No Need to Ask (3 page)

“Good! You talk to her and then we’ll burn off her hair,” Trudy said excitedly. “Or at have a bonfire of her extensions.”

“No.” Jillian looked over at wadded-up magazine. “Well… maybe.”

Three

Jillian held out her arm so Trudy could slip a wide, oxidized silver cuff onto her left wrist. Behind her, Valerie, Maisy’s hairstylist and makeup artist, finished back combing Jillian’s hair and was fastening it into a messy, low chignon at the back of her neck.

“You look great—tough, sexy.” Trudy held a pair of dangly earrings up to Jillian’s impassive but beautifully-made-up face.

“Not those. Never wear long or hoop earrings to a girl fight,” Valerie said as she gave her work a quick blast of Elnett hairspray.

“We’re not going to rumble,” Jillian said. “We’re going to have a discussion.”

“That bitch deserves a beat down of the first degree,” Valerie said as she sprayed her own spiky bleached hair before setting the can aside. “I mean it. What she did to you is a betrayal of biblical proportions.”

“I’m not sure it’s that bad,” Jillian protested.

“
InStyle
is her bible,” Trudy agreed. “Just hit her once. For us.”

Valerie pointed the sharp end of a rattail comb toward the studio where the crew was milling around, waiting for Maisy to emerge from her dressing room. “You’ll be a folk hero.”

Jillian shook her head. “We’re just going to talk. She knows what she did was wrong and I’m willing to give her a chance to make it right.”

“Whatever happens, you should keep this look,” Trudy said. “It suits you.”

Jillian stared at herself in the mirror. Dressed in all black, sleek, form-fitting pants, a long-sleeved knit top and simple unadorned leather ballet flats, Jillian looked like a particularly chic cat burglar. Her eyes were heavily lined with black liner so they looked an almost unearthly shade of gray instead of their usual dark hazel. Valerie had painted her lips the perfect shade of deep matte red—“The color of dried blood,” as she’d put it—but had kept her cheeks bare.

Valerie gathered the hairspray, dry shampoo, a comb and the makeup she’d used into a tote bag and handed it to Jillian. “Now you have no excuse not to.”

“I look pretty, but scary. Do men like that?” Jillian wondered aloud.

“They say they don’t, but they do,” Trudy answered as she nixed the earrings and left Jillian’s own small diamond studs in place. “Now march into that dipshit’s dressing room and demand justice.”

Jillian stood up and walked out of the make-up trailer. At the closed door of Maisy’s dressing room, she hesitated. Jillian had set the meeting through Maisy’s main assistant to make sure she was allotted a full 15 minutes, but for the first time since she’d decided to confront her, Jillian felt unsure.

Jillian had no idea what she could expect from Maisy. There was no chance that Maisy would call up the editors of
InStyle
and tell them “Oops! I sort of forgot to mention I worked with Jillian Winters.”
Jillian couldn’t (and didn’t) want to quit her job over it, but she knew she couldn’t keep silent.

“I’m right, she’s wrong and whatever happens happens,” she said under her breath and gave the door two firm knocks. Almost immediately, it was opened by one of Maisy’s many assistants.

“You’re late,” the young woman hissed. “She’s on the phone. Your 15 minutes starts as soon as she hangs up.”

Jillian nodded and took a seat on a simple, mid-century reproduction chair Jillian had custom upholstered in a silk paisley print that cost as much per yard as a car payment. She looked around Maisy’s sitting room, noticing that nothing had been changed since she’d decorated it the year before.

Maisy had been effusive with her praise, complimenting Jillian’s work on the set, and had asked her to redo her dressing room. With a limited budget, except for the fabric which Maisy had purchased on a whim during a trip to London, Jillian had worked decorating magic. She’d turned a couple of boxy, anonymous rooms into an oasis of livable luxury within the space of a month. When Maisy asked her to redo her new home, Jillian had been quick to say yes, knowing that such a project would expose her work to the upper echelons of Hollywood’s elite.

From the other room, Jillian could hear Maisy’s irate voice as she laid into yet another hapless victim. Despite her resolve to be strong, Jillian gulped.

“I don’t care! And why should I? It’s my perfume and I want that bottle. I saw it first. Listen very carefully: if they want me to put my fucking face on that fucking box, they better give me that fucking bottle and tell fucking Kim Kardashian and her mother that they can kiss my perfectly-formed ass.”

As soon as the phone hit the opposite wall, Jillian watched as the assistant started the clock on her appointment.

“Maisy?” Jillian called out, knowing her presence wouldn’t be announced by the assistant. “It’s me, Jillian.”

There was a moment of silence from the next room before Maisy answered in a voice that sent chills down Jillian’s spine, “Come in.”

The assistant sent Jillian a terrified look. Jillian smiled back at her, rubbed her moist palms on her pants and went in.

****

Jillian sat on an unbalanced—but pleasantly weathered—vintage steel café chair, one of a pair Ives was willing to sell her at cost since the matching table was missing. Or less, he’d offered, to cheer her up. Even the promise of a bargain couldn’t put a dent in her gloomy mood.

Her 15-minute meeting had gone off the rails in that many seconds. Not only had Maisy been unwilling to give Jillian credit for her decorating work, she had even refused to admit that Jillian had ever set foot in her house. She had, though, offered her the use of her Manhattan pied-à-terre for a long weekend during the height of summer in lieu of paying Jillian back for what she owed her.

Jillian glanced up as the bell that hung over the front door jingled. She expected to see Ives returning with coffee and pastries, but instead a tall, dark-haired man strolled in, coming to a stop in front of a table stacked with dinnerware.

Jillian watched, but was able to only catch glimpses of his profile as he picked up one plate after another. Finally, he went back to the first plate with its distinctive watery plaid pattern.

“No, not that one,” Jillian blurted out, unable to help herself. “They’re an uneven set and the pattern is way too bossy for everyday use.”

“Sorry?” he peered over a tall cabinet.

Jillian forced herself to leave the sanctuary of her little corner. “Those plates. I keep telling Ives to put them downstairs, but he has a thing for Vernon Kilns.”

He put the plate back down, his hand hovering over the next stack, but his eyes were squarely on her face, gauging her reaction. He moved to the next set, stopping when Jillian smiled.

“Wellsville. Sturdy, classic restaurant china,” she said as she came closer to point out the light green bands on the rim of the plate. “And, I happen to know, Ives has a full set that’s never been used.”

“Sounds good to me.” He switched the plate from his right to his left hand and held his hand out for her to shake. “Ethan Marshall.”

“Jillian Winters.” She looked into his dark blue eyes and felt her heart lurch in her chest. “I don’t mean to be pushy. If you like the Vernon Kilns, feel free to buy them.”

“I trust your judgment. You’re the expert,” he smiled, revealing a dimple on the side of his wide, sensual mouth. “I just bought a loft. Downtown. I don’t exactly know what I’m looking for.”

“Oh. Well, it can be confusing at first,” Jillian said, trying to get her bearing. He was tall, lean, with short, dark hair and the deepest blue eyes she’d ever seen. “But everything is laid out in sections. Housewares are here, front of the shop, accessories around the periphery, work and dining furniture in the middle, living and bedroom stuff in the back. What are you looking for?”

“Everything. Aside from a couch that’s seen better days, it’s empty,” Ethan said in a rush, stumbling adorably over his admission.

“That sounds horrible,” Jillian said without hesitation. Something inside her told her that this guy could put up with being made fun of.

“It is,” he said with a smile.

Jillian nodded. “So you’re shopping for everything from plates to artwork?”

“I have artwork, stacked against a wall along with more than a few unpacked moving boxes,” he said as he ran his left hand through his hair. Jillian’s heart skipped a beat when she noticed it was thoroughly and wonderfully free of a wedding ring or the hint of a tan line from one. “I’m not too proud to admit that I’ve been putting it off for a while and it took a very good friend of mine getting me to come here to do something about it.”

“It can be a lot of work—especially if you’re doing it on your own,” Jillian said, hoping she wasn’t being too obvious. Just because he wasn’t wearing a ring didn’t mean he didn’t have a girlfriend.

“It’s just me, and if it wasn’t for you, I would have gone home with those plaid dishes and never thought twice about it,” Ethan smiled. “Truth is, my ex-wife kept the house and most everything in it. But, in her defense, she did do all the work in making it look great.”

“Oh. Well, maybe she can help you decorate your new place?” Jillian asked, crossing her fingers for luck behind her back.

“Not likely. She’s thousands of miles away and married to the kind of guy who wouldn’t like her helping me choose sheets and towels.”

Jillian looked up as Ives entered the store bearing lattes and sticky buns. He stopped short, smiled at Jillian, then quickly retreated to the backroom.

“Uh,” Jillian said trying to think of something witty (but not desperate) to say about how happy she was that his ex was well out of the picture.

“Do you think you could help me? I’d be more than happy to work around your hours,” Ethan said, the slightest bit of uncertainty creeping into his voice.

Jillian felt a surge of warmth spread through her chest at this sign of vulnerability and decided to not ruin the moment by telling him she didn’t actually work at Habitat.

“My schedule is kind of crazy, but I could help you out this weekend,” she said, feeling bolder with each word.

“Perfect,” Ethan said, looking visibly relieved. “We should have a meeting. Are you free for dinner tonight?”

 “I am,” Jillian smiled.

****

Jillian sat on her bathroom vanity, her feet in the sink so she could lean into the mirror. Her first attempt at recreating smoky eyes had failed and she was trying again with texted directions from Valerie.

“Jillian?” Trudy called from the living room.

“In here!” She carefully smudged the kohl liner on her left eye so it matched her right.

Trudy walked in dragging a tote bag jammed with shoes along with an overstuffed garment bag. “I brought everything. Maisy’s on a press junket until Monday. Not that she’d notice if anything was gone. I figured we may as well make the best of raiding her closet.”

Jillian swung her long legs back onto the floor. “It’s just one date. I mean, not a date, a dinner meeting.”

“Right. Then you’re going furniture shopping tomorrow, and to the Rose Bowl flea market on Sunday.” Trudy took her chin in her hands and nodded her approval of Jillian’s eye make-up. “What do you plan on wearing then? Not your regular clothes. God, no.”

“I spend most of my day in dusty storage rooms with a hammer in my hand. I can’t exactly prance around in designer outfits.” Jillian’s frown quickly dissipated as she unzipped the garment bag. “Oh, a leather pencil skirt! I didn’t know they made such a thing.”

“The Row,” Trudy said. “It’ll make your ass look twice as good as what the sucker cost.”

Jillian stood back as Trudy quickly put an outfit together. She paired the skirt with a trimly cut black blazer and a gunmetal gray silk sleeveless halter-neck top.

“Put that on,” Trudy said, immediately starting on outfits for Saturday and Sunday. “Shoes, once I see the whole look.”

Jillian dropped her robe, having made sure to wear her best bra and panty set, and wiggled her hips into the skirt.

“So? Tell me about him.” Trudy’s fast, deft hands zipped up zippers and buttoned buttons.

“He’s a restaurant investor so he travels around the country, but he’s settled on Los Angeles as his home base,” Jillian said, starting with the basics before telling Trudy what she really wanted to know. “He’s gorgeous, smart, good sense of humor. Decent taste, or at least, open to it. And he has an American Express Black Card.”

“If he likes you, he has excellent taste,” Trudy said as she fussed with the blouse.

“Hold on. This is a design job,” Jillian admonished.

“You keep telling yourself that,” Trudy snorted.

“Am I really doing this?” she asked both herself and Trudy. “I don’t do things like this.”

“What? Pick up a man while pretending to be a shop girl?” Trudy handed Jillian a pair of black patent pointy Jimmy Choo pumps. “Or wear thousands of dollars of someone else’s clothes on dates with that man?”

“All of the above.” Jillian smiled, knowing she shouldn’t feel quite so proud of herself.

Four

Jillian watched as the valet maneuvered her grey Subaru Forester between a gleaming black Ferrari whose tires were probably worth more than the sum total of her practical SUV and a subtle, by comparison, silver Mercedes convertible.

At least I washed it, Jillian thought. Only in Los Angeles would she have to apologize for the normal-ness of her car.

She walked toward the front door of Alimente, Ethan’s new restaurant. As she passed the large plate glass windows she noticed every pair of eyes swiveled toward her as patrons tried to figure out if she was someone. When they realized she wasn’t anyone in particular, they went back to their conversations.

Whatever, she thought. I don’t know who you are, either… except for you, Justin Timberlake and Jessica Biel. Jillian paused as she reached for the restaurant door. She could see Ethan, his tall, lean frame near the bar, and her heart quickened. But there was also something else that made her pull her hand back from the spotless glass door.