Not that any of that excused him being such a dick to Nancy. But at the end of the day that was their shit to work out. If it was meant to be, they’d find their way back to one another eventually.
“I could care less if he comes around or not,” lied Nancy, turning over on her massage table so the masseurs could focus on her feet and head. The sky above her was so blue it looked like it had been ripped out of the pages of a travel magazine. “Anyway, I screwed things up so badly yesterday, he’ll probably get his wish. They’re bound to drop the whole idea now.”
Having flown back to LA specifically for the meeting, she’d ended up breaking down in tears in front of an entire panel of studio execs and had to take a full ten minutes out of the room to compose herself. The combined stress of her mom’s illness, her dad’s unspoken but omnipresent unhappiness, and Che Che’s complete lack of understanding proved too much for her, and at the first remotely challenging question, she’d folded like a pack of cards.
“Michael Landry must be shitting himself,” she said bitterly, remembering the look of shocked surprise on the head of new project development’s face when she’d fled the room in tears. “He’s probably biking the script over to Aaron Sorkin as we speak.”
“I’m sure he’s not,” said Scarlett kindly. “They said they wanted to see you again, right? Once you’re back in LA for good?”
“Once my mom dies, you mean?” said Nancy. “Yeah, they did say that. And of course I’m gonna be in a way better emotional state then.”
“Sorry,” said Scarlett. “I didn’t mean to put my foot in it.”
“No, no. I’m sorry,” said Nancy, wincing as one masseur ground his knuckle into a sore spot on her neck. “I shouldn’t be so caustic. You’re the one person keeping me sane right now. I appreciate it, more than you know. By the way, do you know that guy?”
Scarlett turned over, willing herself out of her relaxation-induced coma.
“Which guy?” she mumbled. “Where?”
“There,” said Nancy, sitting up and pointing at a pale-skinned man on the beach patio in front of them, who suddenly seemed intent on his coffee and newspaper. “He’s been staring at you for the last minute. Really staring.”
“Has he?”
Aware he was being pointed at, the man got up, dropped a bill on the table, and scurried away, disappearing into the main lobby of the hotel. In the brief instant before he disappeared from view, Scarlett shivered, as if a ghost had walked across her grave.
“I don’t know him,” she said. “At least…I may have seen his face before somewhere. I can’t be sure.”
Memories of London and being hounded by Brogan’s paid shadows flooded back to her, accompanied by sound bites of Cameron’s moaning over Christmas: This is serious, Scarlett. They’re out to get me, and Jake’s never-ending warnings to her about “meddling in Russia,” as he put it.
“It’s probably nothing,” she said, trying not to give in to paranoia. The NPR program still hadn’t aired. Which meant as far as Brogan was concerned, Trade Fair was still dead in the water. It couldn’t be him.
“Maybe Jake’s paid a PI to follow you. Make sure you aren’t up to no good while he’s out of town,” joked Nancy. “He’s always struck me as the jealous type.”
“Now that I very much doubt,” said Scarlett, a tinge of sadness creeping into her voice as she sank back onto the table. “If he’s thinking about me at all right now, I’d be surprised. You know what the last thing he said was, before he got on the plane?”
“What?” asked Nancy.
“Maybe a break will do us both good.”
“Ouch.” Nancy winced. “Trouble in paradise?”
“Don’t sound so hopeful,” teased Scarlett.
“Seriously,” said Nancy. “Is something wrong? You can tell me, really. I promise I won’t judge. Or say ‘I told you so’ more than twice.”
Deciding to throw caution to the wind—she had nothing to lose at this point, and she’d missed Nancy’s sisterly counsel these last few weeks more than she could have imagined—Scarlett decided to tell her everything: the whole drama with Rachel, the never-ending rumors about other girls, and the constant sniping over Trade Fair and her work commitments that neither of them seemed able to stop.
“I think he resents my success,” she blurted, at the end of a long, tortured monologue about their problems.
“Probably.” Nancy shrugged. “But you know, you always knew he was a macho guy. The fact he needs to make his own money and have his own business be a success shouldn’t come as a surprise to you.”
“It doesn’t,” said Scarlett, somewhat taken aback by Nancy’s unexpected support for Jake. “But he’s so inconsistent. One minute he’s telling me not to antagonize Brogan because it might impact Flawless—as if the store and our profits are all he cares about—but when I do something to help the business, like hooking another sponsor for the Oscars, he acts all ‘so what?’ about it. Almost like I’m showing off or something. I can’t win.”
She could feel her earlier, euphoric calm evaporating, replaced by a familiar feeling of stress creeping into her chest and shoulder muscles.
“And then there’s the girls,” she added wearily.
“All right, so let’s look at everything piece by piece,” said Nancy. “Do you think he’s cheating on you?”
Scarlett paused. “Not technically cheating, no. Not yet. But—”
“But nothing,” said Nancy. “The man’s a natural-born flirt. If you’re not gonna let him look, you might as well chop off his cojones right now and put ’em in a jar on your mantel.”
“Thanks for that,” said Scarlett sarcastically. “That’s a lovely image.”
“OK, so second thing. This radio interview you wanna do about the Russian miners.”
Scarlett looked at her grudgingly, waiting for her to explain why Jake’s unsupportive behavior on that score was suddenly OK too. Since when had Nancy become the president of the Jake Meyer fan club?
“He has three beefs with that, as I understand it. He’s scared Brogan O’Donnell might hurt you. He’s scared he might hurt the business. And he resents the fact that you spend more time at work and with Che Che than with him.”
“Right,” said Scarlett.
Nancy gave her a puzzled smile. “Remind me again. What part of that did you find so unreasonable?”
“Oh, look, if you’re not going to take this seriously…” said Scarlett crossly. “I thought you hated Jake?”
Nancy shrugged. “I’m trying not to hate anyone these days. Call it a late New Year’s resolution. Life’s too short.” Her eyes were welling up again, and Scarlett immediately felt guilty for picking a fight. What was she doing burdening Nancy with her love-life problems anyway? They didn’t amount to much, compared to what she was going through.
“I thought he was wrong for you,” said Nancy, pulling herself together. “As a matter of fact, I still think he’s wrong for you. But let me ask you this. Do you love the guy?”
Scarlett was silent for a moment. Not because she needed time to consider her answer. But because it was hard, for some reason, to speak that answer out loud.
“Yes,” she nodded miserably. “I’m completely mad about him. That’s the problem.”
“That is indeed the problem,” agreed Nancy. Taking Scarlett’s hand, she squeezed her fingers so tightly it hurt. “You really want my advice?”
“I do,” said Scarlett, deadly serious.
“Don’t throw it away over nothing,” said Nancy. “Real love doesn’t come around that often. My parents have been together thirty years, but Dad keeps telling me how it’s gone by in a blink.”
Thirty years, thought Scarlett wistfully. There were days when she and Jake could barely seem to manage thirty minutes.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Danny and Diana seemed so in love, so right for each other, but they’re breaking up.”
“With a baby on the way,” added Nancy.
“And y
ou and Che Che…”
“I know,” said Nancy. “I’m a fine one to talk, right?”
“I didn’t mean that. It’s just that things aren’t supposed to be so hard right at the beginning. Are they?”
Nancy laughed. “I don’t know. With Jake Meyer, I’d have said ‘probably.’ But what do I know? Other people’s relationships always shock the shit out of me.”
Scarlett closed her eyes and tried to recapture the peace she’d felt only moments ago, but it was useless. Damn Jake stupid Meyer. Even on the other side of the country, he was managing to ruin her day.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
OSCAR WEEK IN LA began with a heat wave. While most of the East Coast shivered with chattering teeth beneath a fresh dump of February snow, Southern California basked smugly in ninety-degree temperatures. As if nature itself were putting on its game face for the most important event in the movie-industry year, the sky shone cartoon blue, palm trees swayed gracefully in the lightest of breezes, and the blooms in the permanently irrigated gardens and parks turned their heads delightedly toward the unexpected sun, competing with one another in gaudy display.
Even those not in “the business,” never mind involved in the Oscars themselves, were swept up in a sort of citywide fever, as if royalty were about to pay them a visit—which in a sense, of course, they were. Suddenly it became impossible to book a table at any of the decent restaurants. Staff manning the reservations desks at the big hotels threw back their heads and laughed maniacally when asked about availability. Even the illegal Mexican immigrants, the poorest of LA’s poor, looked happier than usual as the influx of stars and their entourages, tourists, and press meant that every business in town was taking on extra staff: valets, busboys, gardeners, kitchen hands. Nail salons and beauty parlors were booked solid, and star sightings in the coffee shops and boulevards of West Hollywood were at an all-time high, much to the excitement of locals and tourists alike. Suddenly it wasn’t just Tara Reid or that Greek kid who used to go out with Paris Hilton hanging around outside Kitson. The A-list were in town: Brad and Angie, Johnny Depp, even Nicole Kidman, Botox-taut and translucent under a big, floppy sun hat, like a cave monkey thrust unwillingly into the light of day.
Scarlett had been here for last year’s Oscars, but as a newbie on the jewelry scene had not experienced the full force of the preawards buzz. This year, however, she was right in the eye of the storm. Teaming up with Jimmy Choo again, she’d signed up as a cosponsor of E! Entertainment’s coverage of the event. In practice this meant providing Maria Menounos, Nancy O’Dell, and a bevy of other presenters with Flawless diamonds and accessories, as well as allowing the channel’s film crews to follow her wherever she went in Oscar week. Two days ago the store had been transformed into a temporary reality-TV studio, with four camera guys and a full sound and light crew pitching camp behind the counter, in the hope of catching some of Scarlett’s celebrity clients coming and going. In fact, 90 percent of the pre-Oscars traffic was assistants, agents, managers, and managers’ assistants, most of whom were mightily pissed off to find a camera being thrust in their face the moment they walked in the door. But as Tamara Mellon told Scarlett, “You need the publicity more than you need to keep the PAs sweet, babe. If they ask you to swallow a camera, do it.”
Perry, needless to say, was in his element, lapping up the attention like a love-starved kitten. Scarlett’s feelings were more mixed. On the one hand it was a thrill knowing that her designs were going to be worn on camera in front of millions worldwide. On the other hand, she could have happily stepped out of the limelight herself. All the hoo-ha reminded her of her modeling days, which she’d never truly enjoyed, and she lacked Tamara’s natural flair for publicity and glamour. Deep down, a part of her also felt guilty for being swept along by something as shallow as an awards ceremony, when there was so much serious work to be done with Trade Fair. Thanks to Che Che’s string pulling she expected the NPR report on Yakutia to come out any day now. Irritatingly, the producers at E! had stipulated a strict “no politics” rule and insisted she keep all on-air comments related to Flawless, her designs, and her A-list clientele, so she couldn’t use the coverage to plug Trade Fair.
With so much going on, it was almost a blessing to have Jake in New York, distracted by Danny and his problems. She missed him of course, but they’d been fighting so much about her workload before he left he’d only have been resentful if he were here, hanging around the store while she multitasked. He had yet to congratulate her on landing the E! job, and the NPR thing had become a no-go area. She could only pray it wouldn’t kick-start their problems all over again when it finally aired. Oh God, why was it all so complicated?
Four days before the awards she managed to snatch a precious hour in the afternoon to slip upstairs to her “office” at Flawless, a souped-up cupboard above the store. Wading through a backlog of e-mails, an unexpected pang of homesickness prompted her to open one from her mother. Unfortunately, instead of being news of Drumfernly and the comforting sameness of the comings and goings in Buckie, it turned out to be a rambling rant about Cameron. Apparently his house had been broken into while he was at work and his PC stolen. From Caroline’s hysterical tone, one could be forgiven for assuming that a world banking collapse was now imminent, but Scarlett was too tired to plow through all the details.
Pinching her cheeks to keep awake, she clicked instead onto two overdue invoices and paid them online before her phone buzzed on the desk with a text from Jake.
“Just landed,” he wrote. “Lots to tell. Meet me at Chaya for supper?”
Scarlett bit her lip. Despite everything, she was longing to see him. Nancy’s advice at the spa, about not letting him go for nothing, had really struck a chord, and she’d determined that once he got back to LA she’d start making more of an effort, to make time for him and to trust him. But she hadn’t expected him back until tomorrow. As a result, she’d already accepted an invitation to dinner with some of the team from E! tonight.
“Hi, darling. Stuck in work thing until eleven,” she texted back. “Can I meet you after?”
Two minutes passed. Gnawing nervously on the end of a pencil, Scarlett stared at the blank screen. When no message came back, she typed in another.
“Love you. Really happy you’re home.”
The second she sent it, she received Jake’s response.
“Don’t bother,” it read, tersely. “Going to bed.”
“Shit,” said Scarlett aloud, banging her fist down on the desk so hard it hurt and sending a pile of papers fluttering to the floor like feathers. Why did everything have to go wrong in minute one? Why must he take everything so personally? Picking up her phone, she called his cell, but he’d switched it off, obviously in a huff.
“This is Jake Meyer. Leave a message.” Even the recording of his deep, North London growl made her stomach churn. It had been too long since they’d made love. She couldn’t bear it if she had to sleep alone again tonight.
“Darling, it’s me,” she said, her voice as conciliatory as she could make it. “Please don’t be angry. I wasn’t expecting you tonight, and I can’t let these people down, especially not this week. Call me when you get this, OK?”
“Knock knock.” Perry stuck his frazzled, overworked head around the door. “Sorry to disturb, boss,” he sighed, “but I need you downstairs. Janice Dickinson’s finger’s swollen up and they need you to resize the ring. Her PA’s on the couch, hyperventilating.”
“OK,” said Scarlett, switching off her computer and forcing Jake’s disappointed face from her thoughts. “Give her an herbal tea or something. I’ll be right down.”
Jake swung his rented Porsche Boxster into the garage at his apartment building, screeching to a halt in his reserved resident’s space. He’d had to give up the Maserati last month—a client had fallen in love with it and offered him an amount of money so crazy that he couldn’t in all conscience refuse to sell. The little white Porsche, with its girlie curves and jaunty chrom
e hubcaps, was a feeble replacement, but it was all the dealer had had in his price range (for appearances’ sake, he had to drive a relatively high-end convertible) and Jake loathed it with a vengeance. As a symbol of his recent emasculation, it couldn’t have been better. He might as well cut his balls off and hang them from the rearview mirror like a pair of fluffy dice.
Dragging his suitcase into the elevator, he pressed the button for the fourth floor morosely. He still couldn’t believe Scarlett had blown him off like that. After two weeks apart, she couldn’t even bail on a stupid work dinner to see him. Accustomed to being pursued by eager, cock-hungry women, it was an unpleasant shock to find himself consistently at the bottom of a woman’s priority list. Especially given that he’d spent the last two weeks manfully resisting temptation, in the form of Danny’s sexually frustrated Hampton housewife clients, in an effort to stay true to Scarlett.
Struggling into his apartment, he was even more annoyed to see evidence of her invasion of his life mocking him from every room. Her toothbrush stuck jauntily out of the mug in the bathroom beside his own; photographs of her family nestled on his mantelpiece—inbred snobs the lot of them; even her black cashmere shawl hung from the peg on the back of his front door as if it had a perfect right to be there. After the whole Rachel thing, he’d been forced, against his better judgment, to give her a key to his apartment and to allow semiregular sleepovers. Not that he didn’t enjoy her company, not to mention the more frequent sex. But it was another level on which he seemed to have relinquished control of his life. He was rapidly turning into a fully fledged Guy Ritchie, laughably playing the alpha male when the whole world knew it was his missus who really called the shots.
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