I Made My Own Arrangements
This story follows the ongoing Doreen narrative and builds on earlier pieces, including Open Door: Inside the World of Doreen Elytis and Mission: Impeccable. A Day With Doreen Elytis.
Christy and I go way back. She’s one of the few people who knew me before I became… me.
She was my best friend when we were little, in a small town nobody knows, deep in teleport-over country. We stayed in touch after I left and pursued, or really just realized, my dream of absolute stardom. Christy moved away later, but always lived in similar small places. We didn’t see each other much, but since she is one of the few people who has seen me with braces, I hold her close. So when she reached out after my latest press tour and mentioned she’d be visiting her uncle in our hometown, I suddenly heard myself offer to take care of her cat.
When I informed my team the next morning, Tamsyn was already tapping her headset to arrange travel, while the other PAs asked what I wanted to bring. Vuitton or Chanel, or maybe something simple like Nike?
They recognized the hand wave, but I saw the surprise when I told them I’d make my own arrangements. There are only so many times you can sing Independent Woman into a mirror while holding a hairbrush before you start believing it. After all, this was like traveling back in time. Sweet home before Adelara.
No Uber would take me, and that alone should have been enough information. For people who use them regularly, maybe. Usually, these things are arranged for me. By Tamsyn and her team. Or a client. By the third cancellation, I stopped pretending it was random.
One driver accepted. When I repeated the address, he paused just long enough to give me hope. Then he disappeared. I found the number of my usual limo service. They laughed. Not politely. Not even professionally. Just a short, honest laugh, followed by, “we don’t go there.” I’m fairly certain they even questioned whether it was really me calling.
Eventually I found a taxi. It looked like it had never heard of maintenance , nor cleaning. The driver didn’t speak in sentences. Just sounds, somewhere between grunts and cigarette smoke.
At what felt like a random moment, he stopped, gestured into the dark, and said something that translated, roughly, to “this is close enough”. Any attempt at clarification, including what must have been a confused face, still a pretty one though, was met with indifference.
That was a first.
So I got out. Then he left. It was fully dark. The kind you see in films and complain about, because you can only hear things. I didn’t hear anything. Crickets.
I was unconcerned, in the naive way you only recognize later. Because while I did have an address, what I didn’t have was reception. Just a blue dot on a map that refused to exist. It turns out no matter how high you lift your arm, it won’t reach a cell tower. I stood there for a moment, considered my life choices, and started walking in the direction the driver had indicated. Or at least the direction I thought he had indicated.
It felt like the kind of decision people defend later. Or the kind that gets questioned when they read your obituary.
If there’s one thing I am really good at, it’s walking. My runway walk is flawless. Not my opinion. It’s been confirmed by every designer I’ve worked with, complimented on E!, analyzed by more than one magazine. I’ll just name Vogue and leave it at that.
A dirt road is not a runway. That was an observation I made quickly. Still, for some reason, I needed further confirmation. This included sinking into mud up to my ankles, twisting them because of unseen holes, and losing both heels.
I would have assumed my Jimmy Choos were better than that. After all, Jimmy Choo sounds like it could also be the name of an action movie star. The hard truth was that I am one. But without good lighting and a stunt double, this was outside my range.
Let’s not discuss how long I’d been walking. Sometime around dawn, the dirt road ended, and a bridge appeared just before the town. I never understood why Christy moved here, but I did feel a certain gratitude for having made it.
The café was the first thing I found. I sat down and took care of my feet. Jimmy and Choo looked like they had been eaten by a bear, digested, and… well. You get the idea. The café felt like I had reached heaven.
It wasn’t. Chairs out. Tables set. Lights on. No people. It looked like a scene where everyone had stepped away at the exact same time, for something global and catastrophic. I sat down anyway.
I tapped my phone a few times, as if effort might convince it to cooperate. Nothing. So I got up, slipped back into what were now just shoes, and started walking again. I assumed I’d recognize Christy’s house. For no real reason. I moved through the streets, turned corners, convinced myself I was close. And then I was back at the square. The café was still empty.
The fountain looked good. Not Anita Ekberg good, and life was not exactly dolce in that moment, but it did invite posing and at least my camera didn’t require reception. It calmed me. Being so out of place, doing something familiar helped. If I was going to be lost in a deserted town with no signal, I was going to do it impeccably.
I found another spot. A small table with candlelight. I didn’t need it to look good, but it helped. Sitting there, doing what I do best, being beautiful, grounded me. And then, when I looked up, I saw the house. Slightly set back, but right next to the square. Confident about it.
Saying I felt at home would be generous, but knowing I had finally made it came close to seeing my first Vogue cover. Christy had apparently stepped away in a rush, a small table in her front yard still covered in books. I sat down, inspected her reading choices, and took a moment before letting myself in.
I don’t know why, but as I walked in I expected something to go wrong, but nothing did. Which felt worse. No cat. I checked everywhere. Every room, every corner, every place a cat might be. Including the unreasonable ones. Nothing.
I paused and considered my options. Wine. The fridge was empty. On the counter, a note.
“Hey bitch! There’s dough. Just bake it. It’s easy.”
I looked at the note. Then the dough. Then the note again. We disagreed. For all the campaigns about sustainability I’ve appeared in, for all the brand statements about caring for the planet, nobody ever prepared me for this. I would have to make my own food. And worse, carbs.
I baked it anyway because at that point, I was committed. It came out… acceptable. Suspiciously so. I sat down, waited for it to cool. I’m not reckless.
That’s when I heard something. Not loud. Just enough. I stopped breathing and listened. Considered explanations that didn’t escalate. Then another sound. A shift and something moving.
For a moment, I accepted this might be a slow, well-designed horror scenario. Deserted town. Silent house. No signal. Instructions about bread. Maybe a limited Netflix series. Some names crossed my mind. Who would play me? The naive supermodel turned movie star who walked straight into it? If I made it out, I’d have management handle that. Life might end, my image would not.
I stood up. Carefully. Not calmly. Walked toward the kitchen. And there it was.
The cat. Standing next to a tipped-over milk carton, watching it spread across the floor like it had been waiting for me to arrive before committing. We looked at each other.
It blinked. It was cute. I reached down to comfort it. Or maybe myself. It allowed that for a second. Maybe two. Then walked past me. No guilt. No accountability.
I had found the cat.
Now all I needed were my nerves.
https://maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Gaia Rising MoonIsles/111/60/24.
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