by Kylie Adams
* * *
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Just Imagine
Breckin!
I've had the most delicious thought. Why limit ourselves to a ceremony in Fredericksburg? Think about this: How fabulous would a New York wedding be? You would go wild planning it, and it's so much more convenient for me. I'm sure Roman won't mind. Let's discuss.
Air Kisses, Kiki
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Chapter Three
The telephone jangled violently.
Who on earth? And why at this ungodly hour? Kiki stirred, spewing curses in a low growl as she fumbled for the receiver. But first she squinted to make out the clock. A few minutes past nine. What kind of barbarian would dare to call now? As if everyone lived by a farmer's crack-of-dawn schedule.
"This better be an emergency," Kiki croaked instead of hello.
"I'd say the end of your career in New York qualifies as one."
Kiki rose with a start, recognizing the voice instantly. It belonged to Sarah Ann Duckworth, the Birmingham, Alabama debutante turned Manhattan publicist. But forget transplanted sweet Southern girl. In this case, long-lost Soprano child rang with more truth.
"And if you expect any help with damage con-trol," Sarah Ann went on, "then I suggest that you pay your overdue bill."
"What are you talking about?" Kiki asked, feigning ignorance about all of it when she really was only clueless about half. In all honesty, she had been thinking about Sarah Ann's recent invoice (the one with deadbeat! scribbled across it in red Sharpie) while the girl at Stella McCartney had been ringing up the eight-hundred-dollar blouse.
"I'm talking about a public image holocaust!" Sarah Ann shrieked. "I would rather explain why you pushed an old blind woman in front of a bus than this!"
Kiki paused to consider the situation. It could very well be that Sarah Ann Duckworth had bipolar disorder. Oprah had done a whole show about it. Hmm. If this proved to be true, then Sarah Ann could hardly be an asset to Kiki's career.
Beep.
Oh, thank God for call-waiting. The perfect escape chute for unpleasant interruptions or boring conversations. "That's my other line, Sarah Ann. I'll have to call you back."
Click.
But before Kiki could get so much as the "H" in hello out, Suzi-Suzi was screaming bloody murder, then asking, "Are you dying? You must be dying. I would be so dying. At least it's not a bad picture, though. I mean, you look great."
"What are you talking about?" Kiki demanded. And this time, she really had no idea.
"You haven't seen it?"
"Seen what?"
"Oh, God," Suzi-Suzi said, her voice down an octave. "Uhyou shouldn't be alone when you see it. I'm coming over there. But whatever you do; don't go out and buy the New York Post . Promise me you won't. Promise !"
"I promise," Kiki said earnestly. So the first thing she did as soon as Suzi-Suzi hung up was shove her feet into a pair of Uggs, toss on her Hello Kitty terry cloth robe, and race downstairs to the newsstand on the corner.
From several feet away Kiki saw it. Almost instantly, her stomach dropped. And then a sense of personal doom settled somewhere in her gut and threatened to stay.
HOME WRECKER!
Those two words were stacked on the front page of the New York Post , each offending letter billboard big. To the immediate right was a photograph of Kiki between Tom Brock's legs, looking like she had graduated Phi Beta Kappa from Lewinsky University.
Kiki just stood there in a foggy tableau, as if watching the scene outside of herself. Slowly, she reached out for the tallest stack to touch one of the tabloids, if only to prove it real. And the smudge of newsprint that stained her fingertips provided the answer: Oh, hell, yes.
She slapped down two dollars, grabbed a copy, and started back to her apartment as she read. The photo caption alone infuriated her: "Washed-up soap starlet Kiki Douglas makes a desperate play for Tom Brock, New York's very own young Sinatra." Kiki could feel a flush of red heat start up at her neck and move to her cheeks, which were burning. Washed-up soap starlet ? First of all, she was hardly washed up. Her career was merely in a period of transition. And what's this about a desperate play ? Please. Not that she was even trying to offer one, but the fact is that she gave a very good blow job. Any man should be quite happy to get one from her. Even Tom Brock!
Ripping through the paper to get to the story, she found the rest of it a few turns over, basically a single column running down the page, accompanied by publicity shots of her (a nice one, actually; she was wearing a Pucci halter), Tom, and Kirsten. Not much there as far as information goes. It was all vague speculation about what might or might not be an affair. Pretty boring and pointless, actually. Even the most gullible moron would have thought so.
Kiki continued to read. All of a sudden, she halted. How did they discover her real age? Damn those tabloid hacks! Now she couldn't go ahead with plans for her thirtieth birthday party. Still consumed with every image and syllable, she found her way back inside her apartment as if by muscle memory alone.
The telephone blasted Kiki away from her private Mars. Like a zombie, she moved to answer. All she did was pick up. Not even an intake of breath.
And Suzi-Suzi shouted, "I knew you would go down and grab the first paper you saw! I called Danni. She's on three-way. I think. I'm always screwing that up. Either hanging up on someone when I want them on the line, or not hanging up when I want to gossip about them. Danni, are you there?"
"I'm here. Don't panic, Kiki," she offered soothingly. "The morning's scandal is the afternoon's fish paper."
"And what's the old saying? Oh, yeah. There's no such thing as bad publicity," Suzi-Suzi put in.
"Everybody's going to know that I'm really thirty-four," Kiki whined.
"What? That's crazy. They didn't say anything about your age," Suzi-Suzi said. One beat. "Oh, you're right. There it is. Well, don't worry. At least it's buried in the article. Hardly anybody will notice. Most people just look at the pictures. I only read the whole thing because you're my best friend."
"Nobody is going to pay attention to this," Danni went on. "There's nothing to this story. It must be a really slow news day."
Kiki gasped. "Are you saying that I'm not a worth-while scandal queen?" Almost worse than the public humiliation would be the prospect of boring the public. After all, at the end of the day, Kiki considered herself an entertainer.
"No!" Danni and Suzi-Suzi exclaimed in perfect unison.
"You're a great scandal queen," Suzi-Suzi assured her. "Way better than, say, Amber Frey. I mean, has she ever heard of Google? That's how I found out Chad was married. I just Googled him. Come on. You don't have to be Nancy Drew."
"What we mean," Danni added, "is that there's no meat on this bone. It's an innocent situation completely blown out of proportion. If it lasts longer than this morning's news cycle, then I'll choreograph a dance to 'Two of Hearts' by Stacey Q. And you know how much I hate that song."
Suzi-Suzi started singing, " 'Two of hearts two hearts that beat as one.'" Then she sighed. "I used to love that song! Whatever happened to her?"
"Girls!" Kiki scolded them. "Would you shut up about Stacey Q already? I'm the one with the problem. Focus!"
"Sorry," Suzi-Suzi murmured. "Do you want us to come over?"
Kiki thought about it. "No, I'm fine." Her stomach did a low rumble. "God, I'm starving. Do you realize that I haven't eaten a thing since lunch yesterday?
And there's not a speck of food in this apartment. I think there might be a jar of jam in the fridge, but I have no idea how old it is."
"So go to the market," Danni suggested. "That will help take your mind off things."
Kiki sighed miserably. "Ugh. That's too much trouble. I'd have to go there, pick everything out, haul everything back I'm exhausted just thinking about it. I'll just pop in somewhere for an egg white omelet." She said her goodbyes, signed off, tossed on a Krista Allen SexBrand tee emblaz
oned with the phrase you were never my boyfriend, squeezed into distressed denim cutoffs, slipped on the nearest available pair of Manolo Blahniks, and hit the door.
"There she is!"
Kiki heard this the moment her expensive shoe hit the sidewalk. She glanced up to see a gaggle of photographers positioned in front of her building. Right away she regretted not putting any makeup on. God! All she wanted was an omelet! Hmm. Note to self: Maybe you don't want to be as famous as Jennifer Aniston. But you do want her hair.
"Are you in love with Tom Brock?" The question came from a sweaty man with bad acne.
Kiki ignored him and started down the sidewalk. Honestly! The idiot needed a lesson in priorities. Shouldn't he be more concerned with ordering a trial package of Proactiv Solution?
"Why are you going after a married man with a young family?" It was a female voice this time. Probably the butch-looking girl with sideburns growing down her face.
Kiki walked on imperviously, never once looking back, doing her best to pick up the pace without coming off as frantic.
"How much did the plastic surgeon charge for those tits?"
Kiki stopped cold, spinning angrily to see a short, balding Danny DeVito look-alike smirking at her as he snapped off several shots. She stood there in a state of horrified silence, wondering how these vultures found out about her boob job. She had them done in Brazil. And everybody had always assumed they were real. Even her last boyfriend, Mike Jovie, a real estate developer and self-proclaimed connoisseur of breasts, was completely fooled by the teardrop implants. Ugh! Her real age. Now the truth about her breasts. Why not just film her next visit to the gynecologist and be done with it?
Suddenly, Kiki felt the impact of the personal invasion. She experienced a tight fight-or-flight sensation. So as any sensible woman would do when faced with the same set of circumstances, she slipped off her Manolos and sprinted down the sidewalk, pedicure be damned. She had to get away from these pigs.
Thank God for all those spinning classes. And designer sample sales. All that pedaling and dashing about had really whipped her into great shape. Kiki commanded a quick lead, but the paparazzi gained on her fast. For people who looked like they lived on Krispy Kremes and Coke Classic, they sure could move.
Just ahead, Kiki saw a cab jerk to a stop. Out stepped a distinguished woman who looked at Kiki's bare feet as if she were a refugee from one of those countries that's impossible to spell.
Kiki tumbled inside and found herself momentarily paralyzed by the driver's body odor. Beyond awful. She wanted to suggest a new super-strength time-release deodorant. This worked for Adam, a writer friend whose fiancee broke up with him over his odor problem. Of course, this happened before the new deodorant hit the market, and by then she had met someone else. Now she was married and lived in a great apartment in the West Village. Poor Adam! Him. Mental note to include this story in the book. An important object lesson about proper grooming.
For now, Kiki just told the stinky man to drive.
He demanded to know where because his shift was about to end, and if it was too far, then she'd have to get out.
What a horrible attitude! She decided to keep the deodorant tip a secret. Kiki thought for a moment. Where to go? Suddenly, it dawned on her. In all of yesterday's hurly-burly, she really didn't get a chance to see all that Stella McCartney had to offer. A little shopping should help curb the morning's anxiety. She announced the boutique's address.
Obviously it was close enough, because the driver took off.
Kiki fired up her cellular and got Suzi-Suzi on the line pronto. Luckily, the girl was always sitting by the phone hoping that her modeling agency might call. In the middle of Kiki's story about being chased by ugly people with bad diets, Suzi-Suzi halted her to say, "That's not even the half of it."
Kiki blanched. There was more ? "What do you mean?"
Suzi-Suzi sighed. "Radio is all over the story. DJs are ripping you to pieces, and listeners are calling in to say you're a skank. You know that show with the shock jock who's always prank-calling his mother?"
"Stevie G?" Kiki asked.
"Yeah," Suzi-Suzi said. "By the way, that's so cruel. I mean, she's got Alzheimer's! Anyway, he's been the worst. But don't worry. I called in and defended you on the air. I told him that you were just like other women in the city. You wanted to sleep with Tom Brock, but you haven't. He sort of twisted my words around, though, so I'm not sure if I helped or if I made things worse."
Kiki sat there totally perplexed. A simple charm falls off her bracelet, and it had come to this. Suddenly, a sobering realization hit her. The public's love affair with Tom and Kirsten was not to be underesti-mated. What if they turned her into the next Monica Lewinsky? Of course, she would be considered a thinner, beautiful version. But they still might feed her to the wolves faster than you can say "Gap dress!"
The cab stopped in front of Stella's shop.
Kiki swung out in a funk but was soon levitated by the environment of upscale retail. Way better than nature. What can a babbling brook do other than make you think that you have to go to the bathroom?
The same bitchy salesgirl was there. Only this time she stared daggers at Kiki and traded contemptuous looks with another associate on the floor.
Kiki ignored them and began to browse the racks.
Then the newer girl walked over to snappishly announce, "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Your business is not welcome here."
Kiki was appalled. "Excuse me?"
The girl nodded to the security guard. "Let's not cause a scene."
At first Kiki couldn't believe it, but then the burly man in full cop gear took a menacing step toward her, so she stepped out onto the sidewalk and just stood there, stupefied.
Suddenly, the screeching of brakes startled her. Kiki looked up to see an SUV being driven by one of those disgusting photographers. He gave her a creepy smile and aimed his big protruding lens at her as if she were fresh kill.
Kiki dashed off, doing her best to lose him while still staying on the fashionable end of the Meat Packing District. After all, one scandal was enough for the day. So she stayed south of Fourteenth Street, ducking in and out of the crossroads of Little West Twelfth Street, Gansevoort Street, and Greenwich Street. Having successfully eluded him, she sought refuge inside a discreet-looking building.
Once inside, she took in the mood lighting, sumptuous furnishings, and romantic ambiance, instantly realizing where she wasAffair, the swanky new hotel that everybody was talking about. Kiki rolled her eyes, the irony not lost on her. Here she was seeking sanctuary at Affair because people were chasing her for an affair she wasn't having. Could there be anything more ridiculous?
Kiki moved to nestle into a discreet spot in the cozy lobby only to find a couple locked in a passionate canoodling session. " Please ," Kiki snapped. "You're in a hotel. Get a room already."
But the kissing thundered on.
Kiki sank down into a love seat nearby to call Suzi-Suzi and fill her in on the latest. "I feel like a hunted animal. These photographers are like bloodhounds. And they kicked me out of Stella McCartney! Can you believe that? I'm, like, her biggest fan. It's not Stella's fault, though. If she knew, I'm sure that she would call to apologize. And fire that horrible salesgirl. She should be working at H & M and feel lucky to be there."
Suzi-Suzi was oddly silent.
Kiki grew pensive. There was more. She just didn't know about it yet. "Suzi-Suzi, what's going on?"
"It's worse. Much worse. Somehow between yesterday and today, you've become the most hated woman in Manhattan. The rumors are out of control. There's even one going around that you said Tom and Kirsten's baby looks like a monkey."
Kiki was horrified. "Oh, my God! I would never say that about Music!"
"I know. I mean, you have her picture on your refrigerator. You practically think of her as your niece. But it's all over the radio."
Kiki felt a sense of panic begin to envelop her.
Meanwhile, Suzi-Suzi babbled on. "Danni said most of the strippers at Camisole are on Kirsten's side."
Kiki found this particularly daunting. When strippers are against a girl, then she's really swimming against the current of public opinion. "What should I do?"
"About the strippers?" Suzi-Suzi asked. "I wouldn't worry about them. But if you really want to plead your case, I'm sure that Danni could arrange a little talk between shifts. Addressing them woman-to-woman would probably change some minds."
"I mean the whole mess in general!" Kiki snapped.
"Oh," Suzi-Suzi murmured. "Too bad you don't have a publicist."
Sarah Ann Duckworth! Kiki gripped her cellular tighter. "Suzi-Suzi, you have to help me."
"Name it. As long as it doesn't involve calling Stevie G again. That man is vile."
Kiki's brain computer was processing at Intel speed. "You still have an extra key to my apartment, right?"
"Of course. Remember when the pipes in my building burst, and you were out of town, and Chad and I spent the night there?"
Kiki huffed. "How could I forget? He left his business card on my nightstand with a rude little note that I needed a new mattress."
"But then he got you a good deal on that Tempur-Pedic," Suzi-Suzi said brightly.
"That's true. And it is a dream to sleep on."
"And he hated your old mattress so much that we did it in other parts of the apartmentthe couch, the bathroom. He even hoisted me up onto the kitchen counter and"
"Okay, let's stay on point," Kiki cut in. "There's a Gucci boot box filled with cash in my bedroom. I need you to go to Sarah Ann Duckworth's office and pay my invoice."
"Consider it done. Where is it?"
"Five-eighty Broadway in SoHo. It's near Prince Street."
"Not a problem. That's the same building I go to for airbrush tanning. In fact, maybe I'll stop in and see if Sally can"