weeks, I’m finally off the hook. Simone and I are dropped off at my house in Malibu, where I live with my parents.
It’s empty once we walk inside, of course. My parents, Andrew and Marie Jones, indie darlings of the documentary genre, are hardly ever here. Right now they’re working on a new doc about the horrors of elephant poaching in Botswana. They’ll be back in August for Gigi’s FCC ceremony. Their long absence is nothing new, really. And they trust that I won’t do anything out of control while they’re gone.
“I’m heading out to the deck,” Simone says, grabbing a can of soda from the fridge and opening the patio door.
Simone basically lives here. The guest bedroom is filled with all of her things. She has free rein of the house, just like me.
I nod and say, “I’m gonna call Gigi. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
“Okay,” she says over her shoulder.
* * *
I take off my heels as I walk upstairs to my room and close the door behind me. I sit on my bed and dial Gigi’s number, glancing at the framed photograph of the two of us on my nightstand. It was taken the day I was born. Gigi is holding me, and I’m wearing one of those little pink hospital hats, and she’s dressed glamorously in a white wrap dress. Her hair wasn’t so gray then, but it was still curled the same way she wears it now.
Gigi lives in New York City. I used to see her every day when I was younger, back before she divorced James Jenkins and moved out of Beverly Hills. Now she never comes out to LA. She never leaves New York, actually. For almost a decade, I’ve had to settle for phone calls to keep in touch, only seeing her in person when I visit. Most recently, that was last Christmas.
The phone rings one more time before someone finally picks up.
“Hello?” A boy’s voice.
I frown and pull my phone away from my ear. Did I call the wrong number? No … this is Gigi’s number. The same number I dialed just two days ago.
“Um, who is this?” I say slowly.
“Milo…,” he answers. His voice is deep and melodic. “Who is this?”
“Milo?” I repeat, bewildered. “This is Evie. I’m calling for Evelyn Conaway? I’m her granddaughter.”
“Oh, Evie! What’s up?” His voice immediately brightens. “How’s it going?”
How’s it going? Who is this guy? Has some mad fan broken into Gigi’s house and taken her hostage?
“Um … where is my grandmother?” I ask, growing frantic.
“She’s in the sitting room,” he says calmly. It sounds like he’s moving pots and pans around in the background. “I’m answering phones for her. She said you might call.”
“Oh, you’re her new assistant,” I say, relieved. This all makes sense now, and I stop thinking about calling the cops. “Wait, what happened to Esther?” Esther has been Gigi’s personal assistant for as long as I can remember, since the ’70s or something.
“She retired.” He laughs a little and adds, “And I’m not your grandma’s assistant, just a friend.”
“A friend?” Now I’m wondering if Gigi has turned into some kind of Manhattan sugar mama. Or worse, is this guy trying to take advantage of her somehow? Horror stories of old ladies giving strangers their Social Security numbers flash through my mind.
But no, Gigi is smart. She wouldn’t let something like that happen … would she?
Before I can really start to freak out again, Milo says, “And I deliver her groceries. That’s why I’m here right now. Just dropping some stuff off.”
“Oh.” But I’m still feeling a little suspicious. “Can you put her on, please?”
“Of course. And hey, congrats on the Paul Christopher movie. Great stuff.”
“Thanks so much,” I say. Odd, so odd. I can hear the sound of him walking through the house and carrying the phone to Gigi.
“Hello, Evie Marie, my love,” she says, her voice husky and velvety. Gigi and my parents are the only ones who call me Evie Marie, my first and middle names. Evie is for Evelyn. Marie is for my mom. “How was the film festival?”
“Oh, it was amazing, Gigi,” I say, flopping backward onto my bed.
“You deserve it, baby. You’ve worked really hard at that school. I’m proud of you.”
Hearing those words means so much coming from her. Especially because Gigi never wanted me to get into acting. She thinks everyone in the film industry is untrustworthy and that my grandfather Freddy was the only person she could depend