Fifteen Minutes of Summer

by Wardell, Heather

  But I couldn’t let her change the subject. “Sure, Annabelle,” I said. “‘Make Yourself Proud’ is about Ward, right?”

  The twins jumped in unison and CJ’s baseball cap nearly fell off. Adjusting it, he said, “How’d you know that?”

  I hadn’t, until right then. Something about how Annabelle had spoken and the lyrics of the song had mashed up in my head and made it clear to me. I shrugged, not wanting to make a big deal of it. “Told you, I love the song.” I looked at Annabelle. “He treated you really badly, but you’re still protecting him?” I felt crappy pushing the kid, but I’d seen the guardian checking her watch and I knew I didn’t have much time left. “Why bother? Does he deserve to be protected? If he hurt you, shouldn’t he suffer?” My throat tightened. Were my former friends saying stuff like this about me right now?

  Ignoring the guardian’s murmured, “Don’t say a word,” CJ nudged his sister and said, “See? Told you. Make the bastard pay.”

  “CJ,” the guardian warned, but she should have worried about Annabelle. “He... ” The singer buried her face in her hands but I could still hear her say, “He got Taffy pregnant.”

  I had read that Annabelle and her childhood best friend Taffy weren’t seen together as much lately but nobody had so much as hinted that they’d been fighting. The twins’ publicity team knew how to keep things dark.

  Or at least, they did until I showed up.

  “He cheated, and lied, and so did Taffy,” CJ said, patting his sister awkwardly on the shoulder. “He acts like he’s all sweet and innocent but he’s a jackass and he deserves to be outed. I’ve wanted that, for both of them, since it all happened but Anna...” He shook his head. “She wouldn’t. But now you will.”

  Annabelle looked up, frantic. “You won’t, will you?”

  I couldn’t speak. How gullible was she?

  The guardian’s head fell forward as if she’d lost the will to live. “Of course she will, she’s a reporter. Come on, guys, let’s go.”

  Annabelle grabbed my arm but before she could speak another of the guardians rushed into the coffee shop and up to us. “Paps on the way,” she said. “Time to go. Now.”

  The twins, undoubtedly used to reacting whenever the woman’s voice hit that particular determined note, got to their feet. CJ began moving toward the door but Annabelle stood staring at me. “Please, you won’t tell, right? I don’t want--”

  “She will,” CJ snapped back over his shoulder, “and she should. Let’s go.”

  Annabelle sniffled and started walking away, but she turned back again and rushed back to me.

  “Don’t name my friend,” she said. “It was his fault. He told her he loved her. Please. Tell about him, but don’t hurt her.”

  I nodded, meaning it though I knew naming Taffy would be the better story, and I saw her face relax as she turned to hurry after the others.

  Alone, I leaned back in my chair and sighed. That hadn’t been bright. Now I either had to break the promise I’d made or suffer Simon’s wrath. I wished I could get stories without having to dig deep into the stuff celebrities didn’t want to reveal, but apparently that wasn’t what anyone wanted.

  Barely a minute after the singers were gone, five men with cameras, clearly the paparazzi the guardian had been warning her charges about, burst into the shop. They looked around in all directions at once, then one shook his head. The others checked a little more, then also gave up, as the first one, who I recognized from my New Year’s trip to Toronto, came over to me.

  “Summer,” he said, sitting down at the table in front of Annabelle’s abandoned cup, “tell me you didn’t talk to them. Tell me you didn’t get anything. I need something good this month.”

  I gave him my best bright smile. “Sure, I got something.”

  His eyes widened. “What?”

  I tapped my cup. “A lousy over-priced coffee.”

  He rolled his eyes at me. “You suck.” He chuckled. “I’m surprised you’re here, actually. I’d have figured you’d be off crying in a corner somewhere.”

  “Why?” I blinked innocently at him, though it hurt.

  He laughed louder. “Come on, I wasn’t born yesterday. Obviously you told Mimi where the wedding was. It’s written all over your face in that picture. ‘Sad about her ex remarrying’, my ass. But I guess Simon doesn’t want everyone to know you spilled the beans or our little starlet friends won’t trust you.”

  “Yeah,” I murmured, hating that I had to make them trust me so I could pry their secrets from them. “I guess not.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  As I unpacked my stuff at home the next night and thought about how I’d write my Annabelle article and tried to get myself geared up to make a few swimsuits after drafting the article, my phone rang.

  I glanced at it and wanted to throw it across the room, but instead sighed and answered with, “What do you want?”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Mimi said, laughter in her voice. “You?”

  “You know how I am. And you don’t care. So why are you calling?”

  Apparently giving up the friend act, she said, “I need to interview you.”

  “I’d rather drop dead.”

  “You can do that after. People want to know more about what happened at the wedding, so I’m writing a longer article.”

  “If anyone’s doing that, it should be--” I began, then cut myself off. I couldn’t write it, not when I had zero chance of getting quotes from anyone involved but me.

  “Exactly,” she said, sounding amused again. “So. Tell me what happened.”

  “As if you don’t already know.”

  She sighed. “God, you’re a pain in the ass. Do you want me to report what actually happened or do you want to tell me a story I can report?”

  I considered saying I wanted her to drop dead, but I knew it was pointless. “Fine. What happened? A camera crew, from some unknown company full of jackasses, showed up and ambushed the wedding.”

  “Unknown jackasses,” she mumbled over the sound of her typing. “And you weren’t the one who told them where to find it?”

  I swallowed hard. “Absolutely not.”

  She typed a lot longer than that required, and I said, “Look, what’s the point of this? Why don’t you just make something up instead of expecting me to do it?”

  “Because Simon wanted me to hear it from you, and I do what he says. Were you upset your former husband was getting married again?”

  “I-- what?” I hadn’t expected another question yet. Before she could repeat herself, I said, “No, I wasn’t. I was happy for them. I still am. I think MC’s great, and so is Kent, and I think they’re great together. I mean, why would I have made her wedding dress if I didn’t like them getting married?”

  “That,” she said, typing furiously, “is a good question.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “And you’ve talked to them since the wedding?”

  “No,” I admitted. “I didn’t think they wanted to hear from me, so I didn’t. I did contact...” I decided not to tell her. “I contacted someone, but I haven’t heard back and so I won’t be contacting the rest of them. Especially not Kent and MC. When they feel like they can talk to me, they’ll do it, and until then, well, I guess I’ll leave them alone.”

  “Got it. Give me a sec.”

  I waited, while she typed, then she said, “Okay, that’ll do. Article will be live in an hour.”

  I blinked. “That fast? Don’t you need to talk to Kent and--”

  “Did already. Well, Byron did. Later, Summer.”

  And she hung up, leaving me terrified of what they’d ended up revealing to Simon’s most intrusive and pushy reporter.

  *****

  It took Mimi two hours to post the article, during which I cried twice and demolished three glasses of wine, and I could hardly breathe reading it.

  Everyone’s talking about ‘the wedding that wasn’t’, and here’s our exclusive story on what happened.


  Summer said, “Absolutely not,” to the question of whether she did tell the camera crew where to find the ceremony, but her now-former friends from ‘Ragged Royalty’ don’t agree.

  At least, the one who would return our call doesn’t.

  McKent are nowhere to be found (on their honeymoon? in seclusion?) but Aaron was more than ready to give his opinion. “I can’t believe she’d do something so stupid,” he said of his former partner in ‘Summaar’. “Anyone with half a brain would know that MC wouldn’t want the media at her wedding. Summer must have done it to boost her TV career. I hope she’s happy with that, because she won’t have any of us as friends again after what she did.”

  When asked how the wedding went, Aaron said, “No chance I’ll tell you a thing. The whole day was a mess and that’s Summer’s fault and that’s all anyone needs to know. Poor MC, bawling--” He cut himself off then, but I think it’s safe to say the wedding didn’t happen if the bride was in tears. In tears, and in the dress Summer made her.

  We told him that Summer said she wouldn’t have made the dress if she hadn’t wanted McKent to get married, but Aaron sees things differently. “She made that dress to give her designer business a boost. When she first realized they weren’t airing the wedding her first reaction was to be upset that the dress wouldn’t be on TV. It’s all about Summer, all the time, and this time she went way too far. None of us ever want to see her again.”

  Summer told us she’d be waiting until her island buddies contacted her. From the sounds of it, she’ll be waiting a long time.

  When I finished reading, I set my laptop aside and wrapped my arms around myself, looking for comfort. Looking, and not finding.

  I’d made MC cry. I’d never seen her do it before, other than once on the island when she was exhausted and starving, and the mental image of her standing in front of the church in her dress sobbing tore at my heart.

  That damned dress. I had wanted it to be on TV, but was that so bad? I hadn’t made it for that reason. I really had wanted MC to have the perfect dress and the perfect wedding, since she had the perfect groom.

  For her, anyhow. For me, Ron was probably a better choice.

  Not that there was any hope of that now. If Aaron, who never took anything seriously, was even half as angry and upset as Mimi’s article had made him seem, then Ron must hate me.

  I’d been clinging to the hope that this would somehow blow over, that they’d calm down and I’d be able to tell them why I’d done what I’d done and it would be okay.

  I’d been wrong. Again.

  But right about one thing: all I had left was work. And I had to throw myself into it one hundred percent to make sure I didn’t lose it too.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Nice work, Summer.”

  I looked up, startled, to see Peter standing in front of me. I’d been so busy with my phone and the newest updates to the whole Annabelle saga that I hadn’t realized anyone was nearby. “Hi. Thanks. What?”

  He chuckled and took the seat next to me. “The Annabelle and Ward thing. Annabelle and Ward and Taffy thing, I guess.”

  “I didn’t bring Taffy into it,” I said. “That was all Annabelle.”

  I’d been surprised by that. I’d posted my article about the reason for Annabelle and Ward’s breakup, as promised without mentioning the name of the woman who’d been involved, but Annabelle’s publicist had immediately posted a public response explaining how sad Annabelle was that her boyfriend Ward and her long-time friend Taffy had betrayed her.

  But when I’d met Annabelle she’d seemed determined not to drag Taffy through the mud. Had I forced her to go back on that by telling the story, or had I given Annabelle what she’d secretly wanted: the opportunity to badmouth her former friend?

  I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Taffy, who’d told her boyfriend that the baby was his and was now seeing her life crash down around her, but public sympathy was entirely on Annabelle’s side.

  My cynical side suspected she had hoped for exactly this outcome and had used me to make sure she’d get it, but I didn’t like feeling that way. Even though my cynical side was probably right.

  “Well, whoever it was, you done good.”

  “Thanks,” I said, wondering if that was actually true and whether he actually believed it.

  He leaned a little closer. “I’m sorry about... the other stuff.”

  Since I was sitting in Simon’s waiting room for the first time since that awful ‘let’s sweeten the deal’ day, for a second I thought he meant that disgusting situation but then realized he was talking about the Kent and MC disaster. “Yeah,” I said, feeling the familiar helplessness rising in me.

  It had been nearly three weeks since the wedding, and though I’d originally intended not to contact anyone again I’d broken down and texted Ron maybe ten times to apologize and tell him how badly I wanted to see him to make him understand why I’d done what I’d done. He hadn’t answered any of them, so I couldn’t bring myself to call him and either not get an answer or get yelled at, and I also hadn’t been able to face contacting Kent. Aaron was out of the question after how he’d spoken about me, and Liv and MC-- “They’re not exactly thrilled with me, let’s say.”

  Peter shook his head. “No, I guess not. Especially MC. I’ve never met anyone as private as that girl, so she must have been...” He stopped, obviously realizing he wasn’t helping. “Sorry. I saw the footage of the camera crew’s arrival. No, none of them were happy. And they’re still not talking to you?”

  I shook my head, and he sighed. “Well, you’re brave, Summer. Thought so on the show too but you’re proving it now. You’ll do well in this career.”

  Why, because I was soulless enough to sell out my friends?

  I couldn’t say that, because I was afraid he’d agree to it, so I just smiled.

  Then I heard Simon saying goodbye to someone behind his closed office door, and I turned to Peter and said quickly, “No chance I can work with you yet?”

  He gave me a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry, but no. We’re still working out who’s doing what. Once we get things figured out, though, I’ll probably be in touch.”

  Probably. Not good enough. I had given up so much to get this career, and I had to stick with it. I wasn’t sure I liked who I was becoming as a result of it, but I’d lost too much to back down now. I had to become someone, somehow. I had to be known. I had to matter. If that meant sticking with Simon, I’d have to do it.

  That decision was tested when Simon’s office door opened and he came out wearing a black silk shirt buttoned too low so I could see far too much chest hair and tucked into jeans so tight he must have felt like ten pounds of ground beef in a five-pound package.

  “Peter,” he said, smiling at him like a shark while also patting the very lower back of the tiny blonde woman who’d been in the office with him. “Have you met Vicki yet? She’s our newest reporter.”

  Peter went over and shook the woman’s hand, and I watched feeling sick. Another new reporter? Was I being pushed out?

  Peter and Vicki left the reception area together, Peter tossing a “Bye, Summer” over his shoulder, and I noticed that nobody had bothered to introduce me to Vicki. Apparently I didn’t matter here either.

  Simon turned in his high-heeled and possibly platform-soled black boots and made for his office.

  “Summer’s here to see--”

  “Ten minutes.” He cut his receptionist off without breaking stride and shut the door behind him. The receptionist gave me an embarrassed shrug and smile, and I returned both.

  I sat for twenty minutes, going through some of the swimsuit business details on my phone and struggling both because of the small screen and because the numbers didn’t seem to add up and I couldn’t get it through my thick skull why. I’d made a few more suits and managed to post them on the website, and I’d shipped the one that had sold, but the history stuff still seemed screwed up and I couldn’t understand why. I got nowhere, other
than making myself more upset and frustrated, before Simon came out and said, “Okay, Summer, come on in.”

  I got up, feeling humiliated that he’d made me wait so long and angry with myself for not having left, and followed him into the office.

  But when he carried on, into the private back room, I froze.

  He looked back over his shoulder. “What?”

  I couldn’t speak. The idea of doing that again... I just shook my head.

  He gave me a picture-perfect quizzical smile. “What’s the--” Then he laughed. “No, Summer. I just want to talk. I thought we’d be more comfortable in there. The chairs are softer.”

  “Oh.” My cheeks went hot.

  “You match your hair, Red.” He chuckled. “Fine, we’ll sit out here.”

  He settled behind his desk and I managed to get into his visitor chair before my knees gave way from relief and embarrassment.

  “So, nice job on the Annabelle thing. Really nice.”

  “Thank you,” I mumbled.

  He shook his head sadly. “If only I could give you more like that.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “Why can’t you? I did do a good job. A great job.”

  “Oh, sure,” he said. “It’s just that there are so many other reporters around here. And now Vicki too...” He shook his head again. “I can’t give you all the best stories, you know.”

  I sat still, desperately trying to find an answer. If I agreed with him I’d be giving in. If I insisted that he give me the best stories... what would that cost me? What was I willing to pay?

  I just looked at him, and he nodded as if I’d spoken. “But you’re right, you did do a great job. You know, maybe I could see my way clear to taking care of you... if...”

  He didn’t have to finish the sentence. I knew all too well what he meant.

  Except I didn’t.

  He cast his eyes toward the door to the back room then back at me and said softly, “I’d need more from you than last time, though. All, let’s say. And then you could have your pick of stories. Payment for services, so to speak.”

  He smiled, obviously having amused himself.