who’s bed you’re taking over, pal”, I grumbled.
“Someone called earlier”, he mumbled.
“Who? I didn’t hear the phone ring,” I asked, neither of us moving from the oh so comfortable bed.
“That’s cause you sleep so heavy that a fucking earthquake couldn’t wake you.”
“Whatever”, I sighed as I pulled myself up and lay across his washboard stomach to press play on the answering machine that lived on the bedside table.
“You have one new message”, the electronic woman’s voice filled the room.
“Why are there no male answering machines?” Chris asked from under me.
“Hi Ruby, it’s me.”
I grimaced as my eldest sister, Louisa’s voice filled the large bedroom.
Obviously seeing as my dad’s a rockstar and all I have a few siblings. His first wife was his high school sweetheart and they had Johnny, who’s 29 and a record producer living in San Diego, and Louisa, 28, she is a successful divorce lawyer in L.A. After my dad had divorced their mother he got together with his then manager and they had three children. Missy, 26, is a stylist in New York and the twins Freddie and Ryan, 25, just opened a club in downtown Los Angeles.
Soon after that relationship ended my dad met my mother, Rachel Harris. She was an up and coming model in London and was landing huge contracts with all the big labels, and had appeared on the cover of British and French Vogue. A year after they were married I was born. They separated when I was 3 and my mum moved us back to London where I grew up. When I was 15 my mother died after a short battle with cancer and I moved to L.A. to live with my father.
People tell me that my dad was never the same after my mother returned to England, that he was heartbroken when she left and had even followed her to the airport to try and make us stay. It was true than he never had another long-term relationship, I read about his flings in the tabloids but there was never a steady girlfriend that I was aware of. Not that it would have been difficult to hide one from me, we never really kept in touch other than birthdays, Christmas and the odd phone call every couple of months.
When I moved to live with him in L.A. you’d think things would change, right? If anything they got worse. I fell in with the ‘wrong crowd’, not that there’s a right one for a fifteen-year-old in L.A., and soon I was drinking, smoking and not being the wholesome little girl a rockstar’s daughter should be.
I shifted a little to make myself more comfortable and listened to the rest of my sister’s message.
“I was just calling to remind you that we’re supposed to be having lunch today. I’ve got some exciting news to tell you! Anyway see you at the café at one.”
“How can she be so cheerful at this time in the morning?” I asked Chris.
“Maybe she’s on something”, he mused sleepily.
“What time is it anyway?”
Chris looked at the expensive watch on his wrist, “Twelve thirty.”
“Shit”, I mumbled as I crawled over him and made my way to the bathroom adjoining my bedroom.
Stripping off my leopard-print boy shorts and white tank top I jumped in the shower. Quickly dressing in denim shorts and one of Chris’s red plaid shirts I shoved my feet into red patent wedges and grabbed my black Chanel purse.
“I’ll be back later”, I said to Chris, who was already asleep again, before pecking his cheek and leaving the apartment.
Slipping into my black Mercedes I glanced at the clock and smiled, ready in 15 minutes I think that’s a new record.