this
embarrassing rush of excitement, which I try to hide. He’s probably calling to wish
Dustin a Merry Christmas. Or to make sure his present got here. I’m definitely going
to give him some shit about his extravagance, but the truth is I like that he wants
to do nice things for our child. He’s a hard man to say no to, even from a distance.
It can be even harder to separate the roles he plays on-screen from his behavior in
real life.
I leave the dining room so that I can talk to him in private, but it’s not Daniel
on the other end.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Tonja Kay’s voice is cold and hard.
It’s almost impossible to reconcile the actress’s angelic face and silky on-screen
voice with the way she swears like a truck driver in real life.
Fuck
is her go-to adjective, adverb, and noun. My mother has lectured her on this, and
I have to think her publicity people must spend a ton of time and money trying to
keep her limited—and ugly—vocabulary out of the tabloids, but she really doesn’t give
a shit. The fact that she talks this way around her children is horrifying. The fact
that Troy got video of her doing it with a vengeance in front of mine is the only
thing that prevents her from taking Dustin—and
Do Over
—away from me.
I want to hang up, but Tonja Kay is a foul-mouthed force of nature. Like a tornado
or a hurricane, she sucks you in against your will. If she knocks you down she’ll
roll right over you.
I walk out onto the loggia, where I breathe deeply and try to calm myself with the
view of sky and water. It’s a gorgeous, un-Christmas-like day, the kind that belongs
on a postcard with the words
Wish You Were Here
scrawled across the bottom.
“I don’t know what the fuck he thinks he’s doing buying that fucking house!” Tonja
Kay shouts.
My eyes move to the replica of Bella Flora. Of course, she just hates that Daniel
sent his son anything this extravagant. Her children are all adopted from troubled
third-world countries, and Daniel’s other biological children—he isn’t exactly a poster
boy for marriage or monogamy—are girls. The fact that Dustin is Daniel’s only biological
son drives her absolutely insane.
A boat slows in the pass and I see the glint of a telephoto lens. I turn my back as
she says, “I mean, he has a fucking lot of fucking nerve!”
I sigh and wish I could hand off the phone, but I can’t go running to my mother or
anyone else to fight my battles for me. And, frankly, it’s hard to take this conversation
seriously, because although the playhouse might have been outrageously expensive,
Daniel Deranian and Tonja Kay earn more millions per picture than I can count. I don’t
think the playhouse is going to bankrupt either of them.
Tonja Kay—I can never think of her by only one name—rants on. It’s hard to tune out
when there’s that much bad language, which I guess is her goal. I see more lenses
glinting—the paparazzi have gotten into position in hopes that one of us will be stupid
enough to come outside. For just a second I consider putting Tonja Kay on speakerphone
and inviting them closer, but I’m saving Troy’s video for emergency purposes. And
besides, today is Christmas.
She’s just finished calling Daniel some nasty names I don’t even know the meaning
of. I hear the word
cunt
and know she means me. I’ve definitely had enough. “Listen, it’s been great talking
with you and all,” I say with as much sarcasm as I can squeeze in, “but it is a holiday
and I have to go now.”
I’m about to hang up when she shrieks, “I don’t even
want
your piece-of-crap house. Who names a house Bella fucking Flora?”
“What?” I ask. A shiver runs down my spine despite the sunny seventy-five degrees
when I register what she said. “What did you say?”
“I said, I don’t know why the fuck Daniel bought that stupid fucking house without
telling
embarrassing rush of excitement, which I try to hide. He’s probably calling to wish
Dustin a Merry Christmas. Or to make sure his present got here. I’m definitely going
to give him some shit about his extravagance, but the truth is I like that he wants
to do nice things for our child. He’s a hard man to say no to, even from a distance.
It can be even harder to separate the roles he plays on-screen from his behavior in
real life.
I leave the dining room so that I can talk to him in private, but it’s not Daniel
on the other end.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Tonja Kay’s voice is cold and hard.
It’s almost impossible to reconcile the actress’s angelic face and silky on-screen
voice with the way she swears like a truck driver in real life.
Fuck
is her go-to adjective, adverb, and noun. My mother has lectured her on this, and
I have to think her publicity people must spend a ton of time and money trying to
keep her limited—and ugly—vocabulary out of the tabloids, but she really doesn’t give
a shit. The fact that she talks this way around her children is horrifying. The fact
that Troy got video of her doing it with a vengeance in front of mine is the only
thing that prevents her from taking Dustin—and
Do Over
—away from me.
I want to hang up, but Tonja Kay is a foul-mouthed force of nature. Like a tornado
or a hurricane, she sucks you in against your will. If she knocks you down she’ll
roll right over you.
I walk out onto the loggia, where I breathe deeply and try to calm myself with the
view of sky and water. It’s a gorgeous, un-Christmas-like day, the kind that belongs
on a postcard with the words
Wish You Were Here
scrawled across the bottom.
“I don’t know what the fuck he thinks he’s doing buying that fucking house!” Tonja
Kay shouts.
My eyes move to the replica of Bella Flora. Of course, she just hates that Daniel
sent his son anything this extravagant. Her children are all adopted from troubled
third-world countries, and Daniel’s other biological children—he isn’t exactly a poster
boy for marriage or monogamy—are girls. The fact that Dustin is Daniel’s only biological
son drives her absolutely insane.
A boat slows in the pass and I see the glint of a telephoto lens. I turn my back as
she says, “I mean, he has a fucking lot of fucking nerve!”
I sigh and wish I could hand off the phone, but I can’t go running to my mother or
anyone else to fight my battles for me. And, frankly, it’s hard to take this conversation
seriously, because although the playhouse might have been outrageously expensive,
Daniel Deranian and Tonja Kay earn more millions per picture than I can count. I don’t
think the playhouse is going to bankrupt either of them.
Tonja Kay—I can never think of her by only one name—rants on. It’s hard to tune out
when there’s that much bad language, which I guess is her goal. I see more lenses
glinting—the paparazzi have gotten into position in hopes that one of us will be stupid
enough to come outside. For just a second I consider putting Tonja Kay on speakerphone
and inviting them closer, but I’m saving Troy’s video for emergency purposes. And
besides, today is Christmas.
She’s just finished calling Daniel some nasty names I don’t even know the meaning
of. I hear the word
cunt
and know she means me. I’ve definitely had enough. “Listen, it’s been great talking
with you and all,” I say with as much sarcasm as I can squeeze in, “but it is a holiday
and I have to go now.”
I’m about to hang up when she shrieks, “I don’t even
want
your piece-of-crap house. Who names a house Bella fucking Flora?”
“What?” I ask. A shiver runs down my spine despite the sunny seventy-five degrees
when I register what she said. “What did you say?”
“I said, I don’t know why the fuck Daniel bought that stupid fucking house without
telling
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