Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
Tania Marie
Word of the day: Crapulous: Marked by intemperance in eating or drinking; sick from excessive consumption of liquor
Late that afternoon she met Princess Gabby, whose driver was going to take them to the television studio.
This day sucked, and the dicey stuff hadn’t even started yet.
She didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing.
Good: it couldn’t get much worse. Maybe the reporters had already satiated themselves.
Bad: this might have just “hopped them up,” as Marshall used to say.
She hoped the son of a bitch fried in hell for all of his lying.
She hoped every time he walked into a bar or turned on Bravo or popped in a CD, he’d hear that John Prine song—their song—“All the Way With You.”
Shit, she hoped he’d call her.
She’d bought her outfit, like everything but her frigging jewelry, from either Chico’s or Bloomies, online.
No way would she trust someone in a shop to fit her and not mention her size to someone who would mention it to someone in the media.
At least this outfit worked. Princess Gabby’s sweet little sheath worked better, but anyone else, yours truly included, would look like a washerwoman with that sixties bandanna framed by all that stringy hair.
At least God was fair in one regard. No one had more fabulous hair than she, certainly not gorgeous Gabby.
The princess had everything else, though, looks and money, just for starters, not to mention a handsome ex, who’d probably do anything to get her back. She even smelled like frigging wealth, a hushed, understated scent. Tania Marie wanted to ask her what it was. Wouldn’t that sound too crass?
Crass. Ass. That’s what she was, what the media created, what she tried to live up to.
“I like your perfume,” she said.
Gabby nodded in the direction of her very bald, very gay, very solicitous driver. “Christopher bought it for me. Banana Republic, I believe.”
“It smells clean. Classy.”
What kind of driver buys perfume for his client? She shifted in the seat, trying to get a better look at Christopher through the rearview mirror.
As if reading her mind, the driver shot off the freeway. In a moment, they were in Burbank. Everything was okay, but Tania Marie still had butterflies. “You sure he’s a good driver?”
“Only the best.”
“Guess I’m just nervous.”
“Relax,” Princess Gabby said. “As my grandmother used to tell me, they might can you, but they can’t eat you.”
Her words, her soft yet certain voice, forced Tania Marie to listen. What kind of life would it take, how wonderful would your luck have to be, to get one bit of advice, true or false, from anyone?
“I can’t imagine you with a grandmother who’d use that kind of language.”
“Oh, she did, and she chewed snuff, too. Never touched alcohol, though, never wore lipstick, and I doubt if she ever told a lie.” She turned to Tania Marie, her wispy curls starting to wilt beneath the bandanna; only that hair kept her from perfection. “You might try not to curse tonight.”
Tania Marie felt as if her face had been slapped. “What’s wrong with shoveling back a little of what’s shoveled at you?”
Princess Gabby sat a little higher in the seat, distancing her from their momentary closeness. “Ladies don’t do it.”
“But they screw around on their husbands?”
Damn her mouth. The minute she said it, she wanted to gush out an apology.
“I guess I deserved that.” Princess Gabby’s eyes widened, and for a moment, Tania Marie could swear she saw tears in them.
“No, you didn’t. I was being an ass.”
“A bit testy, perhaps. I didn’t mean to criticize, and your point is well taken. But if you do want this job—”
“You know I don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell. It’ll go to you because you deserve it, or Old Fake Tits because she traded Mr. Warren for a lifetime of blow jobs.”
“You may be right.” Princess Gabby lowered her voice, and Tania Marie realized she was trying to spare her driver the gory details of the conversation.
“As you’ve perhaps discovered, those alliances don’t always guarantee one woman any more power than the next.
Just don’t be your own worst enemy, dear. That’s all I’m suggesting.”
Something about her manner made Tania Marie feel like crying. She was taking time with her. No one, not even Virginia, had ever done that.
“By swearing?”
Gabby straightened her lips into a line that was a little too wise. “The F-word, in particular.”
“It helps me blow off steam. My life’s really…” She paused. “Really F’ed up right now. Is that better?”
“Still a bit coarse.” The princess gave her a weak smile. “Sometimes I say freaking or even flipping, and under tremendous pressure frigging, but never in public, of course. It’s a release for me. Maybe that would work for you.”
“You have any kids, Gabby?” Now, what in hell made her ask that?
“We were trying before.” Her eyes blanked out all emotion, and her accent became more pronounced. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I think you’d be a hell of a mom.”
“Well, thank you very much, Tania Marie.” Her expression softened. “We’ll just have to see, won’t we? In the meantime, think about what I said. I can’t imagine Bobby Warren would give the job to Rochelle, especially when he finds out that her husband tried to get you to drop out of the running.”
“She calls him Bobbo, for Christ’s sake,” Tania Marie said. “How the hell can anyone call the Bobby Warren Bobbo?”
“That’s a bit extreme. But why do you, who swear like a stevedore, insist on calling him Mr. Warren?”
“I don’t know.” She didn’t know how to explain it.
But she remembered hearing on some TV show that the early Mouseketeers called Walt Disney Mr. Disney.
It made sense to her. When you’re the one in mouse ears out there doing the step-shuffle-step, you don’t pretend it’s an even playing field.
And you don’t call the man who can make it all happen for you Uncle Walt. Or Bobbo.
The princess wouldn’t have understood it.
Besides, they had arrived at the studio, and they didn’t have much time.
She wanted to hug Princess Gabby. She wanted to bawl her guts out.
Most of all, she wanted to be thin, with big tits, fake or not, like that bitch Rochelle.
How horrible was that as a life goal? Thin? Big tits? Rochelle?
Before she could think about it, the driver opened her door, and she stepped out into the studio lot. It looked like any other lot, blending into the monochromatics of the city.
“Thank you, Christopher,” she said.
He took her arm, placed it in his and patted it. “Let me get the princess,” he said.
There they stood, the three of them, facing the studio, which looked far less threatening from its parking lot.
“Ladies?”
Christopher squeezed her arm, as she knew he must be squeezing Princess Gabby’s, as well. Tania Marie couldn’t speak, but Gabby did it for her. “Let’s go get the bloody bastards,” she said.
“Hey,” Tania Marie called around Christopher’s slender frame to her. “I thought we weren’t supposed to talk like this.”
“We aren’t,” the princess called back, her limp hair like strands of ribbon one curled at Christmas with a pair of scissors.
They waited for the show to begin, the three of them, shoved like sausages on a stupid little sofa. Tania Marie knew she dragged down her end like a bag of cement in the back of a canoe.
Next to her, she could feel Princess Gabby’s warm presence.
“This will be fine,” Gabby whispered in her ear. “But please try not to curse.”
Then it was lights, camera, Crosby.
At least John Crosby wasn’t a nasty interviewer, not with most of the people on his show, at least. She tended to bring out the worst in people. She hoped this one would be different.
“Welcome to LA. Tonight,” he said, his features accentuated by makeup much less subtle than Marshall wore on the air.
“Thank you,” the three of them murmured in unison. Tania Marie only moved her lips, the way she did when forced to say the Lord’s Prayer, or worse, sing the National Anthem.
Then Crosby’s eyes, magnified by his glasses, sought her face. Of course. What else was new? “Tania Marie, the honey bee. How the hell are you?”
She started to tell him to take a flying one. She started to dissolve into tears, the way she usually did. Then she felt a gentle elbow prodding her. She flashed him the Tania Marie smile.
“Very well, John. And how are you?”
Lucas
On the sofa beside him in the back studio, Lucas felt Rikki stiffen when John Crosby referred to Tania Marie by Marshall Cameron’s pet name for her. But the kid had bounced back. She was gracious, the one trait that worked, and the only one that could melt a tough guy like Crosby.
Obviously derailed, the bespectacled announcer turned his attention to the princess.
“So, Gabby. You talked to His Highness lately?”
“Not as frequently as I’d like, but Alain and I are in touch.”
The close-up of the princess stopped Lucas. The sixties bandanna, the new millennium hair, the eyes for all time.
“She deserves it,” Rikki said. “But she won’t get it, will she?”
He wanted to lie but couldn’t, not with Rikki this close to him. To pretend otherwise would only insult her, push her farther away from him, when he—okay, admit it—wanted her closer.
“It’s difficult to say,” he began.
Then, before Rikki could explain, anger exploded on the monitor.
Crosby had turned to Rochelle, who was beginning to explain her long commitment to fitness, in general, and Killer Body, in particular.
“I just like helping people reach their goals,” Rochelle recited.
“Excuse me, John. Could I respond to that?”
The camera shot to Tania Marie’s delicate features, which played better on television than they did in person.
“Sure,” Crosby said. “You got a gripe, Tania Marie?”
She started to spring up, to shout, then just settled back in her chair. “Not a gripe,” she said, her voice calm. “Just a question. I’d like to ask why Rochelle’s husband, Jesse McArthur, offered to be my agent if I’d drop out of the competition for Killer Body spokesmodel.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Rochelle said.
Lucas watched the flush spread across Rochelle’s face like a guilty cloud.
Rikki jerked to attention beside him. “Is that true?”
“I don’t know.” He concentrated on the screen, still on Tania Marie’s face. The camera had fallen in love with her, accentuating her cheekbones, reducing the flesh beneath them.
“Maybe the princess could clarify,” Tania Marie said.
The camera shot to the princess’s face, a composed face, head held high, bright eyes like a cat ready to pounce. Gabby had been waiting for this, he could tell.
“Tania Marie makes an excellent point.” Princess Gabby lifted her head, patted her sprinkle of curls. “Jesse McArthur contacted me, as well, offering me representation and a sum of cash if I would drop out of consideration for Killer Body spokesmodel.”
The camera froze on Rochelle, her finely chiseled jaw, her prominent collarbone.
“I can’t believe that’s true,” she said.
“Indeed it is,” Princess Gabby countered.
The camera didn’t budge. Rochelle licked at her lips like a dog at a water dish. “I have very little knowledge of my husband’s business dealings, except those concerning my own career, of course.”
“Oh, come on.” Tania Marie just couldn’t restrain herself, Lucas thought.
The camera knew what she didn’t, though. Just stay poised and let the clock tick, give Rochelle enough rope to hang herself. Lucas felt sweat break out on his own brow, as if he were the one facing the judgmental camera and Crosby’s scrutiny.
“It’s a matter of ethics.” Rochelle smiled into the camera, as if explaining something elementary to a backward child, that child being Tania Marie.
“Show business is extremely competitive, every aspect of it. For my husband to share confidential information with me could embarrass or otherwise harm his clients.”
“So you had no idea he approached these two ladies?” Crosby asked.
Rochelle blinked into a close-up. “Absolutely not. And, since he isn’t here to defend himself, I have no way of knowing who approached whom, if anyone.”
“Not bad,” Rikki said.
“You’re right.” Lucas wiped his forehead. Damn, how he hoped Bobby W wasn’t watching, because right now, Rochelle McArthur was in deep trouble.