Movie Star By Lizzie Pepper by Hilary Liftin Page B

public. Everythingyou feel and want is completely distinct from the image you put out in the world.”
    What he was saying reminded me of something Meg had told me—one of the Whole Body Principles was to separate the self from the perception of self.
    “Rob’s cartop performance was a disaster, but people are still rooting for you. They want it to be true love,” Dad said.
    “And luckily, it is.” Rob smiled. My boyfriend had just told my father he loved me, but this was hardly how I’d envisioned it going down.
    “Oh my God, you two are lunatics. My career is just fine, thank you very much.” My mother came into the kitchen and started doing the dishes.
    I put the drinks on a tray and carried them out to the porch. My father and Rob followed, and we all sat down on the cushioned indoor/outdoor wicker furniture.
    Rob squeezed next to me on the love seat. “Babe, you are very talented. You should have your choice of roles.”
    “But I
like
indie movies with offbeat scripts and quirky heroines. Do I really want to play a spandex superhero? Look at you—you haven’t done a single franchise.”
    “I’ve been very lucky, but my career is the exception. The reality is, once you have a series, you can ride it for years. It doesn’t keep you from doing what you love—it helps make that happen.”
    “I don’t know what I was worried about,” I said. “You two are getting along like a house on fire. What exactly are you proposing?”
    My father cleared his throat. He was in his element now. Corporate tycoon by day, quietly determined manager of his daughter’s career by night. I should have known that he would like Rob for my career, and that was all he needed. My father had come to the dinner already knowing what he wanted, and my father always got what he wanted.
I always win.
    My mother, obviously too curious about our conversation to finish the dishes, poked her head out. “Are these men plotting for you to take over the world?” she chirped.
    “Just Hollywood,” said my father. He said it lightly, but his eyes were dead serious.

    By the time we returned to L.A., it had all been arranged. I would switch to Rob’s agency, ACE, and my new agents would line up the lead in a franchise, pronto.
    I wasn’t exploiting my famous boyfriend if he wanted me to do it . . . right? And, according to the two men in my life, whatever huge movie this was would propel me into the stratosphere, where I would float alongside Rob, orbited by brilliant scripts and important directors. It would be a dream come true, just not exactly how I’d envisioned it coming to pass.

9
    T wo weeks later, in the middle of September, Rob and I went to St. Maarten. He told me he had a meeting and wanted to make it into a vacation, but I would soon find out that was a lie. The first clue that something was going down was when our car from the airport took us straight to a yacht club at the water’s edge. Rob led me out of the car, leaving our luggage to the driver, and straight up the dock, where we boarded a yacht—a large one, or, as I would later learn it was called, a super-yacht.
    The sun was just beginning to set, the water a dazzling gold. There was not a soul in sight—either by chance or design. By this point I expected the latter. As we boarded, I vaguely registered that the boat was named the
Queen Elizabeth
, but I didn’t think twice about it. Sure, it’s my name, but a) it’s pretty common and in fact seemed like a completely unoriginal name for a yacht; and b) I still wasn’t really used to being anyone but “Lizzie.”
    I’m not the kind of girl who’s had a fantasy of what her engagement night would be like since she was young. But I’m no dummy. I’ve seen and acted in my share of romance movies, and the minute I stepped on deck I saw that the mood had been set. Rob had spared no expense. This was to be our big night.
    Music played, classical piano. The floor was scattered with blue rose petals, which I