Bittersweet

by Francine Pascal

  The director paused and glanced at the other woman in the room.

  “You’re my last hope to understanding all this,” Elizabeth said, continuing her full-court press. “My sister isn’t talking to me and I can’t find her. The entire family thought she was in rehab, but now we find out she’s out on the loose doing God knows what. I don’t even know where she is. She could be unconscious on the street somewhere. Please. Give me something. My mom has worried herself sick. Literally. You know what it’s like to wait and worry and not know. I don’t know how much time my mother has left. I might not even find Mona before she…” Elizabeth swallowed. “My worst fear is that my mother will die alone, without either of us there.”

  The director glanced over at the other woman, who nodded glumly. Then she leaned forward and typed on her computer’s keyboard. In a second, she’d pulled up Mona Thomas’s file.

  “I’m going to deny I ever told you this, but Mona was only in rehab for eight months two years ago. She left us and said she had no intention of ever coming back.”

  “What was Mona like when she left here?”

  “Defiant. If you’d asked me, I would’ve guessed she’d relapse immediately. She didn’t really buy into the twelve-step program at all, and the therapists wrote notes here that she was conniving and was a compulsive liar. Lying, of course, is a big problem for addicts.”

  “I know.” Elizabeth nodded. “The worst part is that she had such talent.”

  “Talent?” The director looked confused.

  “She was an artist.”

  “Really? We never saw that here. Not at all. We even have special art-therapy sessions with some of our patients. Mona hardly participated and when she did, I wouldn’t say her drawings were very inspired.”

  “That’s surprising.” But not if Robin Platt and Mona Thomas were two different people entirely, Elizabeth realized. And Robin Platt was the real artist and Mona Thomas just stole her identity.

  The more Elizabeth talked to the director, the more she got the impression that Mona Thomas was the woman who was trying to convince the world she was Robin Platt. This was huge.

  But that revelation only created more questions.

  Did the two women know each other? It was a small town. They could have gone to the same school. But why had Mona taken Robin’s identity?

  “Did Mona have any friends she talked to while she was here? Anyone who might know where she is now? I need to track her down. I have to find her.”

  “I can answer that,” Lee Anne said. “She had one visitor who came to see her maybe a couple of times. A young woman about Mona’s age. I think they’d gone to school together.”

  “Do you remember the name?” Elizabeth hoped beyond hope she could connect Mona and Robin. “Was it Robin?”

  Lee Anne appeared thoughtful for a moment as if trying to remember. Elizabeth felt her hope rise.

  “It could’ve been. Honestly, I just don’t recall,” Lee Anne said, shaking her head.

  “Is there a record?”

  “There was, but we don’t keep the paper logs of visitors for more than a year, so we wouldn’t have it anymore.”

  Elizabeth couldn’t help feeling disappointed. A record linking them would help Elizabeth prove the identity theft.

  “Can you tell me what you remember about the girl who visited?”

  “Well, she seemed nice. The one thing I do remember that was unusual was that she was always bringing in drawings to show Mona. She liked to draw clothes, I think, like she was studying to be a designer or something. She was pretty talented.”

  Elizabeth felt a flicker of hope. The girl had to be Robin Platt, the real Robin Platt, the artist. This was starting to come together.

  “What about what she looked like? Can you remember anything?”

  “She had red hair, kind of a boyish cut, even shorter than mine.” She touched her bob.

  “And she didn’t wear any makeup. That much I remember. Honestly, I actually thought she was a boy the first time she came.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Just her build and the way she dressed. I think she was…” Lee Anne’s voice trailed off suddenly, and Elizabeth was sure the left out part had to be “gay.” And she thought about what Robin Platt’s high school boyfriend had said about her. Was she a lesbian after all?

  “Did she have any other friends or visitors?” Elizabeth asked.

  “No, not that I remember,” Lee Anne said. “Sorry I can’t be of more help.”

  “No, this is great. You have no idea how much you’ve helped. Thank you.”

  Elizabeth rushed out of the rehab center to her cab, but by the time she got to the airport, she’d just missed the last flight out to California.

  No matter. She took a cab to a nearby hotel in Lexington. She was too excited to care about missing her flight.

  In her hotel room, she could barely contain her excitement. She had discovered there were two women, Robin and Mona, and the one claiming to be Robin wasn’t Robin. She had to be Mona. Somehow Elizabeth had to prove that. And to do that, she had to find the real Robin Platt.

  But where had she gone? She’d left Richmond, the small Kentucky town where both she and Mona had grown up. She had to have gone somewhere. Elizabeth pulled out her iPad. She mulled over everything she’d discovered this afternoon.

  Where would the real Robin Platt have gone? Not to Los Angeles, Elizabeth thought. Mona wouldn’t have taken the chance of stealing the name of a person who lived close by. That would just be too dangerous.

  Lee Anne said she liked to draw and maybe was studying fashion design. And if she was, the best place to go would be New York.

  Elizabeth Googled “Robin Platt” and “New York” and “designer,” but couldn’t find the redhead she was looking for. She tried “R. Platt, designer,” and instantly, Robert Platt popped up. But he was clearly a man. There was a small write-up in the most recent Fashion Week coverage, mentioning his name. Robert and Robin were the same age and, apparently, both were from Kentucky. Elizabeth was getting more and more excited.

  There were no photos, so she searched Facebook for Robert Platt, the designer. The instant she pulled up the fan page, the puzzle was solved: Robert’s picture showed him, a slight-of-build young man with short-cropped red hair. Despite the hint of a five-o’clock shadow, Elizabeth knew this had to be Robin, a.k.a. Robert Platt.

  The rumors about Robin Platt being a lesbian weren’t exactly right. She was actually a he. Sometime between when she’d left Kentucky for New York and now, she had undergone a sex change and had become Robert Platt.

  Obviously, this was the person she was looking for.

  Elizabeth’s writer’s imagination began to run wild, and she came out with a scenario that was so plausible she was convinced it had to be the truth.

  If Robin Platt in Los Angeles—the alleged attempted rape victim—was really Mona Thomas, the drug addict who had fled rehab and gone to California, she might have found a job working for Warner Gas. The only problem was that her paycheck would never have been enough to finance her habit. She’d have had to look for another way out, like finding someone with money. Nola had talked about her “sleeping with somebody in upper management,” and there was no one higher up than Rick Warner himself.

  Elizabeth knew enough about the natural gas tycoon to know that he liked women. He was always in the gossip columns with good-looking girls. Blondes, usually. And Robin was pretty and young and blond.

  But maybe her addiction had gotten worse and even he couldn’t protect her when her stealing became obvious and habitual. Addicts are reckless, and maybe in the end, he had no choice but to fire her.

  But just suppose it didn’t end there? Warner was such a lowlife; he’d sink to anything to get even with an enemy who happened to be, this time, Bruce Patman. He’d done underhanded things before to destroy his competitors.

  Elizabeth let her mind run with it. Just suppose the attempted rape was a scheme Warner had come up
with to smear Bruce’s reputation. Mona would be his weapon. He knew she had to feed her habit and he had caught her stealing, so he could have turned her in anytime. She was trapped. She would have to do anything he asked.

  The timeline made sense. Mona was fired several months before Bruce was accused of attempted rape. Once Warner put his plan together, there would have been enough time for her to go undercover as an intern at Bruce’s company. That was crucial.

  All she had to do while she was there was to avoid Bruce, which wouldn’t have been hard since he really wasn’t much involved with the interns. There were lots of them and they were always changing. All she had to do was make sure to duck into the ladies’ room or just out of the way when he made his rare visits. She could have been almost certain that he wouldn’t recognize her when she approached him at the bar. That’s when she’d set him up.

  If he recognized her, she’d just walk away. But if he didn’t…

  But why the new name? Why did Mona become Robin?

  Elizabeth knew that Rick Warner was a careful man. He couldn’t take the chance that someone might find her on the books at Warner Gas. As an investigative reporter, she herself could have found that information in a minute—any good reporter could have. And with a little more digging they would have uncovered the drug background, and that would have been the end of Mona’s credibility as an accuser.

  In order for the plan to work, she’d have needed a backstory that was solid and irreproachable. And she’d found it in Robin Platt, her friend from her hometown who had dreamed of going to New York, nice and far away, and becoming a fashion designer. It would have made a perfect cover. And they wouldn’t have had to worry about people finding Robin Platt on Facebook or anywhere else because there was no Robin Platt anymore. Mona knew that Robin had planned to become Robert Platt when she got to New York.

  If that was true, all Mona had to do was take Robin’s name and from there it would be in Warner’s hands. He’d have to come up with some kind of story that would discredit Bruce enough so that he could grab the land back from Patman Social Impact Group. For a man like Warner, who would stoop to any low level to get what he wanted, that part would almost be easy.

  Even though this was all only in Elizabeth’s mind, it made perfect sense.

  That’s it. Elizabeth practically jumped up from the bed. She was certain she had it, but only part of it. She needed more.

  She needed to know how Mona had set up the attack if it had never happened. How did she manage to fake it in a crowded bar, surrounded by other people? How did she even get Bruce into that back room where the attempted rape allegedly happened?

  For a fleeting second, Elizabeth wondered if Bruce, seeing the pretty blonde, had gone willingly.

  She shut out the thought. No, she was done doubting Bruce. Her uncertainty had been the reason she’d lost him in the first place. She’d been so very wrong about Bruce, and it had cost her his love. There had to be another explanation, and she was going to find it.

  From Mona herself. If she had to trick or even threaten her, she would get the truth. And she’d find that bartender, too. He was the only other witness that night. Nothing was going to stop her now.

  She pulled out her phone to text Jessica.

  I REALLY HAVE SOMETHING GOOD HERE. I’VE CONFIRMED WHAT AARON FOUND AND DISCOVERED MORE. NOT A WORD TO ANYONE. I’LL BE HOME BY EARLY AFTERNOON TOMORROW.

  When she got back to Sweet Valley, she’d figure out just how Robin, now Mona, had faked the attack. She’d unearth all the dirty details of the scam Warner had pulled on Bruce. And there would be no holds barred. Down and dirty. No matter what she had to do, she would save Bruce and give him back his life. And maybe he would find it in his heart to forgive her.

  He might even love her again.

  Chapter Four

  “Even the French papers are turning against me,” Bruce Patman said, sighing as he dropped the newspaper on the antique tile coffee table in his villa in the south of France.

  Annie Whitman glanced up at him, worried. “It’s just one column,” she pointed out, even though she, too, had noticed the slight turn of favor in the French media recently. While the French were notorious for forgiving men in power for indiscretions, Bruce’s case had begun to try their patience. Even some French journalists had begun to question whether Bruce was really innocent of attempted rape, and whether France should be so eager to hide America’s alleged criminals.

  “That’s one column, but there are hundreds more online and everywhere else.” Bruce slumped on the couch and put his head in his hands, feeling defeated. Jessica Wakefield, talented as she was, seemed to be losing Bruce’s PR campaign battle back home, too. Not that there was anything she could do as long as Bruce was out of the country. Bruce knew it, too. Annie had been on him for weeks to go home. Only the guilty flee, she said. But, loathe as he was to admit it, he was scared. He was fighting an enemy he couldn’t see with weapons he didn’t have. If he didn’t beat this, he could spend years in jail. And his billions weren’t going to help.

  “Maybe we should talk about going home,” Annie said quietly. “The case is still circumstantial. There are no direct witnesses to the attack and no DNA. The prosecutor’s case is weak.”

  “Even with the problem of ‘guilty men run’?” Bruce asked, quoting the headline of the op-ed piece on the table in the English-language Herald Tribune.

  “We can explain it,” Annie said. “You had urgent business abroad. Something. We can figure it out.”

  “Can we?” Even Bruce was starting to believe his own bad press. How was he going to defend himself in court with his self-confidence this shaken? That’s what scared him the most: Even he couldn’t be a hundred percent sure he didn’t do it, didn’t try to force himself on that girl, his former intern. He’d blacked out and had little to no memory of that night.

  The phone at the villa rang, and Bruce jumped up. Annie could almost see the excitement flicker across his face. She knew why: He thought the call might be from Elizabeth. Only she and Jessica had the number at the villa.

  Despite having officially broken up, Bruce still held on to some hope that there was something left. They’d been in love, deeply, for these last three years. But for him, it had started long before that. It had been years of longing for her and now it was like a piece of his body had been torn off. He missed her so much.

  Bruce leaped to the phone and grabbed it on the second ring. “Hello?” His shoulders slumped in visible disappointment as he heard the voice on the other end. “Oh, Jess. Hi. What’s up?” He could always tell them apart instantly.

  Bruce walked over to the minibar in the room as he shifted the phone, cradling it between his ear and shoulder. He went right for the crystal Scotch decanter and poured himself a generous drink. He raised it to his lips.

  “Hey, Bruce, I know it’s late there and you sound bad. But you’re going to sound great in about ten seconds.”

  “Yeah, right. You’re going to tell me it’s all been a dream.”

  “Not quite, but we may have found the connection.”

  “Robin Platt and Warner?”

  “That’s right.”

  Bruce froze, cocktail in hand. He set it back down on the bar, fearing that he hadn’t heard correctly. “You found something on Robin Platt?” Bruce echoed. In the room, Annie sat up straighter on the couch, all ears, as she watched him intently.

  “It’s too early to say, but we might have something good.”

  Bruce slammed his flat palm down on the bar, making the glasses jump.

  “I knew it! That guy was out to get me. Unbelievable. Elizabeth said that right in the beginning. What is it? Was he paying her to smear me? What?”

  “It’s too early to get into all the specifics, but it looks like she’s not who she said she was at all. I think you really should think about coming back to Sweet Valley. I can’t do anything for you when you’re in hiding.”

  “It’s a risk.” Bruce glanced at Annie. He
ran a frustrated hand through his dark hair. His blue eyes looked troubled as they met Annie’s. “What if it’s too late?”

  “It’s not too late.” Jessica’s voice was firm and determined. “We can fix this.”

  “I’m not so sure anymore.”

  “Just stop being a jerk,” she said in a tone that implied she was only partly kidding. Only Jessica, who’d known him forever, could talk to him like that and not offend. “Come home, Bruce. It’s time.”

  “What if your Warner-Robin lead doesn’t pan out?”

  “It will because you’re innocent and the truth is ready to come out.” Jessica sounded so sure, so confident. Bruce wished he could borrow some of her assurance. There were days when he suspected she believed in him more than he did.

  “You’ve been fabulous, Jessica, and I’m really grateful.” Her loyalty was so unexpected; he only wished she could lend some to her sister. The second that snide thought about Elizabeth entered his mind, he pushed it aside. It was too painful to think about Elizabeth. Too heart-wrenching to think about how easily she’d abandoned him when he needed her most. How could she have betrayed him that way? She’d turned into his enemy, finding Robin Platt and then hiding her. How could she? She was supposed to have loved him. He never would have done that to her.

  “Please come home, Bruce.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Trust me. That’s all I can ask.”

  “Thanks, Jessica. For…everything.”

  “My pleasure,” she said, trying to lighten the conversation. “As long as you know you owe me a week in that villa after you’re acquitted. Annie can’t have all the fun there.”

  “This is not exactly a fun vacation for anybody.” He knew his response was a touch too strong and defensive, but Jessica couldn’t have known why.

  “That’s not what Caroline Pearce thinks.”

  Obviously, from her gossipy response, Jessica had no clue about what had really happened on Annie’s first night in France when Bruce had drunk too much wine. He relaxed, realizing she had to be referring to Caroline’s blog and tweets, her relentless campaign to imply Bruce and Annie were romantically involved. Bruce had read the posts. He couldn’t help reading them since Caroline filled his in-box with them every day. Honestly, the woman needed to get a hobby or adopt a dog or something. She had far too much time on her hands.