“So you two already know each other—great!”
“Theresa, I am not going out with Eric Mitchell. Seriously.”
“I’m not asking you to get romantic with him. Just make people think you’re a couple. Be seen with him here and there for a while. People will eat it up: the actress and the pro athlete. The public will love it, and so will the execs at W and F, believe me. It’ll make great copy. Plus you’re both so gorgeous, everyone will love the eye candy.”
Monica put her face in her hands. “Oh my God. I can’t believe you’re asking this of me.”
“Do you want your name on people’s lips again or not?” Theresa asked, sounding irked. Why did Theresa always have to be so blunt? It was that Italian American thing. No beating around the bush. Call it like you see it.
Monica lifted her head, feeling desperate. “Of course I want that. But isn’t there something else we could do?”
“Hmm. You could leave the show and enter a convent. Maybe come out as a lesbian. Or better yet, a hasbian—you know, harboring a deep, dark lesbian past, but now you’re straight as a ruler with an insatiable sexual appetite for men.”
Monica scowled. “Very funny.”
“Trust me on this Eric Mitchell thing, Monica. I know what I’m doing.”
“What if he tries to hit on me again?” asked Monica.
“You can handle him.”
Yeah, by shooting him with a tranquilizer gun. “How much time would I have to spend with him?”
“That would depend on how much press you two generate.” Theresa’s expression was encouraging. “Look, I’ve met Eric. I know he comes off as a bit of a jerk at first, but deep down, he’s a nice guy.”
Monica drew back, puzzled. “How do you know Eric?”
“My husband is the assistant coach for the Blades, remember?”
“Oh. Right.” Monica had met Michael Dante a few times and liked him. He was smart and funny, the first man to destroy her assumption that all jocks were lacking when it came to gray matter.
Two famous people who are hot, the big city at night . . . how about you give me your number, and we set the world on fire . . . Shit, could she really pretend to be involved with someone who’d actually said that to her? The thought made her contemplate throwing herself under a cab. Then again, it would give her another opportunity to act, which she loved doing.
Theresa was looking at her expectantly. “Well?”
“Fine,” Monica huffed. “But if he mauls me in the back of a limo, I’m holding you responsible.”
“I seriously doubt that will happen.” Theresa crossed her long legs, stretching her arms out along the back of the couch. “Now, we just have to figure out where the two of you should make your debut.”
“Well, there’s going to be a black tie dinner at the Temple of Dendur next Friday night to honor James Dempsey.”
“Perfect. The place will be swarming with paparazzi. I’ll get in touch with all my contacts and let them know you’ll be showing up with a delicious little surprise on your arm.”
Retired actor James Dempsey had been one of Holly-wood’s brightest stars until his fortune changed—kind of like Gloria, Monica thought. Determined to keep working, he eventually landed a job in television, spending six years on a popular detective show called Chim Chim and Jones, about a private investigator whose sidekick was a monkey. His final acting job was on The Wild and the Free, playing the grand patriarch of the Deveraux clan until illness forced him to retire. Monica adored him; he was a great actor and a wonderful person. She was glad his peers would be honoring him.
“Wear something stunning,” Theresa instructed.
“As if I wouldn’t.”
Monica moved to collect her bag, then stopped. “Oh, hell. I have to call him, don’t I? Eric?”
“Relax. I’ll handle the whole thing.”
FOUR
“You look gorgeous.”
Monica smiled at Eric’s compliment, impressed that he had slid out of the stretch limo to meet her beneath the awning of her building and walk her all of six feet to the back of the waiting car. His eyes did a tour of her body, but in this case, she couldn’t really complain, since that was exactly what she was angling for, though not for his benefit, but for the press. The dress was midnight blue, with a plunging neckline and a slit up the side to show off the fabulous legs she maintained through endless Pilates sessions. She’d chosen the color because it brought out her sapphire blue eyes, “the most beautiful eyes since Elizabeth Taylor,” Soap World had once said. She’d worn her hair up. It was loosely tousled, soft curls cascading around her face. When Gene the doorman whistled and told her she looked like “hot stuff,” Monica knew she’d nailed it. She just hoped the paparazzi agreed.
She turned to Eric. “Ever been in a limo before?”
Eric looked offended. “Uh, yeah.”
“Just checking. Ever seen the Temple of Dendur?”
“No.”
“It’s pretty amazing. It’s an Egyptian temple that has its own wing at the Met. One of the walls is sheer glass, and there’s this reflecting pool . . . it’s really impressive.”
“You go to museums a lot?”
“Not really,” Monica confessed, feeling a little embarrassed. Her mentor, Monty, always said you couldn’t be a real artist unless you had appreciation for other branches of the arts. Monica always felt she didn’t read enough, didn’t go to enough concerts or dance recitals or art museums. Maybe that’s why she wasn’t a real actress yet. Maybe she wasn’t well-rounded enough.
Since Eric had had no qualms blatantly giving her the once-over, she did the same to him and was impressed by what she saw. Obnoxious as he might be, the man looked positively Bond-like in a tux. “You look nice.”
Eric grinned. “I agree.”
Jerk. How had she let Theresa talk her into this? Two seconds in his presence, and already Monica was irritated. Act, she reminded herself. Use your skills.
“You a James Dempsey fan?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Eric. “It’s a bummer that he died.”
Monica blinked. “What?”
“He’s dead, right? I thought this dinner is to honor his memory.”
“He’s not dead! This dinner is to honor his contribution to the world of entertainment.”
“Oh. Well, that’s good.” Eric paused. “Is Chim Chim going to be there?” he asked hopefully.
“Chim Chim?”
“You know, the monkey from Chim Chim and Jones.”
“I know who Chim Chim is. I don’t know.”
“I hope so. Maybe I can get an autograph. My brother and I used to love that show. Chim Chim was amazing.”
“He’s a monkey, Eric. I doubt he does autographs.”
“You’re wrong. I’m sure he’s been taught to hold a pen and scribble. Hell, he fired a pistol on the show.”
Monica wished she had a pistol. So she could point it at her own temple and pull the trigger.
“I remember when James was on W and F,” Eric continued. “He was great.”
“You actually watch W and F?” Monica was surprised.
“The whole team does. It passes the time when we’re on the road, stuck in a hotel during the day while waiting to play at night. We watch it when we’re working out, too.”
“Oh.” Monica was surprised as well as pleased. It was kind of cool that big, macho jocks watched soaps.
Eric slid closer to her. “About this date . . .”
“Actually, it’s not really a date. You’re my escort. I’m sure Theresa explained the whole thing to you.”
“Theresa used the word date.” He inched closer. “Look, you don’t have to apologize for the way you treated me on the set. I knew you’d come round,” he murmured. He was doing that hooded, bedroom eye thing again. She wondered if he’d learned it from watching Royce’s bad acting on W and F.
He was almost next to her now. Monica tensed, discreetly opening the beaded clutch she’d brought with her; inside wa
s a small can of mace. She’d use it if she had to, so help her God she would.
“You’re my escort,” Monica repeated.
“Call it whatever you want,” Eric replied with a dismissive chuckle. “The fact remains, you asked Theresa to contact me, and here I am.”
“Here you are,” Monica repeated with false gaiety. She made a mental note to fire Theresa in the morning.
Please don’t let him mention Chim Chim, thought Monica as she and Eric made their way to their table at the Met. She was glad to see Gloria was at her table, as well as Devlin O’Dare, who played the newly zombified bartender in Garrett City. Unfortunately, Royce was there, too.
“Well, well,” Gloria murmured with a lewd smile, her heavily made-up eyes raking Eric’s body, pausing extra long at his crotch. “Who have we got here, Monica my love?”
“Everyone, this is Eric Mitchell, my—”
“Date,” Eric finished smoothly, taking Gloria’s hand and raising it to his lips. “It’s a great honor to meet you, ma’am.”
Gloria looked pleased. “I love men with manners.”
Eric was amiable as he regarded Royce. “Hey.”
“Met Gar’s own Laurence Olivier,” said Royce dryly. “What an unexpected pleasure”—he smirked as he looked at Monica—“to see you again. I guess you two really hit it off last week.”
“Yes,” said Monica. She turned to Eric. “Let’s sit, shall we?” Eric nodded, pulling out her chair for her.
What happened next shocked her. Eric’s demeanor was smooth as glass as he chatted with others at the table. It was as if he’d left his jerk persona behind him in the limo, somehow turning into a thoughtful, charming companion. Who was this chameleon?
To be honest, Monica’s urge to fire Theresa flew out the window the second she and Eric had stepped out of the limo and walked up the steps of the museum together. Cameras clicked wildly with the paparazzi yelling out her name, wanting to know if she was dating Eric. It was frightening how natural he was in front of the cameras, pausing with her for photos, his hand holding hers, the two of them smiling. He even knew to beam at her with unabashed affection, but she couldn’t think about that now. All she knew was they’d be in all the gossip columns tomorrow, along with their picture. Mission accomplished.
“Can I get you anything at the bar?” Eric asked solicitously during a break in conversation. He was unfailingly polite, no sign of the smug egomaniac she’d walked in with.
“No, I’m fine, thanks.” Small waves of guilt were beginning to lap at her conscience. It was obvious Eric was thrilled to be here, doing his best to be the perfect—well, escort. And what was she doing? Using him. The longer the evening wore on, the worse she felt. It wasn’t right. She didn’t care what Theresa’s master plan was. When the night was over, she was going to tell him the truth and apologize.
“Darling, shall we hit the little girls’ room?” Gloria said to her.
“Certainly.” Monica rose. “Be back in a minute,” she said with a light touch to Eric’s shoulder. A nice theatrical touch.
Eric rose. “Perfect timing,” he murmured in her ear. “I’ll go pay my respects to Chim Chim.”
Monica smiled tersely. “You do that.”
Walking with Gloria to the ladies’ room, Monica worried about her friend slipping on the tiled floors. She was wearing rhinestone-studded spike heels; if she fell and broke her hip, it would all be over. Monica laced her arm through Gloria’s. “Having fun?”
“God, yes. That boy toy you brought with you is delicious. Very nice, too. I sincerely hope your plan is to bring him home with you tonight and ravish him until neither of you can walk by the morning.”
“I barely know him.”
“Well, get to know him.” Gloria pushed open the ladies’ room door and separated from Monica, teetering toward the bank of mirrors and pulling a lipstick out of her purse. “I’m surprised your good friend and mentor, Monty, isn’t here,” she said in a venomous voice, applying color to her mouth that looked like spilled blood. Gloria hated Monty; they had acted together for years, and she thought he was a pretentious ass. Monica always suspected they had some sort of sexual liaison that ended badly.
“I think he and James had some kind of falling-out years ago,” said Monica.
“I’m not surprised,” said Gloria. “Well, if you see him, tell him I hope he ends up with Alzheimer’s and covered in shingles.”
“Will do.”
A new guilt swept over Monica. She hadn’t visited Monty in a while. She made a mental note to pop in and see him on Sunday, the one day she let herself relax.
“Chesty starts next week,” Gloria noted.
“I know,” said Monica, slipping into one of the stalls to pee. She heard the bathroom door open. Seconds later, a woman’s head appeared beneath the stall door. “What the hell—?!” Monica shrieked, covering herself up.
“Miss Geary, I’m your biggest fan,” the woman said breathlessly, trying to crawl forward.
On the other side of the door, Monica heard Gloria inhale sharply. “Dear God!”
Monica stared down at the woman in horror. “Do you mind?!”
The woman seemed surprised by her request. “Oh, sorry.” The woman slid back out on her belly.
Shaking, Monica yanked her panties and stockings back up and smoothed her dress back down. How the hell did this lunatic get into the Met?! How did she even know Monica was here? She knew she had some hard-core and flaky fans—like the one who sent her cookies that were supposed to look like her, or the one in the process of having plastic surgery to look like Monica—but this took the cake. There was no way Monica was coming out of the stall. No way.
“Can I have your autograph?” the woman asked.
“Not right now.”
“I have a pen and a picture of you,” the woman persisted.
Monica leaned her head against the stall door. Jesus help me. Well, this is what you wanted, right? she chided herself. To be prominent in the public eye? Not like this, though. Not while she was trying to pee.
“Fine,” Monica said wearily. “Hand them to me under the stall.”
“Okay,” said the fan, sounding disappointed.
Monica bent down and snatched the Sharpie and picture of herself from the fan’s pudgy hands. It was a glossy black-and-white photo, the standard studio PR pic.
“What’s your name?” Monica asked.
“Judy.”
Dear Judy, Good luck with your electroshock therapy treatments, Monica Geary.
That was what she wanted to write. What she did write was, “To Judy, All Best, Monica Geary.” She passed it back out to Judy.
“Wow, thanks,” said Judy.
“Young lady,” Monica heard Gloria say sternly. “Do not ever, ever do this to anyone you’re a fan of again. Do you hear me? It is rude, and it gives all fans a bad reputation. Now go, before I notify security of this breach.” Monica could picture her pointing to the door dramatically.
Monica waited until she heard the bathroom door swing shut, then ventured out of the stall. Gloria was wide-eyed, her hand clutching her crepey throat. “Horrifying,” Gloria whispered. “Are you all right?”
“A little shaken up, but fine.” She looked at herself in the mirror. The color had drained from her face, making her look like the world’s only blonde Kabuki actor. “I feel like leaving.”
“So go,” Gloria urged. “Things will be winding up soon, anyway. Take your blond-haired, blue-eyed stud home and let him calm you.”
Monica flashed back to the dream she’d had about Eric. Shut up and fuck me. Heat wound through her. She wished she could be that woman, the uninhibited one in her dreams. But she wasn’t. Not only was she not big on one-night stands, but she could also be a little uptight when it came to sex, perhaps even a wee bit puritanical. She attributed it to her WASP upbringing. She’d never seen her parents so much as hold hands, and when she was small and her mother decided to have the big Sex Talk with her, her mother couldn�
�t even use the word vagina. She referred to it as “your flower,” then made a disgusted face before handing her a book about reproduction and fleeing. Later that day, Monica had confusedly peered between her legs, expecting to see a daisy or a rose growing there. The thought was extremely alarming. At any rate, she’d been left with the vague impression there was something dirty about sex, an impression she’d never really managed to shake, which sometimes impaired her pleasure. Except in her dreams.
Monica pinched some color back into her face and squared her shoulders. She would say her good-byes, apologize to Eric Mitchell, and call it a night. No more bathroom stalls for her tonight. She’d pee when she got home.
How do you confess to someone that you’ve used them? Is it right to do it in the back of a limo idling outside your apartment building? Do you call them the next day to avoid doing it face-to-face and endure being called every nasty name under the sun, all of which you deserved? Neither option seemed palatable to Monica, which left inviting Eric up to her apartment for a coffee, and facing the drubbing she had coming to her.
“Would you like to come in for a ni—coffee?” Shit, she’d almost said nightcap. Did people even say nightcap anymore? They did on W and F, which is why she almost slipped. Characters were always inviting each other in for nightcaps, where one of them would pour brandy from a cut crystal decanter sitting on a brass drink trolley. Monica had never met anyone in her life that had a drink trolley. She needed to talk to the exec producer about this. It was one of the anachronisms that helped make daytime a butt of jokes.
Eric’s eyes flickered with intrigue as he accepted her offer. Maybe this was a mistake. She still had her mace with her in case Mr. Hyde reemerged.
“Did you have a good time?” she asked Eric in the elevator as it rose twenty-seven stories up into the sky.
“It was weird,” said Eric, loosening his bow tie.
“Because Chim Chim couldn’t sign his name the way you expected?”
Eric ignored the barb. “Because you’re all so phony with each other.”
Monica blinked. “Excuse me?”
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