by Nancy Kelly
“A Fargo snow globe? Did it break?”
“Uh-huh.”
CeeCee shook her head at the waste of it all. “Are you going to sleep with him again?”
“No,” I said.
A rawhide-thin woman with a snazzy, small blue case hurried past us to the door of Charisma. She stopped at the last moment. “Are you here for the fitting?”
We gazed at her, not sure how to answer. She took our hesitation as a yes and held the door, practically shooing us inside. CeeCee stubbed out her cigarette and frowned. I said, “Ummmm ... we may have to delay.”
“I don’t have time.” She stood at the door.
CeeCee and I shared a look. With a shrug CeeCee headed inside and I followed dutifully. The salesgirl’s mouth dropped open.
“Where’s Jill?” the woman asked impatiently. I realized she was the designer as she set her blue case on the counter and opened it. It was full of sewing supplies—a veritable torture chamber of needles, scissors, pins, and unidentifiable tiny little pieces of hardware that looked as if it could become a part of a Stephen King book in short order.
CeeCee said, “She had to leave.”
The designer’s nostrils flared so wide I marveled at the elasticity of human skin. “We had an appointment.”
“There may be problems with the wedding,” I offered cautiously. I didn’t know what was going on, but I sensed this woman better be alerted tout suite that the dresses were probably not going to work.
“I need to get the dresses fitted,” she insisted.
“Well, you can stand here and wait,” CeeCee said. “But Jill’s not coming back and one of your gowns has a rip right down the center and all of them don’t have enough material to cover our asses.”
It was a good exit line. And exiting seemed like a good idea as the designer’s expression turned thunderous. I said, breathlessly, as CeeCee and I skedaddled, “I’m going to find Jill and see what’s going on.”
“I’ll see you tonight.”
I jumped into the Explorer and grabbed my cell phone. It rang in my hand. Impatiently I checked the Caller ID. I didn’t want to talk to anyone but Jill. Surprised, I realized it was Jill.
“Hey,” I answered. “Where are you?”
“The Coffee Bean on Wilshire.”
“I’ll be right there.”
I grimaced as I clicked off. She sounded miserable. I prayed to the parking gods that I would find a nearby spot and was rewarded. As I walked past the open fire pit in the front courtyard I spotted Jill sitting dispiritedly at a small table for two. I sat down across from her. She looked like death. No expression. Hollow eyes. Sunken cheeks. Pasty skin. The works.
“What?” I asked quietly.
“He called it off.” She drew a breath, her lips quivering faintly. “It’s over.”
“Ian called the wedding off?” I repeated, trying to hide my shock. Things were worse than I’d imagined. Further along than I’d imagined.
“He called everything off. He thinks I’m sick. He wants out. It’s over. Over.”
She closed her eyes and looked about to pass out. Gently I reached across and clasped her hand. For a few moments neither of us said anything then she inhaled shakily and said, “the fucking bastard.”
I nodded in silent agreement. My heart went out to her. No more Jill-Ian? I couldn’t wrap my brain around it.
Tears starred her lashes but her pugnacious jaw was set hard. I said, “Is it selfish of me to be relieved my thighs won’t be wedged into that black dress?”
“Yes.” But something softened in her expression.
“It’s always about me, you know.”
“They were too short anyway.”
“You gonna be okay?” I searched her face.
Her chin trembled. She tried to hang onto her hard jaw and couldn’t. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said in a teary voice. “I want to go to your thing tonight.”
“Getting Able?”
She nodded.
“Jill, for pete’s sake ...”
“No, I’m going. I’m not thinking about this. I want to think about your problems, not mine. How are you doing on the Ex-Files? I haven’t asked in a while.”
“Fine.”
“How many are left?”
“Ummm ... three, I guess. I haven’t quite dealt with Lang. And there’s Kane, of course. And Knowles-It-All.”
“You’re done with Charlie and that hairy guy?” Jill’s brow was furrowed. She seemed to be putting a ton of energy into this task.
“Hairy Larry,” I agreed.
“And Don the Devout?”
“Done with Don.”
“And the next one?”
“Black Mark,” I said. “Done with him, too.”
“Tonight’s Kane.”
“Looks like it.”
She drew a long, shuddering breath. “How long does it take, Blue? To get over them?”
She wanted answers. She wanted to know when she would be as frightfully well adjusted as I was supposed to be. I shook my head. “Eons,” I said depressingly.
Too late I realized that sounded a lot like “Ians.”
I am so not good at commiserating ... unless maybe alcohol is involved.
To say that the nixed wedding plans affected our mood as we dutifully headed to the Kane Reynolds extravaganza was putting it mildly indeed. I expected Jill to change her mind and beg off, but she was determined to go to the motivational session. This didn’t mean she was a barrel of laughs. She was so silent and removed that we all felt unsettled. Daphne and I chattered away to fill the gaps and CeeCee just lowered the Explorer’s window and smoked. Jill, always so vocal, opinionated, and tough was the proverbial shadow of her former self. The fucking bastard had really done her in.
“I could kill him,” Daphne declared through tight lips as she and I walked ahead of Jill and CeeCee on our way to the entry doors of the auditorium. “Getting Able With Kane” was being held at a rent-a-room in the business district of downtown LA, not far from Liam Engleston’s restaurant. I recalled how Jill had dressed him down, much to my horror at the time, and my mouth curved at the memory.
“Why are you smiling?” Daphne demanded.
“Ian’s going to miss her.”
She reared back and gave me a look of horror. “Do you want them to get back together?”
“I have no idea,” I said truthfully.
“Well, I don’t. He’s hurt her so much. Talk about a loser. He’s at the top of the list.”
“I can’t decide whether he called it off over her eating disorder, or if he’s just saying that’s the reason. He’s known she’s had food issues all along. Maybe he just got scared. The responsibility of marriage, and all that.”
“I hope he really, really misses her.”
“At least we don’t have to wear the dresses.”
“Thank God.” She darted a glance back at Jill. “Who’ll pay for them, do you think?”
“Let’s hope it’s Ian.”
Daphne checked her watch. I knew she was thinking ahead to tomorrow’s shoot. Though she’d been the one who’d pushed hardest for this event, she was fighting the clock.
“We don’t have to stay for the whole thing,” I pointed out.
“You do,” Daphne stressed, shaking a finger playfully at my nose. “Come on, Blue. You’re not going to let this derail you, are you?”
“I’ll use any excuse I can get,” I answered honestly.
Daphne chuckled. “And I’m here to save you from yourself.”
“Like Kane?”
“Exactly.”
Inside we were met by several fresh-faced young women in dark blue shirts and slacks with bright red “Time To Get Able” stickers affixed above their breasts. I suddenly felt very strange. I’d been so wrapped up in Jill’s problems—and CeeCee’s, and come to think of it, my own—that I really hadn’t thought ahead to what this meeting would be like.
Jill and CeeCee met us at the entry door and we all no
dded to the greeters. I declined a name tag, though the pressure was pretty damn intense. Free will seemed to be something Kane & his Able company didn’t believe in. I had to be firm, as firm as I am to the people who try to get me to switch long-distance service. Thanks, but no thanks. I’m not interested. I’m getting off the phone now. Click.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t just hang up on these kids. CeeCee gazed down her nose, looking fierce and alternative. But the kids were spunky, giddy, and kind of spaced out in that natural high way only religion, mind-altering drugs—and, I guess, Kane Reynolds—seemed to provide. Nothing could get them down. I had a feeling we were all going to join in with Kumbaya or We Are The World.
Jill let them stick a name tag on her—a clear indication that the real Jill wasn’t inhabiting her body just now. She followed me to a seat about halfway to the front and left of the main aisle. I gave the people sitting front and center a hard look. Who are these people who have to be right up in front?
“Let’s move closer,” Daphne said.
Oh.
“I don’t want to miss anything,” she continued.
“I do,” I said, planting myself in a chair.
“This Kane is the guy you smoked dope with in high school?” CeeCee, still exhibiting her just-dare-to-speak-tome body language, asked without looking at me. She perched on the edge of her chair, ready to shoot out of there at a moment’s notice. I glanced around the gathering crowd. There were several middle-aged women in knitted sweaters; one displayed Persian cats; another, baskets of fruit. The men were in suits and ties that were about eight years past the current fashion trend.
“This is ... frightening,” I said.
“It hasn’t even started yet,” Daphne shushed me. “You should tell someone that you know Kane. Warn him, so that you can have some time afterwards without all the wannabes around.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
I was having a hard time remembering that Dr. Dick had professed some interest in Kane’s inspirational self-awareness shtick, but as we got closer to the actual start time more young professionals began to fill in the seats. I thought about Kane and the other nerds from high school, those evenings spent sucking smoke from a water pipe and the stoned hours afterward.
“Cool,” I said aloud.
CeeCee gave me a sideways look. Before I could explain, there was a sudden change of air pressure in the room. Everyone looked up expectantly as a side door opened and Kane strode to the front of the room.
People in the first few rows actually stood up and clapped. Kane held up a hand, all modesty, and announced, “Welcome, one and all. So glad you could make it. I’ve been learning the LA freeway system. In the time it took to get here from the airport, I learned all the names and numbers. I hit the 405—the San Diego Freeway; the 10—the Santa Monica Freeway; and the 110—the Harbor Freeway; and I might’ve caught a bit of the 101—the Ventura Freeway. And wow. Traffic’s a bitch, huh?”
The sweater ladies shifted in their seats and giggled as another wave of thunderous clapping ensued. I stared at Kane. This was my one-time lover? Ex-File Number Two, who’d gotten my mind off Charlie, then expanded it with drugs, alcohol, and rock and roll? If anyone had ever decided to become a Tony Robbins clone, Kane was it.
“He’s really good-looking,” Daphne said, sounding surprised.
“At least he’s not gray,” I said, examining Kane’s cool, dark looks. “Or bald.”
“I like bald,” remarked CeeCee.
“I like it, too,” I said. “But not with Kane. He’s too ...”
“Perfect.”
This was from Jill, about the first thing she’d said all night. We all looked at her. “It’s an act, a show, a Barnum & Bailey circus. He dyes that hair. It’s too dark, too monochrome. And those teeth? They’ve been shined and buffed.”
“That’s what we do in LA,” Daphne reminded her. I just shrugged, happy Jill had joined the living again.
“He’s a Ken doll,” Jill said. And then her eyes suddenly filled with tears. “God damn it,” she whispered, bending her head.
“It’s okay,” I murmured.
“There aren’t any decent men left! They’re all fakes.”
“That’s not true,” Daphne tried to soothe, but Jill wasn’t having any of it.
“They’re all about the big show. The big fucking show. And you’d better be a part of it, ’cause if you’re not, you’re history. A broken toy. Shit to throw away!”
“I don’t think that’s strictly true.” Daphne couldn’t help arguing. She wanted things to be rosy. She lived for the silver lining. I put my hand on her shoulder to hold back anything else. Let Jill rant.
“Have you dated anyone since Leo?” Jill demanded in a harsh whisper. By this time Kane was in full swing, talking about self-awareness, goals, picturing yourself in the future ... pretty much the usual stuff.
“Do you mind?” a voice hissed from the row behind us.
“No,” Daphne whispered quietly to Jill, a little hurt that she was suddenly under attack.
“Shut the fuck up,” the voice behind us said.
I suddenly felt very self-aware, very motivated. I pictured myself in the near future turning to clock the guy behind me. But Jill came alive with all the fury and hurt she’d been nursing toward Ian. She twisted sharply, giving our annoyed friend the full benefit of her blotchy, furious, tear-stained face.
“Don’t worry. I’m leaving,” she told him coldly.
“Good.” He made one of those male sneers and glanced around, seeking supporters. I’d seen that sneer and glance technique before. It was used when some guy wanted to point out what a horror story the girl talking to him was.
Jill pushed out her chair and stood right in front of him. Several of the fresh-faced crew glanced over, alarmed at the developing scene. Most of the room laughed at some other amusing Kane remark.
“What do you want, bitch?” he said deliberately.
CeeCee suddenly swiveled sharply and karate-chopped him in the knee, like a doctor checking reflexes. Sure enough, his leg flew forward and banged into my chair. It was so comical it broke the tension. I think we would have burst into laughter if he’d relaxed a little. Instead, his face drew back into a grimace of fury and I swear twin streams of vapor shot from his nostrils. El Toro seemed to be pawing the floor, ready to charge CeeCee.
She warned coldly, “The last guy who touched me got a cigarette burn in the back of his hand.”
“Fuck you,” he said decisively.
“Excuse me?” a fresh-face interrupted. “Is there a problem?”
“These cunts can’t stop talking,” El Toro spewed. “Get rid of ’em.”
Her face whitened. She glanced around helplessly.
Kane seemed to wake up to the fact that there was a disturbance in the southwest quadrant. He glanced our way and I saw him zero in on me. There was no mistaking the flicker of surprise that crossed his face. I didn’t respond in any way. I couldn’t. Not while CeeCee was now nose-to-nose with El Toro. I thought she might get scorched by the fumes. I held my breath. He was a rhino-necked guy with close-set eyes and sausage-shaped fingers. I pegged him for either a hit man or an actor specializing in Mafioso parts.
Jill threw gasoline on the fire. “You’re making my point,” she told him. “The big show. All muscle-head bullshit.”
He threw back his head. I winced, certain he was about to bellow his fury and charge. More fresh-faced followers appeared. I expected no more than their collective wringing of hands but anything’s possible.
“Let’s go,” I urged harshly.
Daphne didn’t waste time. She practically yanked Jill out of her chair. That left me with CeeCee, who was keeping up a cool matador staring contest with our furious Taurus. She did let me drag her away; she’s not suicidal. But she kept her eyes on him all the way out. He, in turn, glared back, sneeringly triumphant. CeeCee gave him the classic “up-yours” gesture before we hit the cool night air outside.
&
nbsp; “Well, that was fun,” I said.
“He called us the ‘c’ word,” Daphne whispered.
CeeCee snorted. “That was meant for me.”
“I think I can safely say that was meant for all of us,” I rejoined.
“My fault,” Jill said. But she didn’t sound repentant.
“Asshole,” CeeCee muttered. She was still focused, laserlike, on the auditorium doors.
“What are we going to do now?” Daphne looked shattered. “Ginny can’t meet with Kane.”
Since this seemed like the least important aspect of the situation, I pointed out, “We’re all still alive.”
“But this is your chance.”
I wasn’t sure if this was the right time to mention that Kane and I had briefly locked eyes during the skirmish. This wasn’t how I wanted to meet up with him again.
A door pushed open behind us. All four of us whipped around, wondering if El Toro had broken from the ring. But it was one of the fresh-faced blue shirts, a young man with an earnest face. “Is one of you Virginia Bluebell?” he asked.
I lifted a hand. Wearily, I said, “That would be me.”
Chapter 19
If there is a hell, I’m in it.
I sat primly in one of the straight-backed, auditorium chairs in an anteroom off to one side of the meeting room. Where my friends were I had no idea. After locking eyes with me, Kane had apparently asked one of his minions to fetch me. So, here I was. Waiting. For Ex-File Number Two.
I examined my fingernails, lifted my arms over my head several times and stretched. A refrain from a song kept running through my head, and I realized it was a song from my time with Kane. We’d been together, what? Two months? It was a far more distant memory than even Charlie, though it had been relatively soon after my first sexual experience. Funny, I had trouble remembering having sex with Kane, except for the fact that he liked to refer to it as ‘making love,’ as if that made it better somehow. I certainly believed it did at the time. Still, my memory of my efforts to smoke dope, and my lung-hacking afterwards, were far more indelibly etched in the wrinkles and folds of my brain. Was that all there really was to our relationship? Experimentation with marijuana? What I recalled most were the images of the basement of his parents’ house and the couch where we’d “done it,” and not much about Kane himself. It was high school, for God’s sake. High school.