I'm Your Man (23 page)

Sheila was dressed as a ringmaster, her hair styled to give her a leonine appearance. She was seated in the bleachers, her booted legs resting on one of the five male and female lions that surrounded her. They were indifferent to the popcorn scattered around them, their eyes riveted to the circus act: buff, hot men in leopard-print squarecuts jumping through hoops, perching on stools, and leaping on barrels.

Sheila had proved to be the most glamorous lion tamer anyone had ever seen. She professed not to be too concerned about the risk I was taking with her million-dollar overbite, since several animal trainers were on hand to make sure nothing went awry. In fact, she'd been a real sport, considering that in the past week I'd had her dangling from a cliff then surrounded by potentially dangerous animals.

If anything, she was less enthralled by the Virgo ads. When she heard that she would be dressed as Marie Antoinette, she was sure my plan involved a guillotine. Just to prove that I wasn't always jeopardizing her life, the worst thing I inflicted on her was two hours in a corset, repeating the line, “The revolution was written in the stars by Zodiac,” for the taped ads.

I was exhausted from traveling and didn't need an astrologer to tell me that a hot shower and a massage from the healing hands of Gavin were in my future. When I finally got to my apartment, my keys jingling as I started to unlock the door, it flew open and I was nearly bowled over by Violet.

“Welcome home,” Gavin said. “Violet was just showing me what she thinks I could wear to the Lillith Allure party.”

“I'm also here to drop off the contact sheets from the shoot in Colorado. They're in the FedEx envelope on the kitchen counter. Gotta run.” Violet waved at Gavin, then me, and whooshed down the hall.

I walked inside and decided that my massage would have to wait. I found the envelope and pulled out the contact sheets, losing myself in my work.

 

Two weeks later, our limo pulled up to the entrance of Lillith Allure Cosmetics' new location on Twenty-sixth Street. I was gratified by the turnout of reporters and photographers lining the red carpet leading into the lobby. It felt more like a movie premiere than an office's grand opening because we'd strategically leaked the names of celebrities who would be making appearances—Sheila not among the least famous.

The driver opened the door to let us out. I looked at Sheila and Josh, wondering which of us should exit first. Sheila gave me a soft boot with her left foot. I stood, helped Gavin out, then we waited for Sheila and Josh before making our way to the door. We paused occasionally, just long enough to be blinded by the flashes of photographers leaning over velvet ropes to get shots for the society and style sections of their papers or magazines. As we headed for the door, Sheila worked the carpet like a seasoned pro, trailing behind to answer questions in ad-libbed sound bites.

“Who are you wearing?”

“My fiancé, Josh Clinton,” she said, which garnered laughter from the paparazzi. “Dolce and Gabbana. They design all my clothes for the Zodiac ads.”

“Is it true that you're leaving Metropole?”

“I'm also wearing Gemini, by Zodiac. Which means I'm unpredictable.”

“How do you feel about Lillith Allure moving their headquarters to New York? Is this a sign of better things to come?”

“It'll certainly cut down on my commuting time to the office,” Sheila joked. “Our demographic research shows us that New York women love the Zodiac line. So it's like coming home.”

“Did you pitch snake oil in your last life?” I murmured.

“You'd have to ask Lillith,” Sheila said, with one last brilliant smile for the cameras before we went inside.

When we reached our floor, one of the security guards ushered us to the back entrance, which led to a VIP lounge that was lined with plush sofas and velvet upholstered chairs. We had a stunning view of upper Manhattan and the Hudson River.

Lillith and Frank greeted us warmly and introduced us to a few of the other people in the lounge. Almost the entire cast of a popular sitcom sat around a small table, chatting and laughing. They had come because the four women on the show used Zodiac products during taping.

“I think I'll find Violet. Hopefully she isn't working,” I said to no one in particular.

I was excused with nods as the others headed for the bar. I found Violet listening to the lighting designer explain how he'd gotten his light show to work. The ceiling of the office had been transformed into a nighttime sky with projectors and lasers. Twelve constellations traveled in a circular pattern around the room.

“Isn't this amazing?” Violet asked, staring into “space.”

“You did a fantastic job organizing it,” I said, truly pleased with how everything looked. The caterers were dressed in tuxedos and bustled about refilling drinks and carrying trays of delectable hors d'oeuvres.

I offered my arm to Violet, determined to make her relax. I stopped a passing server and ordered her a drink. Just then, something out of place caught my eye.

“Who's that?” I asked, pointing to a woman I didn't recognize.

“Between Lillith's, Frank's, and your invitee list, I can't possibly put a face to every name. I have no idea,” Violet said.

The woman in question had long, curly blond hair framing her triangular face. She wore wire-rimmed glasses and lipstick too dark for her pale complexion. I identified it as Aries; she needed Libra. Lillith would not be pleased. The woman's black dress fell clumsily over her plump body and spilled onto the floor in a pool of sequins and lace.

“Let me go introduce myself. Care to join me?” I asked, trusting that Violet's photographic memory would recall the name and ascertain whether or not the woman was a party crasher.

Our quarry held a cosmopolitan, which she passed back and forth between her hands. She was standing outside a circle of men and women who were chatting joyfully, not seeming to notice her as she shifted in her obviously uncomfortable shoes. I saw her gaze dart toward us as we approached.

“Hello,” I said cheerfully, not wanting to scare her if she happened to be an acquaintance of Frank's or Lillith's. “Are you enjoying yourself this evening?”

“Yes, I am. It's a magnificent event. You're Blaine Dunhill, aren't you?” she asked in a Spanish accent. This only made me more suspicious, and judging from the look on Violet's face, she was ready to pounce.

“Yes. May I introduce my assistant, Violet Medina, Ms.—?” I paused for a response, which came a second too late for my liking.

“Mrs. Vallejo. Regina Vallejo.”

Violet's face lit up, a smile breaking from ear to ear as she launched into a flow of quickly moving Spanish.

The woman stared at Violet blankly, and as she tossed her blond hair over her right shoulder, I saw something that looked like a wire leading into her black sequined handbag. Violet's Spanish litany came to an abrupt end with an injection of English.

“. . . no recording devices.”

Violet reached out and yanked the handbag from the woman's shoulder, which caused the wire to rip out the side seam of her dress, sending sequins flying. The woman dropped her cosmo and attempted to reclaim her bag, but ended up tripping on her hem. She caught herself before falling, and her wig shifted to reveal a shock of bright red hair. I recognized her immediately.

“If it isn't our favorite gossip columnist, Lola Listeria,” I said with a smile and waved Gavin over. “Please escort this woman off the premises and confiscate all contraband cameras and recording devices.”

“Sure,” Gavin said in a deep, don't-fuck-with-me voice. Lola glared at Violet as Gavin led her away.

“I knew that wasn't Mrs. Vallejo,” Violet said. “Mr. and Mrs. Vallejo are in Buenos Aires and sent their regrets. That stupid bitch, thinking she could fool me with her fake Spanish accent.”

“Good work, Jackie Brown. Let's get back to the real guests.” I turned as I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“What was that about?” Frank asked.

“That was Lola Listeria, party crasher,” I said.

“I'm glad you got her out of here before Sheila spotted her. Our model might have learned a thing or two from those lions.”

“Believe me, those lions were docile compared to Sheila on a rampage,” I said, bending to scratch Rowdy's ears. “How's this one liking Manhattan?”

“He prefers Riverside Park, but Washington Square Park is closer to the office, so he's adjusting. Have you found a new apartment yet?” I was surprised that he remembered I'd been thinking of moving, and shook my head. Violet made a strange noise. Frank looked at her and said, “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Violet answered and added, “Excuse me.”

“She never stops working,” I said as we watched her walk away.

“Like her boss,” Frank said. “Now that you're a couple of months ahead of schedule, I hope you're planning to take some time off.”

“Men's line,” Lillith spoke behind us. Rowdy whimpered, expressing the feeling that must have shown on my face. “It's deplorable that you've trained that dog to react to me this way.”

“I swear it's his genuine response,” Frank said, trying not to smile.

“Hmmm,” Lillith answered. “It's not as if I'm asking you to create the products, Blaine, the way Frank did before the merger. You only have to develop a brilliant ad campaign. In two weeks.” My mouth dropped open, and she whinnied with laughter. “Mercury goes retrograde in June, so your window of opportunity will be between mid-July and mid-October. I expect to be advertising before the end of the year.”

“Perfect,” Frank said. “After Sheila's wedding, you can use my cabin at Lake Geneva for a working vacation and please both of your bosses.”

I decided not to blurt out the first words that came to mind: Lyme disease. I had two months to find a plausible way out of an adventure in the great Wisconsin outdoors.

“It sounds perfectly dreadful to me,” Lillith said. “Be that as it may, I came over here to steal Frank.
Entertainment Tonight
wants to interview us with Sheila. Excuse us, Blaine.”

They walked away, and I was left alone. From my vantage point, I could see Lillith and Frank being positioned in front of a display of Zodiac products while lights were adjusted around them. Sheila was introducing Josh to the
ET
correspondent in front of TV cameras.

I scanned the crowd of guests and saw Gavin and Violet on the opposite side of the room. Gavin plucked a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and handed it to Violet. She laughed at whatever he said to her, tucking her hair behind her ear when it fell into her face. The gesture was light and carefree. I was glad she was finally loosening up and having fun. A photographer stopped to take a picture of her, and I smiled when I saw her point to the bar, where the real Jennifer Lopez stood.

I went to the men's room, relieved to be away from the frenzy of the party. I opened my cell phone and hit a button.

“You can't be bored already,” Gretchen said when she answered.

“I have no witty rejoinder, so I must be,” I said. “What are you doing?”

“I'm looking at my ankles. I think they're beginning to swell.”

“You're not even six weeks pregnant. It's not possible.”

“I know my body. We've been cursed with each other for years. Wanna come over and watch Barbara Stanwyck movies with me?”

“That sounds more like Dyke Night than Gay Day. Try again.”

“Wanna come over and watch my ankles swell?”

I laughed and said, “I thought you'd never ask. I hope it's not wrong of me to skip out of my party.”

“You don't own the company. It's not your party,” Gretchen said. “Besides, what's a work-related function for, but to slip out early?”

“It's a cool party. But . . .” I stopped to properly word what I was thinking. “Is it stupid of me to say that ever since we got pregnant, I've been realizing how superficial my job can be?”

“It's not stupid,” Gretchen assured me. “It's sweet, actually. I'm discovering that the whole world is pretty damn superficial when you get pregnant. My ankles, however, are not superficial. You're really missing out. Get over here.”

When I arrived at Gretchen's, I was surprised that her “mother gene” had kicked in at full force so quickly. She took my coat, offered me tea, and practically forced me to sit down, all within a matter of minutes, despite my protests that she should relax and let me fend for myself. Of course she got her way, but we met halfway once we sat down with a cup of chamomile. Gretchen lay back on her sofa, and I sat down on the floor next to her, not caring about my tuxedo. She caught me staring at her and said, “You want to touch my belly, don't you?”

“I know it's silly, but—”

“It's not. But for someone with body issues, the idea of everyone wanting to touch your stomach . . .” She shuddered and cringed, wrinkling her face like a child who was just offered Brussels sprouts. “However, I guess I have to get used to the idea. Go ahead.”

She stared at the ceiling, which I took as my cue to put my hand on her stomach. Physically, I felt nothing, of course. But inside, my emotions were milling around and colliding like bumper cars. I looked up at Gretchen and found her staring at me with an expectant gaze.

“This is incredible,” I said. “I feel so excited. Not to mention scared, thrilled, proud, and kind of nauseated.”

“You should feel it from this side,” Gretchen said. She put her hand over mine and added, “But it's going to be good. I know this isn't the way either of us planned on becoming a parent.”