Chapter 4
FOUR
Gabriella
The princess always took the high road. It wasn’t easy, but in matters of character, one had no choice.
This situation was especially embarrassing. Gabriella was grateful for her brown-tinted sunglasses—rimless and Ralph Lauren and très chic. But more important, right along with the UV protection came eye-contact protection, which she needed—at this moment, very much.
She had the damned dress in her hands, and it was perfect. How could the Killer Body people ignore her in patchwork and lace, so retro it made her want to break into tears for a past she’d never visited, except through clothes, of course?
Not to mention the bandanna. Damn, if she were a shoplifter, as many in her strata were, she’d stuff that two-hundred-plus-bucks baby right into her bra. But that wasn’t the way she was raised.
That the shop girl was a fan made it worse.
The girl had gushed through the sale of the marvelous dress, the bandanna, the cute little flip-flops with their silver buckles and stacked wood heels.
Now her sunny face was a wall between the two of them.
The princess knew there was a problem. She stood on the other side of the counter, head dipped slightly down to avoid eye contact, but in an aggressive stance in her crochet cardigan, camisole and jeans.
She might be on the verge of upchucking, but this one would never know it.
“There seems to be a problem with your credit card.”
Oh, no. This was what she’d feared most, and now here it was, delivered to her on a tiny, black, rectangular platter. But the princess always took the high road.
“I can’t imagine what the problem would be.”
“It was declined.”
Declined, such a polite word for what she was suffering. She’d made a payment, maybe not the full amount, but everything she had.
“I made some purchases earlier today. Perhaps I exceeded my limit. Can’t you just add it to my hotel room bill.”
The girl gave her an embarrassed smile; her slender fingers edged toward the wonderful dress, reclaiming it for someone with better credit. “I’m sorry. If it’s declined here, it will be declined at the front desk, too.”
“It will be fine by tomorrow. As I said, I probably just exceeded my limit.”
“That’s probably what happened.” She drew the dress closer.
“I have other credit cards.”
“I’d be happy to try one of them for you.”
Try? Not process. More fear invaded, each rush more threatening than the last. She’d been honest about her life on national television. Had talked to Larry King and Edd Forrester, damn it. Why was this stopping her?
The answer came to her in the private part of her brain that she reserved for herself and maybe two other people.
Because you haven’t beaten the food thing yet.
Because you were a bad wife. Because you don’t have enough money to buy this dress that could make you the next Killer Body.
Because you can’t even afford a freaking olive-green bandanna.
The shop girl, who of course, couldn’t hear the voices, gave her the professional version of a droopy look, holding the bad plastic between two manicured fingers.
Gabriella yanked it back, shoved it in her bag.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s obviously a foul-up with my husband. Would you give me a moment to get my driver?”
“Of course.”
Gabriella went out to the lobby to get Christopher and dragged him back in before any of the greedy shoppers could as much as spot her dress.
The dress would be hers now. It would transform her, maybe even make her look as if she had boobs.
Bobby Warren was supposed to be a boob man.
She hoped he discriminated between real and fake ones.
If he did, Rochelle McArthur wouldn’t be in the running.
Christopher was at his Banana Republic best, his body reflecting his hours obsessing at the gym. His tan was baked on, and his exposed flesh, from his arms to his shaved head, simply glowed.
“My credit card isn’t working,” she said. “That’s all I need.”
“Don’t worry.”
The shop girl let the dress she was in the process of removing slip back onto the counter when she saw him. Christopher had that effect on people.
“I’ll take Princess Gabby’s parcels,” he said.
“But—”
Parcels! Gabriella hid a smile. He’d learned the term when he’d been her real driver back when she could afford to pay him.
He whipped out his wallet and shuffled through his own credit cards like a magician.
“You can use mine for now.” He glanced at the dress.
“Very nice. You’re taking the bandanna, too, of course. ”
Gabriella nodded. Poor guy. He’d just spent more than he earned in two weeks.
“If there are angels on earth, you are truly one of them,” she said as they left the store.
“That’s because all the homophobes are in heaven.”
“They can have it,” she said. “I’ll pay you back as soon as I can. I should be getting some money from Alain next week.”
Christopher frowned. “Don’t worry about that. You’ll be gorgeous for the Killer Body party. That’s all that really matters.”
“Thank you for knowing that. It’s one of the reasons I love you.” She started to kiss his cheek, then noticed a woman standing outside the store, holding a notebook.
“Gabriella Paquette?” An autograph-seeker. And absolutely charming. Life wasn’t so dismal, after all. It would probably be rude to tell her she preferred to be called Princess Gabby.
The woman, younger than she, was a lovely little thing, with fine bones, short-cropped strawberry-blond hair and large blue eyes. Still nervous, that was all Gabriella could see—the long neck, the prominent collarbones above the black top and lacy traces of a blouse beneath it.
“Hello,” she said, and reached for the book to sign it. “I’ll need to know your name.”
“Rikki Fitzpatrick, Valley Voice newspaper.” She held fast to the notebook, and Gabriella felt a flush warm her cheeks.
“So, you’re not…”
“I’m a reporter.” Her voice stopped just short of a drawl.
Christopher stepped forward. Goodness, what would she do without him to look after her? “Then don’t pretend to be looking for an autograph.”
“I wasn’t pretending to be anything I’m not.”
“Princess Gabby doesn’t give interviews unless they’re prearranged.”
“Princess Gabby?” The reporter’s lip twitched, and Gabriella caught a hardness in her eyes she’d missed before. “Weren’t you born in Texas?”
“I am a princess,” Gabriella said. “You don’t lose those titles because of domestic changes.”
“Such as divorce?” The reporter asked it as she scribbled something in her notebook. Gabriella had dealt with her type before. The best approach was openness, honesty. That’s what tamed the press. They absolutely adored candor.
“Yes, I was born in Texas, and yes, I’m separated from my husband. Is there anything else you’d like to know?”
“Why do you want to be the next Killer Body?”
The question stunned her, partially because of the way the reporter’s eyes went from inquiring to fiery. “Considering the problems in my own life, the weight issues with which I’ve had to deal, I’d say I’m a natural candidate, wouldn’t you?”
“Some say it’s because you’re trying to get your own talk show.”
Christopher touched her arm.
“It’s all right,” Gabriella said. “In fact, it’s a good question.” The reporter didn’t smile. “It’s a darned good question,” Gabriella continued. “I’ve come forward about my own problems.”
“Such as the photographs taken of you when you were married and having an affair with one of your husband’s friends?”
She’d heard this before, and she knew how to respond.
Open. Honest. “Just so you know, they were barely acquainted, and my husband and I were having some pretty major problems. If anything would motivate you to lose weight, it would be seeing photos like that and having the press dub you Flabby Gabby.” She paused, then remembered something else she’d never before said, wondering if she should just go for it. Why not?
“You know something else?” she asked. “I felt beautiful when those damning photographs were taken. I felt loved, and wonderful, and all of the things a woman must feel to take off her clothes in front of a man. When I saw what I really looked like, what he must have seen, I saw only ugly, and I resolved to change my life.”
“And to get your own talk show?”
What could make anyone so young this embittered? “You don’t get me,” she said. “Do you? You think I’m an opportunist, when it’s quite the contrary, really. I want to help other women, motivate them to change their lives as I have.”
“How did you find her?” Christopher demanded. “Do you just follow people around so you can accost them?”
The reporter’s cheeks colored. “The desk clerk said you’d asked if there was a boutique on the premises. I thought I’d take a chance. I’m interviewing all of the candidates for Killer Body.”
“I’d be happy to give you an interview,” Gabriella said, “but not out here on the street.”
“Shall I meet you back in the lobby?”
She didn’t like the reporter’s attitude, but an interview was an interview. And the Voice was a major daily, San Joaquin Valley or not. “Around three o’clock?” she asked. “I have some other errands.”
“Three is fine.”
“Not very friendly, is she?” Christopher asked as the reporter strode away. “Quite a chip on her shoulder, I’d say. You’ll melt it, though. You always do.”
Standing out there in the chilly air, Gabriella found herself starting to tremble, and all of the old fears seemed to be crashing in on her.
How stupid must she have looked to that shop girl, standing there with that credit card, trying to lie her way out of a situation the girl witnessed on a daily basis?
“Christopher?”
“It’s okay.”
He opened the car door for her, and she slid into the back seat, hugging the shopping bag to her. “I feel damned sheepish letting you continue to drive me around,” she said. “Now that I can’t pay you.”
“Forget it. We’re friends. I’ll drive you anywhere you want to go, anytime you want to go there. Now, where to?”
It had been a hellish afternoon, and the prospect of the reporter wasn’t wonderful, either. “You know. Don’t make me say it.”
“Oh, Gabby. Do you really want to do that to yourself?”
“Only once this week, so far. Come on. I’ll treat you.”
“I wouldn’t touch the stuff.”
He did agree to a burger, though. They ate in the car, he in front with his burger, she in back with her fries and Frostie. Christopher handed her the bottle of Baileys she kept in the glove box, and she poured a little over the Frostie before she dipped her fries.
Christopher shuddered and shielded his eyes with his hand. “I can’t even bear to watch this.”
“Sweet and cold. Hot and salty. And alcoholic.” She dipped another fry, loving the hot, greasy feel of it in her fingers, anticipating the chilling relief. “It’s everything good. The ultimate comfort food.”
Gabby was glad she had enough in her purse to buy lunch. Christopher refused. She insisted. The princess always took the high road.
The Interview
Do you think you were harsh regarding Gabriella Paquette?
I’m the last person in the world to pass judgment on anyone. I’ve thought a great deal about those comments, and I have to say that I can’t answer yours or anyone’s questions with less than the truth.
Princess Gabby used poor judgment. We’ve all used poor judgment.
I can’t imagine the horror she must have felt seeing those damning, grotesque photographs in the tabloids, and I commend her honesty with the media, her take-charge attitude toward her weight.
Flabby Gabby was a cruel label, true. The press is good at punchy, honest prose, and I don’t think their cruelty is necessarily personal.
My heart goes out to her husband, however.
Prince Alain had to see those photos, as well.
How will he ever forget the sight of his wife romping in nothing but a tiny thong, on his own estate, no less, with the man he considered his friend?
How much comfort can it give him that her candor and weight loss have won her a following, of sorts, on talk shows?
Was I too hard on Gabriella Paquette? Was I? No more so than I’d be on myself.