You follow the series, rapt, as Crispin suffers through detox, undergoes therapy, and interacts with the other residents. It’s like watching some kind of bizarre caricature of the person you once loved. The hurt and anger you pushed aside resurface momentarily, and then are overcome by empathy for Crispin as he struggles with his sobriety. You find yourself rooting for him, praying for his recovery, and more than once impulsively picking up the phone, then just as quickly stopping yourself from contacting him.
By the end of the twelve episodes, Crispin is clean and sober and ready to move out and take another stab at living in the “real world” with all of its temptations. The finale promises a follow-up episode two weeks later. You can’t wait to see whether he’s succeeded. Depending on what the episode shows, you might just reach out to him after all.
Watching that final episode, you realize you’ve dodged a major bullet. A self-proclaimed Celebrity Relapse success story and recovery guru, Crispin has moved back into his home and taken on a bevy of booty-shorts-wearing, midriff-baring Crispettes. He inducts the girls into a bizarre boot camp which includes a strict diet and exercise regime, various duties which include alternately fawning over Crispin and catering to his every need, and “classes” taught by Crispin on celebrity comportment, acting, singing, and posing for photographs. The girls sign a contract to live by Crispin’s rules in exchange for room, board, and his tutelage.
You have no idea whether he’s found a lucrative revenue stream, a way of ensuring companionship (regardless of the quality), whether he’s making some kind of strained attempt at reality show fame, or whether he’s gone completely insane, but you’re grateful you listened to your gut and didn’t pick up that phone to text him during the early episodes of the show. You silently wish him well and once and for all release him from your heart.
More than anything, you’re grateful for Sasha. Through all of your ups and downs throughout the years, your silly flings and serious heartbreaks, your successes and failures, Sasha has been a constant.
As you prepare for your fourth world tour, you look around your home—at the baby grand in the corner, the comfy sofas and ottomans, the lush gardens bordered by solid privacy walls. Each element so carefully selected. In a rare moment of silence and solitude like this one, you wonder whether you would have spent so much time curating the trappings of perfection if you’d known how little time you’d actually get to spend here. You would never have guessed that, instead, you would find perfection in spite of—and perhaps because of—all of the many messy detours you’ve taken throughout your journey.
You hear the door click open and shut as Sasha struts into the room, the heels of his boots clicking across the marble tiles, a stack of garment bags slung over his back.
“Hey, Mama!” chirps a high-pitched voice.
Your heart instantly squeezes with joy as a curly, little head pops out from behind Sasha and a compact body comes running into your arms.
“Hi, baby!” You cover Valentine’s round, cocoa-colored cheeks with kisses and run your fingers through his springy curls. His huge, green eyes are the color of the ocean on a sunny day. You could look into those eyes forever.
“You ready to get to work?” Sasha asks, unloading the garment bags into the living room sofa. “Val’s going to help us pick. Right, V?”
“You got it, Daddy-o.” The child nods vigorously, curls bouncing wildly. “Mama’s gonna do a fashion show! And then we’re gonna go see the Fife-full Tower.”
You laugh as Sasha unzips the first of the garment bags and extracts a glittering, fringed bodysuit.
“Woah!” Valentine exclaims, eyes wide.
“We have to go on a long airplane ride first,” you remind him for the fifteenth time. “And Mommy has to do some work before we get to go explore. But you and Daddy will be with me the whole time.”
“Yay!” Valentine jumps up and down in his Velcro sneakers. “I’m gonna watch movies on my iPad the whole plane ride. And I’m gonna take one million pictures.”
Thank goodness for technology you think. At last, Val’s old enough to accompany you on the entire tour, and you can worry less about the long flights and train rides that ferry you from venue to venue. He may actually remember some of this trip—especially if he takes one million pictures. Together, you can begin assembling an extraordinary scrapbook that will remind you all of your adventures even long after you stop touring.
The next morning, you board the private plane to London, the first stop on the European leg of your world tour, Swarm.
Sasha takes Val’s hands as he gamely climbs the “giant” stairway leading to the plane. “Freddie!” he screams with delight, spotting Freddie waiting in the sleek plane. He immediately jumps up on Freddie’s lap.
“Oh my goodness,” Freddie takes Val’s cheeks between his hands. “You are getting too big! Wait a second”—he squints hard at Valentine’s face—“are you growing a mustache?”
“Noooo!” Valentine laughs. “That’s just some chocolate!”
“Oh, thank goodness! I thought I was going to have to teach you how to shave!” Freddie tickles Valentine, who doubles over with laughter.
As the flight attendant secures the cabin, you feel an overwhelming sense of pride at the life you have created. You gaze with love at your little family: Freddie, who has become like a father to you and a grandfather to Valentine. Sasha, who is the perfect life partner and an incredible parent to your child. And little Valentine, the joy you never knew was missing in your life. One day, you’ll tell Valentine how he came into the world, an in vitro baby created out of the pure, platonic love you and Sasha share. For now, you bask in the perfection of this moment, with everything you love in the world right here beside you.
The lightness you feel as the plane ascends matches the lightness in your heart. You watch the world below you growing tinier and tinier until it disappears below a wispy cover of clouds. You smile at Sasha and Freddie, take Valentine’s small hand in yours, and know that, at last, you have found your happily-ever-after.
THE END
To take Honey on a new Bedventure, go back and choose a new path.
From page 26 . . .
“So, what exactly is this confidential information you have to share regarding the whereabouts of my mobile?” Crispin asks.
You try to think of a gentle way to tell him but decide to just come out with it. “I have it,” you say.
“Have what? My mobile?”
“Yes,” you tell him.
“And where might it be?” he asks.
You walk slowly over to the rainbow wig, lift it from the vase on which the wig sits, and reach down into the vat of rice, causing grains to overflow onto the countertop. You fish out the phone, and more grains go spilling onto the floor.
“What?” he asks, confused, brushing rice from the phone and pressing the buttons. After a few long seconds the screen illuminates. “At least it works.”
“Thank goodness,” you breathe. “Crispin, I’m really sorry.”
Crispin looks up at you, genuinely puzzled. “I’m just trying to work it out. I lose my phone, which you know I’m going bonkers trying to find, then somehow it ends up under a wig on your makeup counter in a vat of rice?”
“It’s a long story,” you say. “Essentially what happened was it slipped out of my hands and ended up getting dunked in water. So we were trying to dry it out.”
“We who?”
“What?”
“You said, ‘We were trying to dry it out.’ Who is the other party in the aforementioned we”?
“Oh, Sasha.”
“Mmm,” Crispin replies, scrolling through something on the phone. Finally, he looks up at you, apparently satisfied that the phone is operating normally. “But why wouldn’t you want to tell me? Not likely I’d be worried about an honest mistake, would I?”
“I know you wouldn’t. It was just one of those things that happened so fast, and I didn’t have time to think, and then I felt terrible
.” You reach for Crispin’s hand, which he reluctantly lets you take. “I wanted to try to dry it out to be sure it still worked.”
“I still don’t get why you wouldn’t just tell me, Honey.”
“Sorry.” You really do feel terrible, and there isn’t a good explanation. “There’s no other reason.”
“Okay then. Well, thanks.” He lets go of your hand and slides the phone into his pocket, not quite making eye contact as he speaks. “I suppose I should be going. I need to catch up on a few things. Return some texts. Now that I have my mobile.”
“Wait, where are you going?”
“S’pose I’ll check into a hotel room,” Crispin looks past you toward the door. “Got loads to do. E-mails to return. I’ll check in with you later.”
“Okay,” you say. You know he’s upset and so you decide not to push it.
Crispin pops a quick kiss onto your cheek and heads out the door.
“Damn,” you whisper quietly as you tighten the belt on your robe.
* * *
The next morning you leave early for Las Vegas. Sasha listens to you retell the story during the long drive. “He’s full-out sketchy, Henrietta. I’ve been trying to tell you that all along.”
“I think he was just reacting to me obviously not telling him the truth. I’m a terrible liar.”
“Well, he’s a pretty good liar, and that’s worse,” Sasha huffs.
You stare for a long moment at Sasha’s profile as he expertly pilots the huge bus along the interstate. You know he knows you’re waiting for him to tell you more, but his eyes remain focused on the road and his lips remain firmly shut.
Finally, you say it. “Tell me what you saw.”
He glances over at you for a split second. “Do you really want to know?”
“No, not really.” You’re suddenly chilly, and you cross your arms over your chest and reposition the air vent. “But I think I have to know.”
Sasha pushes back from the steering wheel, stretching his long arms. “All right, Henry. But you’re not going to like it.”
You wait patiently for him to speak.
“The basic gist of it was, he’s still talking to Trixie. Often. A bunch of flirty bullshit. But then some of it reads like some kind of crazy code. There’s still definitely something going on. I would not be at all surprised if they aren’t doing some kind of contraband together. Or worse.” He pauses for a moment to let it sink in. “You need to lose him, Henrietta. I’ve been trying to tell you.”
You sit silently staring out into the glare reflecting from the long stretch of highway and let Sasha’s words sink in.
Finally Sasha breaks the silence. “You there?”
“Yeah,” you say. “Just processing.”
Sasha reaches over to give your hand a squeeze.
“It’s fine,” you tell him.
“It’s not fine. And you don’t have to act all tough. But it will be fine.” He lets the silence unfurl for several long minutes then yells, “We’re going to Vegas, baby!” at the top of his lungs, making you jump out of your seat. “Sorry, but the mood in this bus needed lifting.”
You laugh. “You scared me to death!”
“But I made you smile.”
“You always do.”
“Don’t you forget it!” Sasha rolls down his window to let in the dry desert air as you continue down the long road that seems to unfurl endlessly before you.
At last, an array of neon lights blooms into full view against the dark desert sky as you pull into the long, circular drive in front of the Maxamillion Resort and Casino. A monstrous, incandescent fountain dances at the entryway, its water creating a deafening roar as you exit the tour bus.
You instinctively duck your head and push your huge sunglasses up to cover your face as you walk through the hotel’s revolving door entry. As it turns out, your attempt to go unnoticed is completely unnecessary. The lobby is so full of glamorous gamblers that not a head turns in your direction, even when the little concierge comes to greet you, dipping and bobbing as he leads you to a bank of elevators that will take you to the penthouse suite.
You hastily dump your luggage and take a quick tour of the opulent penthouse. All glossy black marble and gleaming gold accents, the living room’s wall of windows offers a breathtaking view of the glittering Vegas Strip. You can’t wait to experience it.
Freddie speeds into the room. “All good?” he asks, nodding at the surroundings.
“It’s gorgeous!” you tell him.
“Glad you’re happy. Nine p.m. is your guest DJ gig at the Max, the nightclub downstairs. That’s all I have lined up for you tonight. After that, you’re free to get some rest.”
“I’ve been resting all day.” You glance back down at the shimmering lights below you. “I’m planning to find out what everyone’s been talking about. It’s my first time in Vegas.”
“Well, you take it easy, Missy.” Freddie turns to leave the room. “Keep an eye on her, will you please?” He points a finger at Sasha, who replies with a mock-salute.
Sasha converts the lone, unused bedroom into a makeshift closet and dressing room. Rolling racks laden with couture line both walls. You skim into the fitted silk bustier and the skintight leather leggings he’s laid out on the bed then you walk to the bathroom to check out the finished product. The bustier fits beautifully, allowing you a little breathing room while still lifting your assets just enough to be tempting. The leggings are perfectly tailored to hug every curve without revealing too much. The tip of your ponytail just touches the small of your back when you tilt your chin up slightly. It all works.
Sasha meets you in the great room, a pair of strappy, metal-studded Louboutins slung over one finger. “You look killer,” he growls.
“Come on, let’s get you down to the club.”
“The clock is running and we are not staying one second past the hour mark. I am not missing Carlie’s show.” Sasha’s high-school friend, Carlie, née Carlton, has hit it big in Vegas and headlines a popular burlesque review, Carlie’s Angels. “Freddie’s coming to see it too.”
“What, I’m not invited?” you ask.
“You can come too, don’t get your panties in a bunch, Henrietta. I didn’t know what you had planned. I was going to extend an invitation.”
“Hmm,” you respond, annoyed that your inclusion is apparently an afterthought. “I’ll see what I feel like after the appearance. Maybe I’ll join you.”
“Whatever, Miss Thing. Come on.”
On the walk to the club, Sasha goes on and on about the DJ you are about to meet. “DJ Jett is only the most famous DJ on the scene right now. Travels all over the world doing gigs. The Max must have given him a pretty sweet deal. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of him.”
“The name sounds kind of familiar.”
“Kind of familiar? Girl, you are working too much. Anyway, I’m going to get a selfie. He is H.O.T hot.”
The club is a pulsating bath of frenetic energy. Lasers cut across the fog-filled air and bodies merge and separate on the dance floor. Waiters and waitresses in skimpy black uniforms thrust trays of neon-colored drinks above their heads as they deftly make their way through the crowd.
DJ Jett is tall and muscular, and bobs his spiky blond head to the beat as he spins a record on one of two complicated-looking turntables. He pushes a few buttons, adjusts a series of levers, then turns his attention to you.
He lowers his headphones and pushes his sunglasses up onto his head. His eyes are breathtaking, a shade of blue so light as to almost be translucent, and his face is oddly familiar. When he speaks, it all falls into place.
“I’m Jett,” he says, the thick Australian accent unmistakable. “Pleasure to meet you.” He extends a large, warm hand. “What?” he asks when you stare, dumbstruck. “Is there something in my teeth?”
“No,” you laugh, the initial shock wearing off. “I just realized who you are. I’m a little starstruck. The Silversmiths was probably my all-time favor
ite show.”
Jett takes a step back and raises his platinum eyebrows. “You are starstruck meeting me?” he marvels. “Well that’s a laugh.”
An unattainable crush during your formative years, Jett was the adorable teen heartthrob on the popular family sitcom that made him famous. You’ve probably seen every episode at least five times.
“So you’re DJ’ing now?” you ask, immediately embarrassed by the stupid question.
“Seem to be,” he answers, giving you a wink and sliding his sunglasses and headphones back into place. As the track ends he takes the mic and introduces you. “Let’s make some noise for Honey Noble!” he purrs into the microphone, causing the crowd to erupt into cheers and applause. “She’s just arrived in Vegas and her first stop is right here at the Max?” Once again, the crowd goes wild. “Catch her Nobility Tour this weekend—if you can still get tickets!”
You lean in so he can hear you. “Thanks for the plug.”
“Not that you need it, I reckon,” he replies.
You spend the next hour dancing and helping Jett spin tracks. Sasha manages to snap a few selfies and break out a few crazy dance moves.
It’s difficult to talk over the noise of the music and the crowd, but Jett guides your hands, showing you how to move the levers to balance the music. Every touch sends a little shiver through you. You know it’s probably the adrenaline and the contagious Vegas vibe, pure pheromones floating through the foggy air, but you’re enjoying every moment.
The hour ends much too quickly, and Sasha is at your side the minute ten o’clock arrives. “Alright, Cinderella, you ready to blow this pop stand? Don’t want you turning into a pumpkin on me.”
“That’s a lot of mixed metaphors,” you respond, not really ready to leave.
“Not sure those are metaphors,” he retorts, arching one eyebrow, “and I think I’ve enjoyed watching Jett work almost as much as you have. But Carlie’s Angels is four blocks down and we still have to navigate our way out of here.”
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