GENRE: Upmarket Women's Fiction
I fought my soul’s toughest battles within earshot of the strangers who knew me best. Smiling for the cameras, pretending to be some rock ‘n’ roll bad a** – it’s an empty endeavor when you’re frozen on the inside. Some days I wondered how I pulled off being Heather Montgomery when I felt so removed from myself.
It’s not that I didn’t like the job. Hell, there’s a lot to be said about the mind-blowing ecstasy you feel while delivering aural sex to a sold-out arena of screaming fans. But I spent a lot of long nights on the tour bus agonizing over the secrets my nightmares and drunken ramblings might reveal. It wore my patience as thin as the denim on the a** of a farmer’s jeans.
And Dave Vacanti did little to set me at ease. He sat across from me, guitar in hand, eyeing the magazine on the table. His voice sounded hoarse when he asked, “Aren’t you even gonna read it?”
I didn’t need to. The bold, block letters on the cover screamed at me: HEATHER’S MARRIAGE A SHAM! Beneath them, a candid photo showed me rushing through London’s Heathrow Airport with my son, a curly-haired preschooler, in tow. He looked exhausted, on the verge of a meltdown. My husband lagged at least three steps behind. And my scowl and unkempt mop of curls made me look like Joan Crawford’s red-headed stepchild. I could pretty much guess what kinds of lies were printed inside.
Reporters. Sons of bitches. Every one of them.