Free Swimsuit Body by Eileen; Goudge Page B

it under wraps,” I continue. These days, it seems a celebrity only has to stumble walking out of a nightclub in order for rumors that he or she was under the influence to go viral.
    I watch Liam Brady back away from his groupies—there’s no other word to describe the women who are pressed in around him, their faces aglow—and slip through the doorway to the floor above. On impulse, I follow him. As I step from the passageway at the top of the stairs, the familiar scents of the sanctuary, a mixture of beeswax candles and incense and furniture polish, bring back memories of when I used to come here on Sundays with my family. The sanctuary is dimly lit, except the spot where the exterior lights shining through the stained-glass windows illuminate the lone figure seated in a front-row pew. Liam took off his cap, I notice, but he still wears his sunglasses.
    â€œNot now. Sorry, love,” he says wearily when I slide in next to him, without so much as a glance in my direction. He speaks with an Irish brogue, not the midwestern accent he uses when playing Laserman, a.k.a. Danny Miller from Fort Wayne, Indiana. Liam is from Dublin. On a late-night talk show, I once heard him talk about the rough neighborhood he grew up in. “ Angela’s Ashes it was.” Delivered in a light tone and not elaborated on, the remark explained the rough edges that are part of his appeal. He’s the Bradley Cooper of the working class.
    â€œI don’t mean to bother you. I just wanted …”
    â€œWhat? My feckin’ autograph? A quote for your bloody rag?” He turns to face me, pulling off his sunglasses. His cobalt eyes flash with an intensity that causes me to pull back like I’ve been burned. “Or have you come to share your tale of woe? If you have, I can’t help you.”
    â€œI just wanted to say I’m sorry for your loss.” He and Delilah had been friends, I learned when he made a public statement after her death—his words sounded heartfelt, unlike those of other celebrities who seemed to be using the tragedy to showcase their latest projects—and were possibly romantically linked as well. Their chemistry onscreen was undeniable. Liam and Delilah had made a movie together, Return of Laserman , in which she played his female sidekick-slash-love interest, Phantasmagora, and they were to have shared top billing in Devil’s Slide .
    â€œWhy? Did you know her?” he asks in a mocking tone.
    â€œI’m the one who found her.”
    â€œJesus.” He stares at me as if seeing me for the first time. His Black Irish features, curly, dark brown hair and blue eyes in a face saved from bland handsomeness by a hawk nose and cheeks faintly pitted with old acne scars, are prominent. “For the love of … Why didn’t you say so?”
    â€œYou didn’t give me a chance. Tish Ballard.” I extend my hand.
    His face relaxes in a smile as he shakes my hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Tish Ballard.”
    â€œHow long have you been in the program?” The standard question for newcomers.
    â€œComing up on six months. Two and a half years before that,” he answers.
    I nod in understanding. Relapse is more common among AAers than not. We all struggle, and many of us fail. “Either it was the best kept secret in Hollywood, or you liked to drink alone.”
    He chuckles as though I’ve said something amusing. The force of his magnetism—akin to the superpowers possessed by Laserman—is such that I have to concentrate in order to keep from becoming a simpering groupie like the ladies who cornered him earlier. “With me it was drinks all around, and I was always the last to leave a party. What saved me from public disgrace was that I was too big to fail. Too much money riding on my sorry arse. Whenever one of my drunken antics was leaked to the press, the suits did what they do best: They paid to have it