Chapter Two #2
It was possible that Dad had finally remembered her, but Ruby doubted it. Since he’d remarried and started a second family, her father was more interested in midnight baby feedings than in the goings-on of his adult daughter’s life. Frankly, she couldn’t even remember the last time he’d called.
The ringing went on and on.
Finally, she crawled across the shag carpet and answered on the fourth ring. “Hello?” She heard the snarl in her voice, but who gave a shit? She was in a bad mood and she didn’t care who knew it.
“Whoa, don’t bite my head off.”
Ruby couldn’t believe it. “Val?”
“It’s me, darlin’, your favorite agent.”
She frowned. “You sound pretty goddamn happy, considering that my career is circling the hole in the toilet bowl.”
“I am happy. Here’s the scoop. Yesterday I called everyone I could think of to hire you.
And baby, I hate to say it, but no one wanted you.
The only nibble was from that shit-ass, low-rent cruise line.
They said they’d take you for the summer if you promised no foul language .
. . and agreed to wear an orange sequined miniskirt so you could help out the magician after your set. ”
Ruby’s head throbbed harder. She rubbed her temples. “Let me guess, you’re calling to tell me there’s a man named Big Dick who has a night job for me on Hollywood and Vine.”
Val laughed. It was a great, booming sound, with none of the strained undertones she was used to hearing.
A client got to know the subtle shades of enthusiasm—it was a skill that came with being at rock bottom on the earning-potential food chain.
“You won’t believe it. Hell, I don’t believe it, and I took the call.
I’m going to make you guess who called me today. ”
“Heidi Fleiss.”
There was a palpable pause; in it, Ruby heard Val’s exhalation of breath—he was smoking. “Joe Cochran.”
“From Uproar? Don’t screw with me, Val. I’m a little—”
“Joe Cochran called me. No shit. He had a sudden cancellation. He wants to book you for tomorrow’s show.”
How could a world spin around so quickly?
Yesterday, Ruby had been pond scum; today, Joe Cochran wanted her.
The host of the hottest, hippest talk show in the country.
It had been patterned after Politically Incorrect, but because Uproar was broadcast on cable, the show explored racier issues—and foul language was encouraged.
It was a young comedian’s dream gig. Even if she wasn’t so young anymore.
“He’s giving you two minutes to do stand-up. So, kiddo, this is it. You’d better spend the time between then and now practicing. I’ll send a car around to pick you up at eleven tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks, Val.”
“I didn’t do anything, darlin’. Really. This is all you. Good luck.”
Before she hung up, Ruby remembered to ask, “Hey, what’s the topic of the show?”
“Oh, yeah.” She heard the rustle of papers. “It’s called ‘Crime and Punishment: Are Mommy and Daddy to Blame for Everything?’”
Ruby should have known. “They want me because I’m her daughter.”
“Do you care why?”
“No.” It was true. She didn’t care why Joe Cochran had called her. This was her shot. Finally, after years of crappy play dates in smoke-infested barrooms in towns whose names she couldn’t remember, she was getting national exposure.
She thanked Val again, then hung up the phone. Her heart was racing so hard she felt dizzy. Even the empty room looked better. She wouldn’t be here much longer, anyway. She would be brilliant on the show, a shining star.
She ran to her bedroom and flung open the louvered doors of her closet. Everything she owned was black.
She couldn’t afford anything new . . .
Then she remembered the black cashmere sweater. It had come from her mother, disguised in a box from Caroline two Christmases earlier. Although Ruby routinely sent back her mother’s guilty gifts unopened, this one had seduced her. Once she’d touched that beautiful fabric, she couldn’t mail it back.
She grabbed the black V-necked sweater off its hanger and tossed it on the bed.
Tomorrow she’d jazz it up with necklaces and wear it over a black leather miniskirt with black tights. Very Janeane Garofalo.
When Ruby had picked out her clothes, she kicked the bedroom door shut. A thin full-length mirror on the back of the door caught her image, framed it in strips of gold plastic.
It was hard to take herself seriously, dressed as she was in her dad’s old football jersey and a pair of fuzzy red knee socks.
Her short black hair had been molded by last night’s sweatfest into a perfect imitation of Johnny Rotten.
Pink sleep wrinkles still creased her pale face.
Remnants of last night’s makeup circled her eyes.
“I’m Ruby Bridge,” she said, grabbing a hairbrush off the dresser to use as a mike.
“And yes, you’re right if you recognize the last name.
I’m her daughter, Nora Bridge’s, spiritual guru to Middle America.
” She flung her hip out, picturing herself as she would look tomorrow—hair tipped in temporary blue dye, a dozen tacky necklaces, tight black clothes, and heavy black makeup.
“Look at me. Should that woman be telling you how to raise kids? It’s like those commercials on television where celebrities come on and tell you to be a mentor to a kid.
And who does Hollywood pick to give out advice?
“A bunch of anorexics, alcoholics, drug addicts, and serial marriers. People who haven’t spent ten minutes with a kid in years. And they’re telling you how to parent. It’s like—”
The phone rang.
“Damn.” Ruby raced into the living room and yanked the cord out of the wall. She couldn’t be bothered for the next twenty-four hours. Nothing mattered except getting ready for the show.
Like all big cities, San Francisco looked beautiful at night. Multicolored lights glittered throughout downtown, creating a neon sculpture garden tucked along the black bay.
Dean Sloan glanced at the wall of windows that framed the panoramic view. Unfortunately, he couldn’t leave his seat. He was—as always—trapped by the flypaper of good manners.
Scattered through the ornately gilded ballroom of this Russian Hill mansion were a dozen or so tables, each one draped in shimmering gold fabric and topped by a layer of opalescent silk.
The china at each place setting was white with platinum trim.
Four or five couples sat at each table, making idle conversation.
The women were expensively, beautifully gowned and the men wore tuxedos.
The party’s hostess, a local socialite, had hand-chosen the guest list from among the wealthiest of San Francisco’s families.
Tonight’s charity was the opera, and it would benefit mightily, although Dean wondered how many of the guests actually cared about music.
What they really cared about was being seen, and even more important, being seen doing the right thing.
His date, a pale, exquisite woman named Sarah Brightman-Edgington, slid a hand along his thigh, and Dean knew that he’d been silent too long. With practiced ease, he turned to her, giving her the smile so well documented by the local society media.
“That was a lovely sentiment, don’t you think?” she said softly, taking a small sip of champagne.
Dean had no idea what she was talking about, but a quick look around the room enlightened him.
An elderly, well-preserved woman in a deceptively simple blue dress was standing alongside the ebony Steinway.
No doubt she’d been waxing poetic about the opera and thanking her guests in advance for their unselfish contributions.
There was nothing the wealthy liked quite so much as pretending to be generous.
It was, he knew, the official beginning of the end of the evening. There would be dancing yet, some serious schmoozing and even more serious gossiping, but soon it would be polite to leave.
There was a smattering of quiet applause, then the sound of chairs being scooted back.
Dean took hold of Sarah’s hand. Together they slipped into the whispering crowd. The band was playing something soft and romantic, a song that was almost familiar.
On the dance floor, he pulled Sarah close, slid his hand down the bare expanse of her back, felt her shiver at his touch.
The crowd eddied and swirled around them. Overhead, thousands of tiny lights twinkled like stars. There was a faint, sweet smell of roses in the air.
Or maybe that was the scent of money . . .
He gazed down at Sarah’s upturned face, noticing for the first time how lovely her gray eyes were.
Without thinking about it, he bent slightly and kissed her, tasting the champagne she’d drunk.
He could tell by this kiss where the night could go.
She would want him. If he cared to, he could take her hand, lead her out of this crush, and take her to his bed.
She would offer no objections. After that, he would call her, and they would probably sleep together a few times.
Then, somehow, he would forget her. Last year, a local magazine had named him San Francisco’s most ineligible bachelor because of his reputation for nanosecond affairs.
It was true; he’d certainly slept with dozens of the cities’ most gorgeous women.
But what the reporter hadn’t known, hadn’t even imagined, was how tired Dean was of it all.
He wasn’t even twenty-nine years old and already he felt aged.
Money. Power. Disposable women who seemed to hear his family name and become as malleable as wet clay.
For more than a year now, Dean had felt that something was wrong with his life. Missing.
At first, he’d assumed it was a business problem, and he’d rededicated himself to work, logging upwards of eighty hours a week at Harcourt and Sons. But all he’d managed to do was make more money, and the ache in his gut had steadily sharpened.