The Red Files

by Lee Winter

  “So you are in a relationship,” Josh said with a triumphant gleam. “Since you just compared yourself to a couple. And by the way Thadeus is glorious between the sheets, thanks for asking. Surprisingly flexible for all that muscle. It’s the Pilates.”

  “Ugh, too much information.” Lauren scowled. “And still no comment.”

  She stiffened when Cynthia Something’s hand drifted to the small of Ayers’s back and she indicated the door as she whispered in Ayers’s ear.

  “Oooh,” Josh said. “Was your lady of the luscious cleavage just propositioned?”

  “Eyes off her cleavage,” Lauren snapped. “And don’t be dramatic. She doesn’t mix business and pleasure. Apparently.”

  As she spoke, Ayers nodded, placed her glassware on the table, and headed toward the exit, hot on the towering heels of the media executive.

  “What the hell?” Lauren gasped. “She isn’t!”

  “Oh I do believe she is,” Josh said, eyes just as wide. “And people call gay boys fickle.” He popped a small salmon bite in his mouth and swooned. “God, I have to get Mariella’s caterer on speed dial to make me a batch of these.”

  Ayers turned near the door and scanned the room. Her gaze settled on Lauren and paused. Time stopped as she regarded her. Lauren held her breath. Cynthia glanced toward Lauren, then whispered something in Ayers’s ear and drew her attention back to her. That intense gray-eyed stare dropped, and soon both women were swallowed up into the crowd of finery clustered by the door.

  “Now I hate them both,” Lauren said, seething.

  “I very much doubt that, sweetie.”

  “She looked at me like I’m…” Lauren shook her head, trying to find the word. “Nothing?” She gave a bitter laugh. “She didn’t even need to steal my story. She just used it to get herself back on the hot list with the in-crowd. And who am I compared to them?”

  Josh studied her for a moment and leaned in. His breath ruffled her hair above her ear as his voice dropped to a whisper. “You are a woman in love with Catherine Ayers.”

  Lauren snapped her mouth open to deny it but found the words stuck in her throat. She flushed deep red and looked down, studying her Manolo Blahnik knock offs she couldn’t even remember buying.

  “Hey,” he said kindly. “Don’t worry, I’ll never tell. And neither will Tad.”

  “How could he know?”

  “We’ve talked about it. It turns out that he’s been watching you watching his aunt for many, many social events. Long before your fabulous, groundbreaking story.”

  Lauren’s eyes shot up. “But I was still in hate with her then.”

  “Were you? Really?” he asked earnestly. “Because Tad seems to think you came alive every time you were in her orbit, following her around, taunting her. It all looked like foreplay to him. He never breathed a word, though. Apparently that family of theirs isn’t huge on sharing anything related to The Gay. But if it makes you feel better, he thought kitty Cat enjoyed being hunted by you, too. Although anytime he mentioned your name, she hissed.”

  “Yeah, I can see just how deep her affection runs,” Lauren noted, “since she just left with someone else.”

  “Maybe it’s just networking,” Josh shrugged. “We both know she’s back in DC soon. She’ll need contacts. Probably all it is. A get-to-know-you thing.”

  “What if it isn’t?” Lauren said carefully, biting her lip.

  Josh sipped his champagne thoughtfully. “Then Ayers is a complete heel, and you deserve much better.”

  Lauren nodded, not sure what she thought about the idea of Ayers being a heel. She glanced around the room. Mariella and her team of assistants floated about, talking to guests and discreetly manoeuvring the handsy director so he was only ever stuck talking to men. He was starting to look quite frustrated.

  A-listers were thick on the ground, dripping with bling and self-importance. But they had not been the center of attention. Nor had Mariella’s incredible 30,000 fireflies under a dome. No, this evening no one had been able to tear their eyes off Ayers.

  The breathtaking Donna Karan gown was only part of the allure. The aura of success she now exuded was like a flame to Hollywood’s ambitious moths, and she had been drawing everyone in the room.

  Lauren felt a stab of jealousy. She’d had Ayers to herself for weeks. Well, a lot longer if she was being totally honest. No one had even wanted to be seen around the disgraced Caustic Queen. Now Ayers was at the top of everyone’s list as someone to be near. Hollywood and the media both loved a good comeback it seemed.

  But one among the thick crowd of admirers had done more than just shower her with compliments for her incredible scoop—and it was funny how many people forgot she hadn’t written it alone.

  Lauren stared unseeingly at the exit Cynthia had just whisked Ayers through and realized three things in quick succession.

  She missed Catherine—a lot.

  She possibly did love her. And had for some time.

  And she really hated Cynthia Something.

  * * *

  Sunday, June 16

  14 Days Remaining

  Lauren really really hated Cynthia Redwell. She’d found out the blonde’s name due to the fact she’d been photographed with Ayers at about four events now, and had made every Spotted column for A-listers. Every photo showed the stunning TV executive closer to Ayers than in the previous image. That morning, Lauren noted with supreme dissatisfaction, Cynthia had managed to be snapped with one arm wrapped around her waist. Her ring finger was also in the image, and it was definitely unadorned.

  With a peevish snarl Lauren tapped out a text and sent it to Ayers.

  Does Redwell actually ‘read well’? Or is her name ironic? She is in TV after all.

  To her surprise, a response pinged back almost immediately.

  She has written three books on the global financial crisis and fixing the US economy. How many have you written?

  Ouch, Lauren thought. Fucking ouch.

  She texted back. Took her three to get it right, huh?

  There was no reply.

  She resumed going through her emails in an even fouler mood. One from the Washington Post leapt out, and she opened it with interest.

  * * *

  Saturday, June 22

  8 Days Remaining

  It took Robert Redford to do it, but Lauren had actually come within three feet of Ayers. Although it was probably accidental on Ayers’s part, given she’d turned around just as Lauren stepped past a pillar at the actor’s lavish new cologne launch.

  They both noticed each other at the same time.

  Redwell was by her arm as usual, chatting to a tall man with a face made for infomercials. He was nine parts fake tan, one part teeth whitener. Orange is the New Blech, she thought as she recoiled from the carrot glow to his skin. Lauren vaguely recognized him as a TV motivational guru but couldn’t remember his name. Because, well, she was within three feet of Ayers.

  “Hey,” she said cleverly, before she remembered she was still supposed to be furious with her.

  “King.”

  “So formal.”

  Ayers’s gaze flicked to Cynthia and back.

  “Your date looks just fine,” Lauren said.

  Ayers ignored that. “You look well.” It had just enough of a question in it for Lauren to remember why it was a question.

  “No thanks to you.”

  Ayers’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh? What, pray tell, am I to be blamed for this time?”

  “Really?” Lauren asked. “Here? You want to do this now?”

  A look of consternation shot across Ayers’s face, and just at that moment, the TV executive finished getting her life tips and swivelled back to her companion.

  “Everything okay?” she asked, regarding Lauren like a roach plague.

  “Existentially, emotionally, or economically,” Lauren snapped, annoyed at being treated like one of Ayers’s ever-increasing number of groupies.

  “How about economically,” Re
dwell suggested with a dangerous lilt. “Since so few seem to understand the concept.”

  “Maybe some of us just find the concept of money boring,” Lauren shrugged.

  “I find most people claim they are bored by things that they can’t actually grasp.”

  “A 6000-year-old Ponzi scheme with a value worth less than the paper its promissory notes are written on?” Lauren asked innocently. “I know that much. Although I get the appeal of drinking the Keynesian economics Kool-Aid as a solution for all our woes. It’s just so gosh-darned simple.”

  Redwell stared at her incredulously. “You’ve read my books?”

  Lauren shrugged. Actually she’d Googled her books. And it didn’t take a rocket scientist to work out the woman’s simplistic spend, spend, spend theories to grow the economy were wildly unsustainable. Unless you were a politician, in which case they were voter catnip.

  “Who is your charming friend, Cat?” Redwell asked.

  Lauren saw the faint wince as Catherine reacted to the nickname.

  “Lauren King,” Ayers said evenly. “She co-wrote the SmartPay exclusive you so admired.” Her eyes narrowed at Lauren, warning her to back off.

  Lauren wondered why this woman’s opinion even mattered to Ayers. Unless it was the woman herself who mattered? Part of her almost hoped they were banging because that had to be better than Ayers admiring Redwell’s pitifully thin veneer of intellect.

  “Ah,” Redwell said and pointedly shifted her hand to Ayers’s arm as she studied Lauren intently. “Your co-writer who flitted about Nevada with you. I see.”

  And Lauren realized she really did “see.” Their gazes met, and there was a triumph in Redwell’s eyes as she idly kept her hand on Ayers’s forearm as though she owned it. “Aren’t you the perky little socialist?”

  “You should see her in her tractor cap.” Ayers smirked.

  “A farm girl?” Redwell laughed mercilessly. “I’m not about to get a lecture about real America am I?”

  Lauren shot Ayers a stung look. But instead of defending Lauren, she lifted her champagne to her lips and sipped as Redwell watched the scene smugly.

  Lauren took a step backward. “Well,” she said stiffly. “I’m sorry for intruding. I’ll leave you to—your people. One of us has work to do.” She lifted her glass, and her hurt gaze met Ayers’s. “Cheers to getting what you deserve.”

  She spun on heel and strode away before the sting behind her eyes turned to tears.

  Lauren found a small alley which backed onto the kitchen unloading area. In the shadows, she let the tears fall. She couldn’t stop them. Her brain repeated on a loop the pain and irritation she felt with herself for caring for a woman with no heart.

  Oh, they’d warned her. Nearly every person at the Daily Sentinel had joked at some time or other about how vicious Ayers could be. But, no, Lauren had assumed since she’d undergone the initial baptism of fire, she’d already survived the worst. An amateur mistake. She thought she was fireproof to the dragon.

  She’d never been more wrong in her life.

  Lauren felt exhausted. She was tired of all of it—the story, the nightmares, the thing with Ayers, the stress, and the unrelenting adrenalin. She needed a break. She rummaged around her clutch, found her cell, and rang Frank.

  “What the hell, King?” he barked. “It’s almost eleven! Where’s the fire?”

  “In my head,” she muttered.

  “Say again?”

  “Would it be a disaster if I took a few days off next week,” she asked. “I’m sorry to spring it on you, but I’m having a bit of a-a situation I have to deal with. And you know I haven’t had a day off all year and—”

  “Okay.”

  “What?”

  “I said okay. You’ve had a big story that’s gone global now, and that knocks people around in different ways. You’re overdue for a break, too. Take the whole week. We’ll start you on Daley’s round when you’re back. I already have a new kid lined up for the parties circuit anyway.”

  “Thanks Frank. That’s generous. Much appreciated.”

  “Yeah well, don’t spread it around. Night.”

  “Bye,” she said, hearing the click in her ear before she’d finished speaking.

  She stared at her cell, feeling desolate. She needed to talk to someone normal. Someone who didn’t know what the words Catherine Ayers meant to her.

  * * *

  Dear, uncomplicated Max didn’t question why her clubbing buddy had turned up after eleven on her doorstep unannounced. Instead she gave her an in-depth critique of the Star Trek marathon she was indulging in, leading her enthusiastically back to her TV.

  “Kirk or Picard?” Lauren asked by rote, when Max finally stopped to draw breath.

  “Pfft! Janeway.”

  Lauren gave a watery smile as she arranged herself beside her friend on the vivid green sofa. She remembered asking Ayers the same thing once. At the thought of the other woman she began to silently cry.

  Max skidded to a halt, mid-sentence. “Hey, kiddo, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m fine,” Lauren said, shocked she’d seemed to have lost the ability to keep her shit together.

  “No, my friend, you definitely are not fine.”

  Lauren exhaled. “I may have gone AWOL from a big event tonight.”

  Max was silent for a moment. “Okay. Musta been pretty crappy guest list then,” she joked.

  Lauren gave a sheepish grin. “Yeah. Robert Redford.”

  Max grinned back. “Exactly. So some C-list hack no one’s ever heard of.” She passed her a box of tissues.

  Lauren’s phone beeped, and she pulled it out to find the screen lit with “Ayers.” She resisted the urge to snarl as she debated whether to even open the text. She wasn’t really up for any more of Ayers’s blow-hot, blow-cold, blow-nuclear-winter shit.

  She considered the name for a full minute, and then finally tapped the message, opening it.

  Where ARE you?

  Lauren growled. What the hell did she care? And no way did she want to deal with Ayers, her snide date, or that bitchy tongue for round two. She angrily turned her phone off and slammed it back in her clutch.

  Max, wisely, said not a word, instead changing the subject to dissect the artistic merits of Star Trek: Voyager’s captain in a tank top fleeing super-sized bugs.

  * * *

  Sunday, June 30—a week later

  9:23 p.m.

  Last Day

  Max had been a saint. When Lauren had first arrived at her tiny apartment, she’d been dying to wallow, but the burly security guard somehow seemed to realize that. Max had earnestly explained how she had some “projects kicking me in the ovaries” and wondered if Lauren might want to spend her week off staying with her and giving her a hand?

  So, with nothing better to do, and not liking the dark places her mind kept meandering to, Lauren began to help on Max’s projects. She tuned up her Hummer so it purred like a kitten. She upgraded her terrarium so her tiny turtle had more legroom. She found herself up a ladder installing some ceiling lighting in her living room that needed two sets of hands and a blind eye to ridiculous ’70s decor. It was like a waterfall of glass cubes.

  “That is seriously trippy,” Lauren said as they both stared up in awe when Max finally hit the light switch. Every shimmering cube radiated a different color.

  “An actual friggin’ rainbow,” Max agreed happily and clapped her hands. “I’m such a cliché.”

  Lauren gave a small smile, wishing she could muster more enthusiasm for the riot of glass.

  “Hey,” Max said kindly. “I don’t want to intrude or anything, but whoever she is, she’s not worth it.”

  Lauren looked at her, blinking back the tears that suddenly threatened to fall again.

  “Shit,” she snapped, wiping them viciously with her hand. “I’m so pathetic. We hadn’t ever been on a single date. And we only had one night together. But I’m a mess.”

  “Mm,” Max said, and led her to the sof
a, and patted her arm. “Stay there, I’ll get the reinforcements.”

  She returned moments later with a six-pack of beer and some leftover pizza. “Okay,” she said, “It might have been only one night, but I’m thinking it meant a lot more to you than that, am I right?”

  Lauren reached for a beer. “I’m so stupid actually thinking it could go anywhere.”

  “And you know for sure she doesn’t feel the same way?”

  Lauren shrugged. “I don’t think she feels much of anything. She was so cold the morning after; then she barely spoke to me for the next two weeks. The night I first came here, she’d tag-teamed with some stuck-up TV bitch and mocked me for my old tractor cap.” She sniffed. “God, listen to me. Look, I know just how pathetic that sounds.”

  “Well,” Max said sliding a plate and a large slice of pizza over to her. “First, I like your tractor cap. It’s you, you know?”

  “Old and falling apart?” Lauren suggested dryly.

  “Nah, kiddo. It says you’re not afraid to be yourself in a place where everyone is fake as hell.”

  Lauren gave a wan smile. “Thanks.”

  “Second, there’s a lot of effort from your one-night-stand lady just to make you feel bad. I’d say she feels something at least.”

  Lauren paused.

  “So whoever she is, that’s a lot of game-playing just to tell you she doesn’t care,” Max concluded.

  “Or she’s a total bitch and really doesn’t care that she hurt me,” Lauren said.

  “That is also a valid option. So there’s only one solution.”

  “What?”

  “We need a Janeway/Seven marathon with a drinking game. Every time Janeway checks out her pet Borg we take a drink.”

  “And how does this help?”