The Siren KATHERINE JOHN (100 best novels of all time .TXT) 📖

beak. It tossed its head back, swallowing the fish whole, and swooped away, wide wings beating. I wished I had wings to fly away.

The way I’d behaved with Stella and Madison was emotional and unprofessional—exactly how my father would have expected a woman to act, which made me doubly angry with myself, and them. Damn actresses.

There was a time when I’d wanted to be an actress when I grew up. I vividly remembered the moment I’d made the decision. I must have been about eight. I was standing in the dark drizzle outside Grauman’s Chinese Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard at the premiere of some film my father had produced, my pink sequined dress heavy with the runoff from my flimsy umbrella, feet squelching in my kitten heels. Twenty feet away, the actresses posed on the red carpet under blazing spotlights in their beautiful gowns, protected from the rain by a maze of massive clear tents as reporters fawned over them and drenched fans snapped pictures from behind the barricade erected on the sidewalk. I was transfixed. They were like real live princesses, the mere mortals scurrying after them turned to mice by juxtaposition. Like any little girl, I didn’t want to be a mouse. I wanted to be a princess.

My father was under the tent as well, of course, and at some point he remembered he’d left me out in the rain and had an assistant escort me inside. He didn’t sit next to me, as there were far more important people to share his time with, but afterward, in the car on the way home, I told him my decision.

He laughed. “Sweetie, you’re never gonna be pretty enough to be an actress.”

The back of my throat closed, and tears stung my eyes. My mother had always told me I was beautiful, and I’d never thought to question her.

“Oh, come on,” he said tersely. “Stop crying. You don’t want me to lie to you, do you?”

I sobbed, embarrassed I hadn’t realized my own homeliness.

“Get it together!” he snapped.

“But…not all actresses are pretty,” I protested.

“You want to be one of the plain ones? Go ahead, if you think you can take it. But it’s always going to be about what you look like. It’s a visual medium. Plain actresses only ever play the plain girl until they get to the age where none of the other women are particularly good-looking anymore anyway. I’m just telling you the truth.”

That was the end of my acting dream.

I didn’t blame my father for what he said to me that night. For years after I was grateful he’d told me the truth; it was what I needed to hear. I wasn’t plagued by imagining myself to be something I wasn’t. I stopped messing with dresses and bows, because what was the point? If my own father didn’t find me beautiful, I knew no other man would.

At school the girls ostracized me when I became a tomboy, so I hung out with the guys. I laughed at their fart jokes and, later, listened without judgment to stories of their escapades with the other girls. They picked on me, but I was tough and could give as good as I got. I won their respect.

I developed sizable boobs around the time I turned sixteen, but I kept them hidden under sweats and baggy T-shirts, never wore makeup or straightened my kinky curls, and never let on when I periodically crushed on any of the guys from our group. Predictably, I made it through high school with my virginity intact and not a single girlfriend to share secrets with. Not that I had any secrets.

I discovered sex in college, but after a quick and brutal heartbreak, swore off relationships. My tomboy persona worked so well throughout film school and beyond that even after I discovered the magic of high heels, flat irons, and eyebrow shaping—and to my surprise learned there were in fact plenty of men who found me quite attractive—I continued to fight for the respect of the guys I worked with by styling myself as the perennial cool girl. DTF but uninterested in anything further. Which was, of course, how I ended up having an affair with my married colleague and ruining my life.

I gazed out at the electric-blue sea and inhaled the salt air, turning my face up to the warm sun. Maybe my life wasn’t totally ruined. Plenty of people who were told they’d never work in Hollywood again lived to tell the tale.

Out on the ocean I spied a fishing boat about the size of Rick’s and couldn’t help but wish I was aboard it. He’d laugh hearing about my outburst today. The thought of it made me smile. But no. He was taken, and admittedly, I didn’t like him as just a friend. I had to stay away.

I looked up at the house on the hill, where a giant light was shining into the kitchen window. They must have started filming; I should get back. I’d eat crow, blame it on—sleep, or the lack thereof. Awesome.

I dusted off my feet, slipped on my shoes, and trudged back up the hill, dreading the task before me. I shouldn’t have behaved the way I did, but really, Stella should have come prepared, and Madison should have known better than to live stream on set. Did she not remember the NDA she’d signed? I checked myself. No matter what they did wrong, it was on me to keep the thing running smoothly, which meant taking whatever they dished out with a smile. I was just so incredibly sick of taking people’s shit. It was exhausting.

As I neared the house, I heard a baby squalling. So this day was only getting better. I found Price on the patio talking with Jackson while through the archway in the living room, three women tried to calm not one but two screaming babies. Madison, Stella, and Cole were nowhere in sight.

“Welcome back,” Price said as I approached. “You’re right