The first time Brooke recounted this tale, the narrative was factually accurate: “Kyle’s sister did Lady Gaga’s makeup once.”
Six months later, the story mutated: “Monica regularly works with Gaga’s team.”
A year later, the delusion expanded: “Our family has intimate relationships within Gaga’s inner circle.”
By the time last Christmas rolled around, I witnessed Brooke casually informing an exhausted Olive Garden waiter, “Our family is deeply connected to the Hollywood entertainment complex.”
Kyle managed inventory at a wholesale flooring warehouse. Mom was a retired municipal clerk. I hung off the sides of skyscrapers suspended by nylon ropes.
Now, this Declan Vale character was scheduled to cross the threshold of Mom’s modest suburban home. She had even purchased an expensive, structured cream-colored blazer specifically for the occasion.
“Rupert,” Brooke said, her voice dropping into a desperate, breathy whisper. “This man could alter the entire trajectory of my life.”
