Confessions of a City Girl: Los Angeles (Audiobook)

Prologue

“Natasha, darling,” my mother coos softly, her voluptuous pile of platinum blonde curls sprawling over the crisp white hospital pillow.

“Yes, Ava.” I take her clammy palm in mine, trying not to notice the silver roots lining her weathered forehead or the way her chest rattles every time she tries to speak.

Even from this sterile Los Angeles hospital room, I can still hear my mother’s young, devastatingly glamorous voice belting out tunes in our Hollywood Hills home, see her prancing around in a scarlet negligée, breasts spilling over lace, smudged mascara rolling down rouged cheeks, messy curls tumbling over bare shoulders…and always a man waiting in the bedroom.

That ever-present image of the infamous Ava Taylor—who will forever be adored by the film-going masses for her scandalous, dazzling beauty on the silver screen—will haunt my dreams long after we say goodbye.

“The envelope,” she whispers, losing strength. “In my purse.”

With trembling fingers, I reach for her pink Dior bag, rifle through the make-up, the pill bottles, and finally emerge with a manila envelope.

“Open it,” she urges, choking on her words, the glamour being sucked straight out of her with each beep of the machines at her bedside.

I pull a packet of papers from the envelope, combing the first page quickly as I find myself praying she’ll hang on just a little longer. For as much pain as this woman has caused me, I’m amazed at how deeply I still love her, at how much I am hanging on to her every word, every breath.

“Downtown DC photography gallery sold to Ava Taylor,” I read out loud, instantly recognizing the address as that of a popular gallery I’ve visited, and adored, many times. “Named The Natasha Taylor Photography Gallery…” I trail off, lifting a shocked gaze to my mother. “Ava, what is this?”

“Your photographs, Natasha—it’s time for you to release them to the world.” The cancer in her lungs has made her voice barely recognizable, but it hasn’t stolen that mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “In your very own gallery.”

“But you know I take family portraits—wholesome photos of glowing pregnant women and husbands kissing their wives’ bellies. Not exactly the kind of photos you’d feature in a prominent DC photography gallery.”

The twinkle dissipates as my mother levels a serious gaze at me. “Natasha, dear, don’t get me started on the misery that is your life.” She stops to clear her throat, the way she always does when she’s about to judge me. “I simply cannot bear the thought of it—you photographing all of those happy families, shoving it in your face day in and day out that you can’t get pregnant with that stuffy professor husband of yours who was never suited for you.”

“Oh, and you know me so well, do you?” I snap. This isn’t the time to let out the years of pent-up anger toward the woman who was supposed to be a mother to me, but after that comment, I can’t help myself.

“Better than you might think…and that man—well, he doesn’t deserve you, Natasha. He doesn’t see the beautiful dancer I once knew.” My mother’s emerald gaze cuts right through me, and I can’t handle it. I never could.

“Well, I’m sorry my life, my choice in a husband, and my body’s inability to make a baby have been such a disappointment to you. And we both know that I am not the only one to blame for the demise of my dance career.”

A maddening grin spreads across her full lips. “Oh, let’s not be so dramatic,” she taunts. “I’m the actress here, after all. Yes, the end of your dance career was…tragic…but let’s not go there today.” With a trembling hand, she points to the cup of water on her bedside tray. I swallow my anger as I press the cup to her mouth. She is only able to take the tiniest of sips—what irony after all those years spent guzzling straight from the bottle.

“Back to the photographs—I’m not referring to your family photography, darling. While beautiful, we both know that those aren’t the photographs that will draw in the masses and make you a huge success.”

Dread coats my stomach as I realize where she is going with this.

“It’s time to reveal all of the photographs you’ve taken of me over the years. The good and the bad, my darling. It’s time for the public to see the real Ava Taylor. The one only you knew.”

“But you’ve seen those photos. They’re…they’re…” I trail off, a slideshow of images flashing through my mind.

Ava in the glamorous emerald evening gown she wore to the Oscars, sobbing and slumped on the kitchen floor, a cigarette pressed between her lips, a bottle of whiskey in hand; Ava lounging naked on the back deck, legs spread for the world to see, downing a martini; Ava in a jealous rage, hurling a black vase at one of her lovers.

Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve been photographing every disastrous, glitzy, humiliating moment of growing up with my troubled Hollywood mother. It was my way of dealing with her, with my lack of a childhood—documenting the mess instead of partaking in it.

“They’re raw,” she says, interrupting my stream of memories. “They’re me. And I’m not giving you this gallery unless you agree to feature them in your opening exhibit.”

I sigh, exhausted by her, by years of her unreasonable demands. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“The stipulations are all there in my will. The date for the exhibit has already been set. Six weeks from today.”

“Six weeks? But you know I’m in the middle of my third round of IVF, and I have shoots scheduled every single weekend for months…shoots that I can’t cancel or we’ll lose the house in Georgetown. I don’t have the time or the energy to put this together right now. And besides, you don’t want me to release those photographs to the public.”

She snatches the papers from my hands and gives me a slight scratch with her long red nails in the process. “Do you hear yourself? Don’t you see the train wreck that has become your life?” Her voice wavers, swallowed up by her raspy lungs. “It’s too late for me, darling…my train has already wrecked and burned. But it’s not too late for you.” She sucks in a loud, wheezing breath before continuing on her final diatribe.

“I know I wasn’t always there for you, not in the way you needed me, but just this once, let me try. I’m giving you a chance to change your life, make your career dreams come true. Screw IVF, screw that dreadfully boring husband of yours, and screw that godforsaken house that you’ve never been able to afford. This obsession you have with creating a normal family…it’s time to let it go, Natasha.” She coughs deeply, her sick, withering body shuddering underneath the sheets.

“You came from my womb, and you will forever be unique because of that. Normal just isn’t in our genes, darling.” A nauseating shade of gray spreads down her face as she shakes the papers at me. “This is your story, Natasha. And it’s time for you to tell it.”

I take the papers from my mother, nodding numbly, realizing that even on her deathbed, even as she is giving me the first true gift she has ever given me, she has still found a way to make this all about her.

But then another thought—one that I do not want to give any credit to—pops into my mind. I wonder if somewhere, deep down, she does have a maternal instinct, after all.

Ava glances around the bleak white hospital room, down at the tubes in her arms, and finally to the machines at her bedside, and there it is. That impenetrable sadness, spilling down her porcelain skin. I am so used to seeing this look of desperation in her eyes—the look she has only ever shown to me—and yet every time, it pains me. Rips my heart to shreds.

I both hate her and love her immensely.

But above all, I cannot bear to see her suffer a moment longer.

“Promise me, Natasha. Promise me you’ll do it,” she begs softly.

Her outburst has taken every last ounce of energy she had left. Tears cloud her beautiful green eyes, and I know I must give her what she wants.

I squeeze her hands in mine and lean over to kiss her forehead. “I promise, Mom. I promise.”

Her breathing slows, and just when I think she’s leaving me forever, a whisper escapes her lips. “It’s Ava, darling,” she corrects. “You know the ‘M’ word makes me feel old.”

With a dramatic bat of her eyelashes and one sharp inhale, those are my mother’s last words.