The VIP (18+ Only) [COMPLETED] [Winner of a Wattys 2014 Instant Addiction Award]

1: In Which She Gets the Low-Down on a Hook-Up

“Uh-huh. I’m shaking in my size twelve Converse.”

I laughed, a wave of homesickness washing over me. “Tell her I say hi, OK?”

“Will do, gorgeous.”

While I made myself breakfast, our conversation turned to my work, a topic that we never really discussed without either of us raising our voices.

“I heard Chasing Ghosts was cancelled,” Dad started, his voice way too casual for my liking.

“That’s correct,” I said, matching his casual tone. And instead of staying for the ‘Damn, We’ve Been Cancelled’ party at the studio last night, I was out on a stupid, pointless date.

“Ophelia, when are you going to –”

“Dad, we’re not having this conversation,” I cut in, plopping onto a bar stool at the breakfast bar. “My agent’s working on securing something for me in the near future. I’ll just treat this as a sabbatical.”

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m speaking sense,” he retorted, and I could practically see the familiar vein in his forehead throbbing. “Half the time you were half-naked on that poor fucking excuse of a soap opera and what were they paying you? Peanuts, Ophelia. Little, microscopic peanuts.” He sighed, filling the following silence. “I’m sorry for cursing, sweetheart. I just worry about you. Your mother worries about you.”

I didn’t say a word despite how my father was exaggerating, especially about the “half-naked” part. Wearing a bikini on a beach could hardly be considered stripping. The truth was that I wasn’t so beat up about my TV series – not soap opera – getting cancelled after just one season. I didn’t blame HBO, or the scriptwriters, or my co-stars, or even the viewers for not…well, viewing. Chasing Ghosts, a show that revolved around three female ghost hunters trying to live normal lives, was destined to fail from episode one.

I blamed myself for chasing a ghost of a dream I’d had since I was a kid – being Devin Shaw. I’d thought that being a thespian like he was would make him proud. So it was a huge shock to find out that my acting made him as happy as a corpse.

“Fee, angel, talk to me,” Dad was saying into my phone.

Shaking my head, I snapped out of my daze. “You and Rory have nothing to worry about. Dropping out of college was my choice. I’ll live with the consequences.”

“I’ll wire you some money to –”

“Dad, stop. I’m not going to let you give me a financial piggyback through life. I’m a big girl.”

“You know you could always work for me. I mean, with me,” he amended.

As much as the thought appealed to me, my father’s current documentary, The Murdered Countries, did not need another Shaw in the closing credits. Nepotism wasn’t something I supported.

“Thanks, but I’ll be OK. I wish you’d stop worrying. You'll give yourself grey hairs.”

He chuckled. “I have one grey hair for every year you and your brother grow older. These silver babies don’t faze me anymore.”

“You're silly and I’m hanging up now,” I told him, laughing. His salt-and-pepper hair only made him look distinguished, disguising the big kid that he was.

“Talk soon, gorgeous. Love you.”

“Love you more, Daddy.”

Afterwards, I shot my brother a hurried text message and forced myself to eat a bowl of cornflakes. TV shows were cancelled all the time. It wasn’t exactly the end of the road for me but if it was, I could always go back to law school. With two years at my father’s alma mater, NYU, under my belt, I had some kind of back-up plan. Returning to Manhattan with my tail between my legs wasn’t the worst thing that could happen; starving to death was.

“So melodramatic, O,” I scolded myself. I still had a portion of the “little, microscopic peanuts” in my savings account.

Hopping off the stool, I went to the refrigerator and swiped the business card that had been stuck there for months now. If my dad had been angry about my acting, he’d be absolutely livid to know that I was now considering Marigold Black, Regent Modelling Agency’s offer.

Your birth mother was a model, he’d told me once when I was sixteen after a talent scout had approached me at the mall. You don’t want to go down that path, gorgeous.

A loud knock at the door stopped me from ripping Marigold Black’s card in half. I shoved it in the back pocket of my cut-off shorts and went to answer it, wondering if Savita had decided to come over for an early morning heart-to-heart.

But of course, it was a man.

One of Sav’s horde of bachelors, I guessed from looking at the bouquet of daisies in his outstretched hand.

“Wow. Ophelia Shaw?”

Blonde, tall and clean-shaven. Kind blue eyes. Nicely-pressed cotton shirt and jeans. Didn’t look like a serial killer. Then again, serial killers rarely looked like serial killers and Sav knew a lot of guys. Who knew what they did in their spare time? She certainly didn’t.

“Don’t you think nine o’clock is a little too early for flirtations?” I asked dryly, accepting the flowers.

“Sav gave me your address,” he explained, reddening. “I’m Steve. You know, the guy who spent a few months in jail for tax evasion? Do you want to grab breakfast? Or...coffee?”