Reality TV Bites (17 page)

“Rory! What are you talking about?”

“Don't worry, Allie. The Force is with me.”

I sigh. Sometimes I'm not altogether sure whether Rory is living on this planet or a galaxy far, far away.

Rory drops me off at her place and comes back two hours later with my
pajamas, my toothbrush, and a pizza. She tells me she got into my house “undetected” and not to worry. If she'd quit saying things like “shield generator,” “endangering the mission,” and “undetected,” maybe I wouldn't worry.

I don't think I'll be able to sleep, but I pretty much pass out as soon as my head hits the pillow. I don't move until Rory comes in, sits on the bed, and says, “Allie?”

I crack one eye open. “What time is it?”

“After ten.”

“Hmm.” I close my eyes again.

“Allie, something bad happened.”

My eyes snap open. “Was it another of your missions?”

She shakes her head, and I notice she's holding the newspaper.

“More about the lawsuit or me getting fired in the paper?”

She shakes her head again.

“Then what?” I sit up and push the hair out of my face. I hold my hand out, but she doesn't hand the paper over right away.

“Did you go to a fashion show for”—she glances at the paper—“Cara St. Loren?”

“It's Ciara, and yes. Why?”

“Were there any photographers there?”

“Probably. Why?”

“I think it might be bad.”

“Give me the paper.” I hold my hand out again. Rory hesitates. I scramble to my knees. “Give me the paper!”

She hands it over and I stare at the picture on the front page. It's me and Nicolo at the fashion show. The picture is grainy and slightly unfocused, but there's no question his hand is between my legs. I don't move. I don't breathe. I don't speak. I just gawk at the picture and wish I were dead.

I force my eyes to the caption beneath: “Prince Nicolo Bourbon-Parma entertains Chicago socialite Allison Holloway.”

“Allison, are you okay?”

“Am I dead?” I croak.

“No,” Rory says, sounding worried.

“Then I'm not fine.”

She grabs my hand. “Allison, it's not the end of the world.”

I stare at her. “Rory, I was on national TV playing with a gyrating vibrator, I violated my contract, I was fired, and now I'm in the paper with a guy's hand up my skirt. How much worse can it get?”

“The photographer was on TV.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Just now on MSNBC he said he was taking pictures of the models and when he developed them he noticed a pretty face in the background. He blew up that section of the photo, and got this.”

“Bastard. Why didn't you wake me up?”

She shrugs. “I was trying to think how we could fix it.”

“I know how to fix it.” I glance around the room for my cell phone and remember I dropped it on Rory's table. Probably under the box of pizza now. “I'm calling Nicolo and—” I break off as Rory begins shaking her head.

“On CNN the photographer said—”

“He was on MSNBC
and
CNN?”

“Yeah. And, um, he said he offered to sell the photos to Nicolo, figuring the prince wouldn't want a picture like this to come out, but the prince told him to go ahead and print them. He didn't care.”

I jump off the bed. “I'm going to fucking kill him. I'm going to get a corkscrew, shove it in each and every one of his bodily orifices, and screw him!”

“Allie, I don't think—”

“Who the fuck does he think he's dealing with?” I pace the room. Back and forth. Back and forth. “Does he think he'll get away with this? I'm going to skewer him on national TV. I'll call
The Enquirer
and tell them he has a small dick, that he sexually abuses young boys, that he likes to wear women's underwear.”

“Is that true?”

I halt. “No. But neither is it true that I'm a slut who let him feel me up at a fashion show! I bet the reporter didn't mention that one second after that picture was snapped, I got up and walked out. I bet the paper”—I pick it up and throw it
across the room, so the pages fly up and out, settling on the floor and the bed in a heap—“I bet it didn't report that we had a huge argument outside the club, and that I told him he could go fuck himself. No, all you get is me with my legs spread.”

“You can't see anything.”

“That's not the fucking point!”

Rory flinches.

“Oh, God, I'm sorry.” I crawl on the bed and hug her. “I don't mean to yell at you.”

“It's okay,” Rory says, hugging me back. “But that's not all.”

I freeze. How can there possibly be more.

“There was a lady, a Mrs. Chippendale—”

“Mrs. Chippenhall.”

“Yeah. She was on right after the reporter. She's suing your firm for shoddy workmanship. You, in particular, are named in the suit.”

“Oh, my God.” I'd expected something like this from Mrs. Chippenhall, but coming right on top of the rest of it, it's too much to digest. I bolt upright. “What time did you say it was?”

Rory glances at the clock. “It's almost eleven now. Why?”

“I have to drive Grayson to basketball camp. Today is the last day, and there's a big party. If he's not there, the kids will be really upset.”

I start digging through the bag Rory packed for me and pull out a long, black silk skirt and a beaded top. I give her a confused look. “What is this?”

“You said to grab you some clothes.”

“Yeah, but why did you bring this? This is for formal occasions.”

Rory shrugs. “It looked like something you normally wear, and I didn't know what you'd be doing today.”

“Well, I'm not going to a dinner party at the governor's.” I go through the bag again and pull out flip-flops. Red flip-flops from Target with blue Gatorade stains. I stare at them.

“They've got pretty red flowers on the toe strap. I thought they'd look cute,” Rory says.

I nod. Did Dave see the story? Is he thinking he was lucky to get rid of me, that he got off easy with a pair of cheap flip-flops?

“Allie?” Rory says. “Honey, just stay in your pajamas. I'll drive Grayson. You can't go out to the basketball camp.”

“I need to see Grayson.”

“Allie—”

I hold up a hand. “He's my brother, and I need him. Do you have a pair of shorts and a T-shirt I can wear?”

“Sure.”

Twenty minutes later I'm in the car, on the way to the basketball camp. Gray wasn't home, so he must have gotten another ride to the camp. The smart thing to do would be to go back to Rory's, but I can't. I need my big brother. I need to talk to someone who's been through worse than this and made it to the other side. After I see Gray, I'll brave the reporters at home, pack a bag and Booboo, and head for Lake Geneva. I can hide out there until I decide what to do tomorrow and pretty much the rest of my life.

I pull at Rory's T-shirt. It says, “
ANNUAL CREATURES AND FEATURES EXTRAVAGANZA
2004” on the front and “
YEAR OF THE JAWA
” on the back. What the hell is a Jawa? The shirt's too small, so “
CREATURES AND FEATURES
” is stretched across my chest and almost unreadable. The shorts she loaned me are
jean cutoffs she wore in high school. She's outgrown them, but they're still too big for me, and I have to hike them up.

How does Rory buy clothes? She's small and delicate on top and normal-size on the bottom. Come to think of it, she's a better dresser than I'd thought. I'd never even noticed the disproportion.

I decide to take a back road to the camp in case reporters are staking out the main road. It takes a little longer, especially when I realize I've spent half an hour going the wrong way, but I finally recognize an abandoned barn and a small farmhouse. Of course, by then it's almost four and camp's probably already over, but I can't find my way home until I find a reference point.

But the farmhouse is apparently the best I'm going to get because about a half-mile past the farmhouse, my Z4 slows and won't respond when I hit the gas. I shift into neutral and it sort of coasts a bit farther, then sputters and stops. What the—?

I glance at the fuel gauge and want to bang my head on the steering wheel. I'm out of gas. I've been meaning to get some for two days, but every time I think of it, I get fired or am publicly humiliated again.

Okay, time to call in reinforcements. I reach in my red Fendi bag for my cell and pull out three credit cards, a tube of M·A·C's Coconutty lipstick, a piece of gum, a ten-dollar bill, a tube of NARS's Shanghai Express, Great Lash mascara, an emery board, a hairband, a paper clip, and a tape measure.

I pull open the glove compartment and paw through a ring of paint chips, Ralph Lauren sunglasses—oh! I've been looking for these—an old bottle of OPI Redipus Oedipus nail polish, a map of Cleveland—don't ask—and about a dozen condoms. I guess at some point I was feeling optimis
tic. No more. Because my cell phone is sitting under an empty pizza box in Rory's apartment. How could I be so stupid!

Okay, no big deal, I'll walk to the gas station, in the red-flowered flip-flops, and buy gas.

I glance around. Hmm. The odds of a gas station being close don't look favorable. I'm on a gravel road, surrounded by fields and cattle, and the last building I saw was the abandoned barn. Okay, no problem. I can wait until someone drives by and hitch a ride.

To tell the truth, I'm pretty proud of myself. I'm being so calm in the face of all these crises. All is not lost. Someone will drive by any moment.

One hour and four minutes later, I start walking. I'm still not panicking, but I'm starting to feel a little uneasy. In the hour I've been standing on the side of the road, next to my obviously incapacitated vehicle, only two cars have driven by, and neither stopped to help me. Do I look like a serial killer or something? I mean, come on. What are the chances that a woman holding a Fendi bag and standing next to a BMW Z4 convertible on the side of a farm road in Illinois is a serial killer? Like ninety-nine-thousand billion to one?

I take a deep breath, and clutch my friends tightly. Mitsy always says that diamonds are nice, but credit cards are a girl's new best friend. What can't a girl do with MasterCard and Miss Visa?

I don't remember passing any gas stations, so I decide to follow the road until I 1) reach a gas station, 2) reach the camp, or 3) am mauled by an angry cow who doesn't like me trespassing on her field.

An hour later, I'm hot, tired, limping, and pretty sure I'm going to die out here. I don't know if these fields are planted with corn, but I'm starting to imagine all kinds of
Children of the Corn
scenarios as the sun sinks lower. I am so screwed.
No one knows where I am, which in light of recent events should make me happy. The irony is that now I'm so lost, even I can't find me.

I limp to the top of another hill, promising God to send money to orphans or monks or anyone He wants if He'd just make a bottle of water appear. I'd drink tap water at this point. I'd drink blue Gatorade!

At the top of the hill, I stumble from surprise. There's no bottled water, but in the distance I see lights, and I hear music, singing…angels?

Garth Brooks. Well, if God's got friends in low places, then we're in Heaven. Otherwise, I think I've staggered upon the Bait Shop, where Gray, Dave, Cindy!, and I ate a few weeks ago.

I stroll—okay, limp—inside, wave the ten-year-old hostess away, and head straight for the bar on the deck. I distinctly remember seeing someone talking on a phone back there.

The place is more crowded than you'd expect for early evening, even on Saturday, so I have to wriggle through a few people to reach the bartender.

I lean both elbows on the bar and say, “I need water, and I need to use your phone.” My voice is raspy, and all semblance of politeness eked away a couple of miles back with the sole of my right flip-flop.

“Sorry,” the bartender says, barely glancing at me. “Phone's for staff only.”

“I'm staff.”

“Nice try.”

I snort. After what I've been through, he thinks “nice try” is going to faze me? “Hey.” I tap the shoulder of the guy on my left. “Do you want another beer?”

“Uh—okay.”

“Bartender, get this guy another beer. There. I'm staff. Now give me the phone before I—”

A small metal object is thrust in front of my face. I squint and read
Nokia.
Nokia! A cell phone! All is right with the world.

I snatch the cell, turning to pledge undying devotion to the saint who's blessed me with this holy relic, then scream and drop the phone as if it were the key to an eternity spent burning in Hell.

Satan catches the phone before it hits the deck. He grins. “Yeah, I like to scream at this thing sometimes, too.”

“You.”

“Sucks, huh? You thought you were rid of me.”

Dave. Why is Dave here? Oh, of course
Dave
is here. The question is why I'm here, and more important,
how
I got here. Dave holds the phone out to me again.

“Still need to make a call?”

I sink down on a bar stool next to him. “Oh, what's the point?” I put my head in my hands. “I'm tired of trying to hold it together.” I put my forehead on the bar.

“Stu, a margarita for the lady and another beer for me.”

I lift my head. “Just water, please. Three glasses to start.”

“You're a cheap date.”

“Ha-ha.”

He frowns. “I didn't mean it that way. Sorry, I—”

I shake my head. “It's okay. Make fun of me. I'm at the wallowing-in-self-pity phase anyway.” The waiter puts three glasses of water before me, and I down them like a frat boy at a keg party. I slam the last glass on the bar and say, “Another, Stu. Keep 'em coming, buddy.” I feel like laughing, but I'm afraid if I start, I won't be able to stop.