Chapter 12
TWELVE
Gabriella
She had been wrong to speak rudely to Jesse on the phone.
His behavior was above reproach, shy almost, as he ordered their drinks.
She’d agreed to a glass of chardonnay, after all, not because she wanted it.
Wine was loaded with sugar. Only one table remained unoccupied at the Hilton’s lounge, heavy traffic for a Thursday. Must be a convention somewhere nearby.
They sat, tucked against the wall adjacent to the bar, probably the most private place in this darkened room that was anything but private.
“Why didn’t Rochelle join us?” She felt it was the proper thing to say.
“She never accompanies me on business.” That made her feel better. But then, he smiled and added, “In this case, I have to say the business is also a pleasure. You’re looking wonderful, but then, you know that.”
“It’s always nice to hear.” She tasted the wine. A compliment didn’t hurt. It’s not as if he were leering. And she hadn’t put on this fuchsia ruffle-front dress to be ignored. “One never knows what to wear out here. The weather can change so suddenly.”
“Rochelle says Bobby likes women to look like women. I’m sure he’ll approve of that dress.”
She started to say she wasn’t wearing this tomorrow, but her cell phone surprised her with its embarrassing William Tell Overture ring.
She’d have to get Christopher to program in a new sound.
“Excuse me,” she said, pulling it out, hoping Christopher was okay.
“Very few people have this number, so it must be important.”
It wasn’t Christopher’s voice that greeted her, however.
“Gabriella Paquette?”
“That’s correct.”
“This is Gabriella?”
“Yes, I just said so. What is this regarding?”
“My name is Courtney,” the woman responded. “I’m calling regarding the delinquent balance on your Visa card.”
Embarrassment flooded her in one hot wave after another. She looked across at Jesse, who watched with polite curiosity. “How did you get this number?”
“Ma’am, this is a collection agency. It’s our business. Now, I want to know how much you can pay today.”
“Today?”
“Right now. I can take a check, Gabriella, right over the phone. Can you pay the entire amount?”
Jesse continued to watch. Her mouth went dry. Pretend she was talking to a reporter; that was it. Make him believe it.
“Gabriella, are you there?”
“I’ll need to call you back.”
“Not until you make a payment. We’ve been patient with you for months now, and if we don’t get something, I’m going to have to turn it over to our legal department.”
“I’ll call you,” she managed, her voice grating. Then she punched off the phone. Let this Courtney woman go to her legal department. At least they wouldn’t find her tonight.
“Sorry,” she said to Jesse. “Now, where were we?”
“Problems?” he asked, his expression quizzical. Again, she had the feeling that this was a man who could read her mind.
“The media never gives up.” She forced herself to sound bored and reached for her wine with sweaty fingers that felt suddenly dirty. “This is excellent chardonnay.”
“Would you like another?”
“Thank you, but one is my limit.” She took another sip for courage, and because she was quaking from the inside out. “You said you wanted to discuss business.”
He nodded and smiled again. “This is difficult, for a number of reasons. For one, you’re not only beautiful, you’re refreshing. I’m not sure I’ve ever met another woman quite like you.”
Not a good beginning. Too much of a build-up. “Thank you. I’m pretty ordinary, actually.”
“There’s nothing ordinary about you, Gabby. You could do better than Killer Body. Much better.”
So that was it. “Killer Body isn’t an end,” she said. “It’s a beginning.”
“But there are bigger beginnings, and I can help you find them.”
“You invited me here because you want to represent me?”
“I’m good at hooking up people, and I have some contacts that would be perfect for you.”
Then why didn’t he use them for his wife? First, the horrible phone call, now this. A bad night all around. No reason to waste another moment here. She put down her glass.
“All I have to do to get you for an agent is bow out of the Killer Body competition, perhaps?” She pushed back her chair.
“Wait.” He held up his hand. “Before you make a hasty decision, you should know there’s money involved.”
“How much money?”
“I’m used to advancing my clients whatever they need to set themselves up while we’re launching them.”
She sat back in her chair and forced herself to remain calm. “Isn’t that a bit unorthodox?”
“Works for me.” His eyes penetrated, reading her every doubt, driving away each one. “I know that you can do better than Killer Body.”
“But your wife can’t?” She felt herself flush at the mean-spirited response. But he didn’t flare back, only nodded.
“Sadly, she’s of an age where the possibilities are limited. Not like you.”
The bitchy side of her tried to do mental arithmetic, wondering how old Rochelle really was. No, she shouldn’t do that, and to ask would be below her.
“I think I’d be wonderful with a little talk show,” she said.
“Better than wonderful, and you don’t need Killer Body to get there.” He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Why don’t you let me see what I can get going, and in the meantime, I’ll advance you some cash?”
Could it be this easy? Give up Killer Body, have enough cash to bail herself out of this financial mess until her divorce settlement?
Get her own talk show? Damn, she wished she and Alain were on speaking terms. He’d know what to do.
He always did. Divorce was so rotten the way it sucked the friendship and trust away, along with the marriage.
What would Alain say? she wondered, and as she did so, she heard the answer in her mind.
She patted his hand, removed her own and sat as straight as possible in the chair. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ll need time to think.”
The hotel room looked friendlier than it had when she’d left it.
She’d taken the shuttle back and had the driver stop for fries and a soft-serve cone, which, while softer than when it arrived in her hands, was still substantial enough to support the little topping of Baileys once she was back in the room.
Marvelous—medicinal, almost—the icy cocoa, boozy cream swirling around the salty potatoes.
Standing in the bathroom of her hotel room, she consumed every one of the fries. What the hell was she going to do?
She didn’t know when she fell asleep, only that she had been jerked awake by an invasive noise of some kind.
She sat up in bed. A bad dream? No, not a dream.
A siren was blaring, reverberating in her head.
Her first thought, halfway between consciousness and the other side, was that she still smoked, that she was still a rebellious high school kid in Texas.
Crazy. This was real, and she had no choice but to deal with it.
She went to the door, opened it just enough to peek out, just to be sure she wasn’t crazy.
Good Lord. The hall was swarming with partially clad men and women, many in the Westin terry-cloth robes, just like the one she’d put on earlier.
Damned if she’d put it on again. She ran back and slipped her long, heavy macramé sweater over her Victoria’s Secret T-shirt.
As she stepped outside the room, frozen with fear, she heard an authoritative male voice announce, “The elevator’s closed. Use the stairs.”
Never had she seen so many bathrobes in one place.
Strangers clattered down the dank-smelling steel staircase.
They were all together here, all of them who’d been stopped in their pursuit of the evening—the ones getting drunk, the ones freshly or partially laid, the ones, like she, who had just been trying to sleep.
Down they ran, down the stairs. The faster ones burst ahead, as if speed were their right. The slower ones clutched the rail. At least a couple sobbed.
“We’ll be all right,” shouted a cheerful voice Gabby realized came from within her. “Just stay calm. We must all do that.”
Somebody stronger than she slammed into her, knocking her out of the way. “Move faster, damn it. Do you want to die?”
She grabbed the rail and let the person in shorts and a gray sweatshirt shoot by. Man or woman? Who knew which at this hour? They were all terrified and driven by the noise pounding into them.
Frightened as she was, something told her that she’d live, that she’d be all right.
This wasn’t the end; it was a test of some kind.
For all she knew, Bobby Warren could have set it up to see how she handled herself in an emergency.
Yes, that was it, just another test. She’d had them since she was in elementary school, staring up at the monkey bars.
She’d do now what her grandma had taught her to do then.
Stand up straight, move carefully along these steel monkey bars, and she would do just fine.
At the end of the steps, the heavy mushroom-colored door opened onto the street. They flowed through it in a tidal wave of anxiety. Once outside, no one ran. They walked and waited outside the front of the hotel that had looked so glamorous only hours before.
“It’s okay to go back to your rooms, folks,” a soft female voice announced. “You can use the elevators.”
A partially clad man, his Westin bathrobe barely belted, stepped up to the front desk. “I want to hear that from someone in authority.”
A woman in a black jacket and slacks stepped forward. “You just did.”
Before she thought better of it, Gabriella applauded. Others joined her. The woman smiled.
“We’re sorry for the inconvenience,” she said. “You’ll all receive a complimentary room tonight.”
Complimentary, as in free. Gabriella went up to the woman at the registration desk. She asked questions. She thanked her for the complimentary room. She walked back to the elevator, contemplating the irony of it all.