According to a Source Read online

  “I think you’re mistaking me for someone else.” She studied me again as if I were a sculpture in the Tate Modern, inspecting me up and down. “Ella! It is you. See, I told you I knew you.” I cleared my throat to try to stop her from talking—she was using my real name!—but it didn’t work. “I fucking knew it! You clean up well, darling,” she said with a wink before reapplying her Dolce & Gabbana lip gloss. “You’re so chic without that cap and apron. I’m—”

  “Holiday. I only wrote your name on about a hundred coffee cups.”

  “Well, El—” I coughed again to try to interrupt Holiday saying my name. “—I think I owe you for that iced blended. Come to my table for a drink.”

  I distinctly remember this being a declaration instead of a question. I couldn’t say no and I really needed a drink, especially a free one.

  “Sure. I guess one drink couldn’t hurt.”

  “Fabulous!”

  I followed her out of the bathroom through the dark hallway that almost seemed to shake from the hip-hop music being blasted so loud. We stopped at an unmarked door I hadn’t noticed earlier with a security guard posted up in front. “She’s okay,” she told him. He dutifully opened the door to what I quickly realized was a celebrity-laden secret VIP room. I joined Holiday at her table and to this day don’t think I’ve ever had more fun or a more successful night reporting.

  I helped The Life break one of the biggest stories of the year. Little Miss Goody Two-shoes Country Singer was arrested for a DUI and drug possession after she left The Compound that night and I provided them with every last detail. That night cemented my job with The Life and began my friendship with Holiday.

  Yes, I may have used our friendship to benefit my job, but I never threw Holiday under the bus. I employed a strict self-imposed code of ethics to ensure I could sleep at night without an Ambien prescription. My biggest rule? I only reported on things that happened in public places. If Holiday took me to a club, restaurant, or party it was fair game. If she invited me to someone’s private home and we were guests I kept my mouth shut. It sounds easy, but it wasn’t always. Especially when I knew I would most likely have an exclusive if I blabbed.

  Like the night she invited me out to Malibu for an intimate, invitation-only cocktail party at Restaurateur Turned Nightlife Impresario’s home. It was an informal test run of his new line of cocktail mixers that were about to hit the market, and his wife, who happened to be High-End Fashion Designer Turned Infomercial Queen, was out of town. Despite her beauty and business acumen, after the third round of cocktails—Jalapeño Margaritas—I spotted him getting cozy with a toned twentysomething redheaded cocktail waitress. He playfully grabbed her from behind and put his arms around her as she entered the kitchen to refill her drink tray. I saw him whisper something in her ear and she exaggerated a large laugh. He then raised her arm in the air and kissed it up and down, like Gomez did to Morticia Addams. I could not believe my eyes. I know it wasn’t the biggest indiscretion, but trust me: Bigger stories have been made out of smaller acts of infidelity. I knew Maggie would love this story, but the party was so small it was highly possible that the gossip leak could be traced back to Holiday.

  I didn’t want her to be punished for inviting an interloper into the almost impenetrable group, especially when she was oblivious to who I really was. Other than Maggie, Holiday was the only female friend I’d made since college, and I wasn’t willing to risk my new friendship, so I didn’t turn in a file from that night and many others. I hated concealing the truth from her, but could I trust her with the secret of my double life as a celebrity spy?

  She was friendly with almost everyone in the Hollywood scene, and her social circle seemed to have a larger circumference than our known solar system. But I had to determine whether she was one of me or one of them. I created a social experiment, if you will, to see where her loyalty lay. Two months into our relationship I fed her incorrect gossip items about people she knew to see what she did.

  “Holiday, did you hear that Small-Screen Action Starlet Turned Rom-Com Queen Notorious for Romancing Her Costars won’t let her husband hang out with any of the friends he had before they were married?”

  “No! Tell me more,” she begged.

  “Apparently she’s beyond controlling. A total Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde thing. The whole down-to-earth sweet supermom thing is the public part of her persona but she’s batshit crazy in her personal life,” I continued. “Also, you have to promise you won’t say anything but I hear that Skinny Entrepreneurial Reality Star isn’t so skinny from her diet empire but she’s hooked on Adderall.” If Holiday were sitting down she would’ve fallen out of her chair. If her ears could have physically opened wider to hear more gossip they would have.

  She held her right hand up as if she was being sworn into court for witness testimony. “I swear I won’t say a word!” And she never did. After months of these bogus stories and no indication that they’d ever crossed her lips, I told her about Bella.

  “I’m a celebrity spy. But I have a code! I’ve never said anything that hurt any of your friends and I’ve only reported on things that have happened in public places.” She was silent for a good ten seconds after my revelation.

  “Ella, I can’t believe you’ve become my bestie over the past few months and you’ve been keeping this enormous secret from me,” she said stoically. My stomach began knotting until I saw a look of pure joy and excitement sweep across her face. “This is incredible. How did I never know this job exists?”

  “That’s kind of the point,” I told her. “If everybody knew about it nobody would ever do anything. Trust me, even if you think you’re in a private place someone’s always watching.”

  “I don’t even know what to do with myself right now!” She was giddy and my disclosure made her euphoric.

  “You’re not mad?”

  “Not at all, darling. This is going to be a fun game that will keep me occupied. And if celebrities are doing things they shouldn’t be in public, what do they expect?” She immediately pulled out her phone. “You probably know more about some of my friends than I do.” She seemed like she had just taken amphetamines. “We need to go through the contacts in my phone and you have to tell me if you’ve ever seen them cheating or doing drugs or doing anything else they shouldn’t have been. You’re like a celebrity PI! You have to bring me along next time.” Little did she know she’d already been on many celebrity-spying adventures with me. Who knew that Holiday Hall needed a hobby? The girl who seemingly had everything at her fingertips was bored with her life and excited by mine.

  * * *

  “Hi, darling,” Holiday chirps as I rush into Mauro’s Cafe and over to the table where she’s already seated. My eye darts over to the back corner of the café. It’s the socialite, the one from the reality show … and the sex tape. She’s Holiday’s nemesis. “Gives the rest of us a bad name,” Holiday always scoffs. “Not an ounce of brains between her ears or class between her legs.” Socialite Sex Tape Star Turned Reality Star is finishing the last of her Caprese salad and sipping straight from a bottle of Voss water. She’s with a woman that looks like she’s her publicist and is paying the bill. Jackpot! I’ll write this up when I sit down and send it to Maggie.

  “Hey. I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” I apologize as I take my seat.

  “Don’t be silly,” she says, brushing off my tardiness. Without getting up, she air-kisses me on both cheeks, and as she finishes, a waiter places a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and a carafe of orange juice on our table. Mimosas are Holiday’s signature daytime drink. According to her they can heal everything from a scraped knee to a bruised ego and, of course, a broken heart. It’s like the Bactine of beverages. Because they help her through the ups and downs of life she rarely trusts anyone else to create her champagne cocktail. “Drink up. I’m ready for a good chin-wag today and mimosas are on me.” You have to give the girl credit. She’s the most charming person on the planet. Or at least in LA—and that’s say
ing a lot.

  “I’m not sure that I’ll be much of a conversationalist today,” I warn. “I got called last minute to work last night.”

  Holiday lowers her chin to illustrate her disapproval.

  “I couldn’t turn it down.”

  She’s giving me the look. The one she always gives. The one that tells me that I have free will and make my own decisions and can do whatever I want. She often forgets that just because she can do whatever she wants whenever she wants, not everyone else can. “Come on, Hol, cut me some slack. Don’t make me hire a lawyer for my defense. You’re worse than Ethan.”

  “It’s one night. It’s not like you’ll get fired.” When I first started, Maggie told me that their old best freelancer, Erin Beck, turned down three assignments in a month and they ended up never calling her again because they didn’t think she took the job seriously. So from the beginning I’ve been hyperaware that declining an assignment is frowned upon and noted. Even when Ethan wanted to take time off to go on vacation or visit our families I knew I should stay behind in case I was asked to work. I’ve even worked on my birthday.

  “It kinda is like that. Besides, I got a weird e-mail from Maggie this morning about some mandatory mystery meeting tomorrow. So I’m glad I didn’t rock the boat.”

  “Have you ladies decided what you’d like?” our waifish waitress interrupts. She’s clad in a white tank top that would be too tight on most thirteen-year-olds but looks like a sack on her.

  “I’ll have the almond salad,” Holiday orders from memory, leaving her menu unopened.

  “And I’ll have the rigatoni with peas in pink sauce.” The waitress marches away without writing down our order or inquiring if we need anything else. “Way to make me feel like a fat ass, Hol.”

  “Oh, shh. You know I don’t eat carbs during the first three days of the week.”

  “Hi, Holiday.” Socialite Sex Tape Star Turned Reality Star struts past toward the exit as if the dining room was a runway.

  “Hello,” Holiday returns with disdain and a clenched jaw.

  But Socialite Sex Tape Star Turned Reality Star doesn’t bother to stop as she and her publicist parade toward the door so it can sail open for the approximately twenty paparazzi waiting for her in the parking lot. Holiday grinds her teeth. In the years I’ve been doing my job I’ve learned to be a chameleon and handle myself anywhere, but the one place I still wouldn’t want to be is on Holiday’s bad side.

  “You can’t let her get to you. She’s not worth it.” I place my hand on Holiday’s. “Look how transparent she is. She obviously called the paps herself. There aren’t even that many following Former Wild Child Movie Star Turned Humanitarian. I’m sending the sighting in to Maggie but the only reason The Life would use it is because she’s nice enough to throw me the extra cash whenever she can.” Holiday takes another sip of her mimosa. “I promise you, Socialite Sex Tape Star Turned Reality Star is barely relevant anymore.”

  My anecdote doesn’t seem to mollify Holiday’s hatred. Her teeth are probably sharp enough to be an extra in a werewolf movie. Socialite Sex Tape Star Turned Reality Star is standing in the parking lot posing and pretending to get into her car until the paparazzi get a perfect, flattering shot. “At least when you get papped it’s because you’re a socialite with style, not a D-List diva without any sense of decorum,” I add. She finally smiles.

  “Hopefully her fifteen minutes of fame are ticking to a close. I think the world is ready for a new It girl.” Holiday leans in to the table and changes the subject. “Enough about her. Aside from your disappearing act last night how’s it going with Ethan?” She has a sparkle in her eye that indicates that she wants all of the details, the more explicit the better.

  Holiday fancies herself something of a relationship expert. Her analysis and advice are usually right on point, although I’ve never seen her date anyone for more than a few weeks. She has entire relationships condensed into a short period of time that are never short on the drama. She falls hard and fast and her romantic liaisons run their course at an accelerated speed. Holiday can be attracted to someone, go on a date, become exclusive, go on vacation together, meet their family, discuss the future, and have a raucous breakup in the amount of time it takes most people to decide if they are going to go on a second date or not. And she is very clear, these are relationships, not flings.

  Why should she draw them out? She’s constantly being flown to all corners of the world for weeklong mini-relationships with the world’s most eligible bachelors, and thanks to these travels can recommend the best Four Seasons spa services at almost any of the hotel’s locations across the world. She returns with a tan one can’t help but covet and a trove of vêtements de plage. If she weren’t rich herself it would probably be considered prostitution. She never has a problem getting a man; sustaining a relationship is another story, though I’d never tell her and risk hurting her feelings, so I always play along when she wants to play relationship therapist.

  “Well, we’re having a makeup date night tomorrow, which is good because we haven’t … you know … in a while.”

  “How long is a while?” she pokes.

  “Five, six weeks?…” I trail off and purposely look to the side to avoid making eye contact with her.

  “The fact that you aren’t sure is more concerning than anything!” Her face has morphed from playful to placid.

  “Our schedules are completely opposite right now.”

  Holiday leans in to me as if she’s my psychiatrist and shifts to a calm tone of voice. “Be honest, is that all it is?”

  “Of course! It’s not like we’re a new couple. Besides, we have a plan,” I remind her.

  “Because what’s better than passion?” she says, returning to her usual frequency. “A plan!” There’s no passion missing from her lecture. “Darling, all I’m saying is a fire dwindling a little may be normal but it seems like you’re barely working with kindling and your sex life and relationship are in dire need of an SOS!” She’s fidgeting in her seat with dismay and it’s taking everything inside her to remain sitting instead of lunging across the table to shake me.

  “I think you’re overreacting a bit. As soon as Ethan sells his screenplay he’s—”

  “He’s going to propose,” she finishes by rote, rolling her eyes. “Ella, I know about your plan. Everyone knows about your plan. I can recite the details of your plan by heart and that’s not something I terribly want to be taking up any of my brain capacity.” I try to jump in but she’s embarked on her diatribe and won’t let me get a word in. “All I’m saying is plan or not, a diminishing sex life is a red flag.” She cocks her head to the right, looking for me to agree with her. “I have an idea, though.… Call him right now and get him to meet you at your apartment. When he arrives you can greet him at the door with nothing but a smile on your face. One orgasm will melt all of your relationship woes away,” she says with an impish smirk.

  “How insulting and at the same time adorably cliché, Hol.” God love her. She really is trying to help in her own way. But something tells me that Holiday Hall’s tactics don’t work unless you’re actually Holiday Hall.

  “Well, I won’t fuck you or put a ring on it, darling, but I can help take the edge off,” she says as she plays bartender and mixes me another mimosa. “Here, this will help.” She proudly passes me the flute.

  I begin to relax as the second serving of booze and juice coats my mouth. Holiday always creates the perfect concoction. For a girl who hates math, unless it’s a sale at Barneys, her ratio of OJ to champagne is impeccable. She mixes one for herself and we clink our glasses together for our traditional toast.

  “To glamour and love,” we cheer in unison. The flutes seem to be filled with hope, or at least a good buzz for a few hours.

  “Aside from work do you have plans this weekend?”

  “It’s Marianna’s birthday so I have her party on Saturday and my mom is coming for it.”

  “That will be nice.”


  “Yeah.” I look down at my flute. “She’s adorable and I’m really excited to see my mom. It’s been too long.” I stop, and Holiday doesn’t pry any further. She knows Robin can get under my skin, and neither of us wants to kill my buzz before it even sets in. “You’re so lucky you’re an only child. You get the entire inheritance, get to keep your sanity, and don’t have to listen to any lectures from someone who went from wild child to holier-than-thou in a matter of months.” When my sister made the decision to go pre-med in college her personality did a complete 180. Robin traded keg stands and parties with frat boys for shots of espresso and all-nighters with her o-chem study group. I take another large gulp of mimosa that’s so big I barely stop myself from choking.

  “Not to be totally self-involved but you need to perk up. I want you in tip-top form for my party Thursday,” she says, snapping her fingers exuberantly.

  Holiday’s dinner parties are exclusive and infamous. The glitterati of Los Angeles all migrate to her home in the Hollywood Hills a few times a year for the social event of the season. The house is filled with Louis Vuitton, Rolexes, and hidden agendas. Holiday knows everyone. Her parties always start out as top-drawer catered affairs, but they seem to go from swanky to scandalous within a matter of hours despite her efforts to maintain a sophisticated atmosphere. The sordid details infiltrate the Hollywood social scene before the last guest sobers up.

  Ordinarily I wouldn’t miss one for the world. Holiday even condones my sending information to The Life as long as it doesn’t defame her character. It’s a win-win for me, since I end up making money while I’m there, but my energy feels off and for some reason I can’t get excited about tomorrow’s soiree. I couldn’t help but feel like I was a charity case at her last party. Everyone else was a power broker, mogul, or a Hollywood heavyweight and I couldn’t even talk about my job, since I technically work undercover and there were too many attendees who would’ve blown my cover if they ever knew about my real identity. Even if I could’ve talked about it, being a freelance undercover celebrity reporter isn’t exactly prestigious, like going undercover to bring down a drug cartel. But it would be nice to be able to say something to the other guests when they ask what I do for work. I usually insinuate that I come from money like Holiday and everyone thinks I’m a stereotypical party girl hanging out at the clubs every night. If they only knew.