Movie Star By Lizzie Pepper Read Online Free PDF Page B

work again.
    But when I looked up, the perpetually blue sky would wash away the shadows, drawing me back into the Hollywood fantasy: strolling on the dunes, being served by a private chef, staying in bed until the sun was highenough to hit the western-facing windows, and having your choice of parts, the hottest scripts with the finest directors in the business already attached, or willing to sign on if you were on board to play the starring role.

    One of the biggest adjustments was something that at first felt like a small detail: Rob’s household staff. They tried to stay out of our way, but there were a lot of them, and they came in twos. Two drivers. Two chefs. Two gate guards and two bodyguards. It was easy to get used to not lifting a finger. What was harder was the lack of privacy. Anticipating our needs meant being available, which meant being . . . around. When I went to the bathroom, I locked the door and felt stupid about it, protecting myself from the people who kept us safe.
    After I’d been in Malibu about a week, a masseur showed up.
    “He usually comes every day I’m in residence,” Rob said. “I just wanted to update his nondisclosure before he met you.”
    Rob returned from his massage wearing a white terrycloth robe, his skin shiny with oil. “Joseph has his table set up in the spare room in the gym,” he said. “Enjoy.”
    That, at least, is what I heard him say. There was, in fact, a door in the back of the gym that I’d never noticed before, but I found it locked. I knocked, but nobody answered. When I texted Rob—too lazy to run upstairs—he clarified that the masseur worked in the spare room
next to
the gym. (Oh, the problems of being fantastically wealthy—how do you name all the rooms in your palace?) The locked room, Rob told me, was his private office. I remember finding it something of a relief to know that the staff didn’t have access to every nook and cranny of his life. I went next door and got the best massage of my life.
    Afterward, sipping cucumber water on the back deck, my whole body felt like Jell-O.
a girl could get used to this
, I texted Aurora.

    Our relationship was still a secret. I had always practiced standard celebrity discretion: baseball hat, sunglasses, nondescript clothing. I avoided paparazzi hangouts. My agency was across the street from Barneys, a perfect crosswalk for lazy paparazzi, so for the last couple of years almost every magazine shot had me carrying a Barneys bag. Otherwise, when the cameramen did find me on the street, which happened at most once a month, I posed quickly and they left. With the glaring exception of my recent breakup with Johnny, which had plunged me into a salacious spotlight for what I hoped would be a brief hell, my encounters with the press were mundane and routine.
    But Rob lived on another plane of celebrity. I was known; he was worshipped. Where I got free designer purses, he got monthlong vacations in private châteaus. Where I had one incompetent stalker who constantly showed up at an apartment I hadn’t occupied for five years, Rob had fans of
The Son
who were so convinced by his performance that they showed up in droves with photos of dead loved ones, wanting Rob to confirm the status of their souls. While I was walking red carpets at movie premieres, he was at the White House, watching his latest movie with the president,
at the president’s request
.
    Once discovered, our romance would be big news in the gossip magazines. We’d have to go public at some point, but first we wanted some time to enjoy our privacy and, though it was unspoken, to be sure the relationship was serious enough to warrant the media onslaught. Sneaking around was fun when it meant going shopping after dinner, with his assistant calling ahead and having the boutiques open just for us. We entered restaurants—certain restaurants only—through back entrances and dined in private rooms. What was missing was spontaneity. There was no taking