Chapter One

      The moment I squint my eyes open—after being temporarily blinded by the hot LA sun—I realize two things: my entire body feels like it’s developed that pinkish pre-sunburn tint and there is something most definitely in my mouth. The sad part is that this isn’t nearly the first time this has happened to me.

      I attempt to sit up and immediately lose my balance, the mattress below me feeling like it’s made out of gelatin. The movement sets off a lightning storm of pain in my skull and a wave of nausea hits me. I know that if I took a Breathalyzer test right now, it would probably burst into flames.

      Groaning, I swat my hand around in front of my face and find my mouth after a few tries. My fingers grip what’s been between my lips for God knows how long. I lift a hand to my forehead to shield out the sun and inspect it. It’s a party horn, with orange and green stripes, like one you’d blow on New Year’s Eve or at a little kid’s birthday party, except this one is flaccid and sagging like it has given up, the paper damp and disintegrating. And that’s when I notice that my foot is wet, too—because I’m lying on a large plastic float in the middle of my pool. I look down and see that my foot is dangling off the edge of the float—so neon green it makes my head hurt more when I look at it—skimming the surface of the water.

      Then it all comes back to me. The party celebrating my big upcoming role. My first big movie role in a little over a year. Last night, my house was full of people—tall, thin, glamorous people. The movers and shakers of Hollywood. Drinks sloshed onto the cement deck around my pool as everyone danced, the bass of whatever the DJ was playing perpetually thumping in my ears, people trying to shout compliments at each other over the blaring music, their voices getting exponentially louder as they got drunker. Now, the place is barren—the hundreds of clear plastic cups strewn across the patio the only evidence that something took place here last night. All is quiet except for the unmistakable crackling of a turntable left on, recordless. And I’m here alone, on top of a raft twirling in lazy circles in the hot sun. I catch a whiff of chlorine and my stomach churns again. My mouth tastes like cigarettes...and I don’t even smoke. My first thought is, Talia Truman knows how to throw one hell of a party. Sure, it’s a little self-congratulatory, but it’s true.

      Slowly, carefully, I paddle my hands in the water—it’s the only movement I’m capable of making at the moment—and gently float over to the edge of the pool where I see my phone sitting on top of a rumpled towel. As I get closer, I realize that I’m not alone.

      Lying back in one of the mesh lounge chairs lining the perimeter of my pool, her hands clasped in her lap, is my manager, Dottie Arnold. In her late seventies, her gray hair is swooped up into a puff on top of her head; with her skinny neck, it looks like freshly spun cotton candy on a stick. A large pair of dark sunglasses take up most of the real estate of her face, but even though I can’t see her eyes I know she is staring at me disapprovingly. Thin as a praying mantis, she’s wearing one of her signature velour tracksuits—which is what she wears every day regardless of the weather because she believes it’s the only outfit that flatters her. Today she’s chosen a light teal ensemble that matches the color of the pool water. Her legs outstretched in front of her, crossed at the ankle, she continues to sit without moving a muscle, staring at me intensely, frowning, not saying a word. Like a Bond villain. A fashionably challenged Bond villain.

      “How long have I been out here?” I ask.

      Bending over to her left, she fishes a manila folder stuffed with pieces of paper out from her see-through hot pink vinyl tote bag. Flipping it open, she trails her pointer finger down the page until she finds