“Yeah, but I forgot his last name.” I sighed. “I’ll just take my room key. Thanks, anyway.”
Mike threw a tantrum that would do any preschooler proud. “Aw, man! Come on, I won’t snore or anything! Come on, G!”
“I’m going to take a quick look around the casino for Ces, and then I’m going to bed. I better not see your face again until tomorrow morning. Meet you right here at ten,” I told him, gathering up my bag and purse. “Adios, muchacho.”
My deep, dark slumber (featuring nightmares of being chased by Jon Bon Jovi and Bret Michaels) ended abruptly at 8:38 A.M., according to the luminous alarm clock on the nightstand. I rocketed into a sitting position, scared and disoriented, and as my racing pulse slowed, I realized three things:
I was in a Vegas hotel room.
Someone was pounding on the door.
I was going to have to maim Mike Jessup.
I groped for the lamp switch, pulled on the pair of jeans and the tank top I’d worn last night, and prepared to confront the traveling companion from hell.
I flung open the door and recoiled from the harsh fluorescent light in the hallway. “This had better be good, or I swear to God—”
“Gwen! Hi! Did I wake you?”
Both hands flew to my mouth as I backed away from the willowy curves silhouetted in the doorway. “Oh. No?”
“Great.” Harmony swished around me into the hotel room and started flicking all the lights on. “ ’Cause I really need to talk to you. I ordered room service—they’ll be right up with breakfast. That’ll give you a minute to…brush your hair.”
I didn’t even bother asking what was wrong with my hair. I just snatched my comb off the dresser and started raking away at my scalp. “So. Harmony.”
She curled up on the edge of my rumpled bed, tossed her hair back, and tucked one leg underneath her. “Yes?”
I concentrated on pulling on my socks and not making eye contact. “I thought you were filming down in Mexico.”
She nodded. “I am. I have to be back there tomorrow night. But I have today off, and I need to talk to you.”
Words to strike terror in any ex-girlfriend’s heart.
She leaned forward, stacking her red-manicured hands under her chin. “I’ll get right to the point. I talked to Alex last night. I heard you were over at my place making frozen waffles.”
“Yes, well…”
She whipped a nail file out of her purse. “Waffles are poison.”
I could see the tabloid headlines now: “Bottle-Blonde Slashed in Monte Carlo: Cops Seek ‘Nail File Killer.’”
I threw myself on her mercy. “Harmony, I apologize. I shouldn’t have interfered with your parenting style. I’m sorry. I know you want to keep Leo healthy.”
“Well.” She smiled but kept that nail file pointed in my direction. “I was raised on milkshakes and candy bars and it never did me any harm. Besides, I know how Alex eats. He and Leo have probably had nothing but pizza and takeout for the past week.”
She fixed me with that strong, glittering gaze again. “It’s just very sad, nutritionally. And Western health care is so far behind.”
“So far behind what?”
“Synchrona, of course.” She regarded me with great pity. “I just thought I should let you know about waffles. Poison! Also bread, red meat, cheese, processed sugar, citrus fruit, cow’s milk…”
I stared at her. “How have you not died of rickets?”
“Oh, I’m very centered. Anyway, that’s not what I flew out here to talk about.” She paused. “I want to talk about Alex. You and Alex.”
I opened my eyes as wide as they would go, hoping this made me appear innocent and guileless. “What about us?”
She brandished the nail file again. “Like you need to ask!” Her laugh, though girlish and light, seemed forced. “I know what’s going on between you two.” The smile vanished. “And I have some questions.”
As would any woman aspiring to become the fiancée of a man who spent his evenings talking car maintenance, child care, and Eggos with his recently dumped lover.
I kept a wary eye on the silver glint of the nail file. “Harmony, I assure you—”
The knock at the door made both of us jump.
“Room service,” announced a muffled voice from the hall.
“Excellent!” Harmony leapt to her stiletto-clad feet and minced over to let the uniformed delivery guy in. He unveiled a linen-draped tray bearing fresh o.j., fruit, yogurt, granola, and some unidentifiable beige glop.
I tipped him on his way out, then frowned down at the ecru mess on the china plate. “What on earth is that?”
“A soy and eggplant omelet. No actual eggs, of course.”
Great. Now she had armed herself with a knife and fork. She took a seat at the circular table in the corner and motioned for me to join her.
I spooned up a bite of yogurt, squared my shoulders, and decided to deal with this head-on, the way I should have from the beginning.
“All right,” I said. “Let’s talk about me and Alex.”
“Let’s.” She finally put down the sharp metal objects and placed her hand over mine. “Alex loves you.”
I dropped the bowl of yogurt. Live, active cultures splattered my shirt, my jeans, the carpet.
She started to laugh. “Chérie! Don’t look so horrified.”
“But I’m—no, he doesn’t,” I sputtered.
“Sure, he does. Well, he did, anyway. And I can see why.”
“You can?”
“Sure.” She shrugged. “You’re the opposite of all the other women he’s dated before. Even me.”
I tried to look surprised. “You don’t say.”
“Honest! He used to be into the rescuer role or whatever. He had a thing for drama queens who would screw up his life. Can you believe it?”
“I can’t believe that. That’s unbelievable.”
“But you’re different. You’re stable, you have a real job, and you look, you know, like a real person.”
Through herculean effort, I managed not to react to this. “Harmony. What can I help you with?”
“Well…” She beckoned me closer. I leaned over the table and tried to stay upwind of the omelet.
Even her throat-clearing was dainty and delicate. “Alex and Leo adore each other. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” I agreed, although the only thing obvious to me was that no one had told her about the waterlogged state of her upstairs bathroom.
“And, I mean, of course Alex adores me too.” She beamed and jingled her diamond-studded bangle bracelets.
“Uh. Huh.” Two direct hits to the stomach.
Alex adored her? But she just said…
“He’s so romantic,” she gushed. “Just yesterday, he sent me flowers on the set. All the way from L.A.! Imagine that!”
“I’d really rather not.”
“And you know our history. We picked up right where we left off in the romance department.”
I wrapped my hand tightly around my butter knife. In the space of ten seconds, I had gone from fearing for my own life to contemplating murder.
“That sounds…” I swallowed back the bile flooding my throat. “That sounds…words fail me.”
She pursed her Angelina Jolie lips. “Right where we left off. That’s the problem. We didn’t leave off in a very good place. I guess we were in love or whatever, but mostly we just fought. He kept saying I was irresponsible.”
“Get out of town.”
“I know! And he couldn’t stand it when I flirted with anyone in front of him. Not even his friends! He drove me crazy with all his talk about maturity and responsibility! Hmph!” She shook her head and chugged her entire glass of ice water. “Anyway, cut to present day. Now that we have Leo, the man is still like a broken record. Maturity, morality, blah blah blah. I do my best to get along with him, but honestly! It’s like herding kittens!”
I was still fixated on the bombshell she’d dropped a few sentences back. �
�But what about those flowers he sent you?”
She started fiddling with her spoon. For the first time since she’d barged in, she looked a little unsure of herself. “Oh. Well, the card only had Leo’s name on it. But Alex must have ordered them, ’cause I’m pretty sure Leo hasn’t figured out how to use my credit cards yet.”
“But you said Alex was romancing you.”
She sighed. “I might have exaggerated a wee bit.”
I pushed back from the table, then leveled my gaze at her. The power dynamic in this relationship had flip-flopped in the space of thirty seconds. “Harmony. Why are you screwing with me?”
“All right, okay! I’m screwing with you! I confess!” She tossed her spoon to the carpet. “But it’s only because Alex loves you more than me! I need your help!”
I coached my expression into my patented Therapist Poker Face. “What do you need my help for?”
She was sobbing prettily, one tiny fist pressed to her lips. “I need you to tell me how to make Alex love me!”
“Excuse me?”
“He doesn’t love me the way I am now! He thinks I’m flighty and frivolous!”
“Now, let’s not project,” I lectured. “How do you know that he thinks that?”
“Because he told me I’m flighty and frivolous! He doesn’t even like me. And I can’t stand him, either! He is, like, the grand prize, lifetime winner of the Wet Blanket Award.”
“Uh-huh. Well, given that you can’t stand him, why do you want him to fall in love with you?”
“For Leo, of course. I’m gonna do whatever it takes to be a kick-ass parent, and if Alex is willing to put up with my shit, then I guess I’m willing to put up with his.”
“Very magnanimous of you.”
“I know. But I can’t spend the next thirteen years living like this while we wait for the kid to head off to college.” She dabbed her eyes with the bedsheet, musing, “Although, his preschool teacher said he’s practically a genius, so maybe he can skip a grade, and then it’d only be twelve years…” She shook her head. “Whatever, every conversation at our house is like a frickin’ Aesop fable. I can’t possibly put up with it unless I’m getting some.”
“Some what?” I asked, praying that her answer would be “aromatherapy” or “stock dividends” or “prescription tranquilizers.”
“Sex.” She tilted her head and grinned at me. “I’ll sacrifice a lot for my little Pookie, but I think a celibate marriage is asking too much, don’t you?”
I just looked at her.
“Especially with Alex C. He’s killer in bed.” She nibbled her bottom lip. “Or, at least, he was five years ago. You would know, Gwen! How’s he now? Still mind-blowing?”
“I am not having this conversation,” I said to myself as much as to her. “I am not even here right now.”
“You two are perfect for each other. So discreet!” She giggled. Good to see that this discussion was only scarring one of us for life. “Well, anyway, if I’m marrying him, he’s gotta worship me like the goddess I am. So I need you to teach me how to be a good fiancée. Starting now.”
I shook my head. “Listen. Seriously. I can’t help you. First of all, you can’t make anyone love you, and second of all, this is so sick and wrong on so many levels.”
“Oh, come on!” She wrung her hands. “Just give me a few pointers on how to be more like you.”
“You want to be like me? Okay, here goes: find unsuitable man. Fall head over heels. Realize too late that your judgment is worse than Mary Jo Buttafuoco’s. Repeat.”
“No, you know what I mean! Come on, Gwen.” She leaned forward. “Don’t you want Alex to have a happy family?”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Yes.”
“Well, so do I. So teach me how to be the kind of woman he wants for his wife. I’ll do whatever you say. Even if it goes against Synchrona.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Wow.”
“Yeah. I’m desperate.”
Technically, I had no professional conflict of interest here. I could chat with her casually, refer her to books and other resources. This wasn’t the same as being her therapist. But if I helped Harmony to become a woman of purpose and substance, I was effectively putting the final nail in the coffin for whatever Alex and I had together. Plus, what I said before about it being so sick and wrong on so many levels.
Then, the coup de grace. “Don’t you want Leo to have a happy family?”
“Harmony,” I said, “for someone who’s not Catholic, you certainly have mastered the art of the guilt trip.”
“Ohmigod, how did you know?” She laughed. “I went to parochial school back in Wyoming! Lott County Sacred Heart, class of…well, obviously, I can’t give you specific dates. My publicist would freak. But yeah, I grew up Catholic. Nuns, Latin mass, the whole enchilada.”
“And now you’ve gone over to Synchrona?”
“Yep.”
I nodded. “That explains a lot.”
“That’s exactly what my agent says.”
Catholic guilt meets New Age rationalization? I was hopelessly outgunned in this little psychological skirmish, graduate degree or no graduate degree. Resistance was futile. “Oh, all right. I’ll give you a reading list. But I’m not sharing anything personal. And after today, you’re on your own, got it?”
She rummaged through her purse and whipped out a little notebook with a leather cover embossed with the Prada logo. “Deal! Let the spiritual growth begin! Where do you want to start?”
Harmony’s cell phone rang two hours later, by which point we were deep into our fourth mimosa. And the discussion about fidelity had devolved from the level of Mars and Venus to Brenda and Dylan.
“I know you don’t want to hear it, but flirting with other men is second- or third-degree cheating.” I slurped the pulpy dregs from the bottom of my champagne flute. “Plus, it just pisses people off.”
She scribbled this down. “I can’t even flirt? Well, there goes my career.”
“Welcome to monogamy, babe.” I opened my mouth to continue, only to be cut off by a high-pitched, electronic version of “Isn’t She Lovely?”
“Hang on.” Harmony frowned down at the phone’s digital display, then headed for the hallway. “Gotta take this. It’s my Pookie.”
“Well, don’t tell him I’m here,” I said. With Harmony gone, I had a moment to collect my wits, at which point I realized two things: one, I was getting pretty chummy—not to mention buzzed—with the enemy, and two, it was almost eleven and I hadn’t heard from Mike.
Right on cue, the hotel room phone rang. Before I could even get the receiver all the way to my ear, I heard Mike hyperventilating.
“G-dog! G-dog!”
“What?” I demanded. “Did you find her?”
He stopped gabbling long enough to draw breath. “Find who?”
“Cesca.”
“No, but oh my God, G-Dog, guess who’s playing the Hard Rock Casino tonight?”
I waited.
“Daddy Long Legs!”
I frowned. “Who?”
“Daddy Long Legs! The best metal band that ever walked the earth. And”—he gasped for air—“guess what else?”
I smote my forehead. “You’re the worst boyfriend ever?”
“They’re looking for roadies! They’re hiring for their comeback tour!”
“We’re supposed to be looking for Cesca. Remember her? The woman you pledged your undying love to?”
“I’m gonna apply to be a roadie for Daddy Long Legs.” His voice was hushed with awe. “They have to hire me. It’s…it’s my dream come true. A miracle.”
I glanced at the door. Harmony showed no sign of returning. “Listen up, Mike. We came all the way out here to find Cesca, and you’re not leaving—especially not with a band sponsored by Aqua Net—until we find her. Got it?”
Big, annoyed sigh. “I guess. But I don’t see how we’re ever gonna track her down. It’s like finding a needle in a—oh, wait, there she is!”
“She just came into the lobby. With your wedding dress and some tall black guy I’ve never seen before.”
Harmony started knocking at the door. “Gwen? I’m ready to come back in.”
I focused all my energy on the phone.
“Do not let her get away,” I commanded Mike. “I’ll be right there.”
19
“Good Goddess.” Harmony gasped as I raced into the hall, slamming the door behind me. “Where’s the fire?”
“Down in the lobby. Come on.” I dragged her toward the elevators. En route, I gave her the rundown on who Cesca was, why we were looking for her, and how to behave around Mike Jessup.
“Just pretend he’s not there,” I advised, all the while jabbing at the illuminated button marked L. “And if he won’t stop ogling your chest, try pointing across the lobby and gasping, ‘Isn’t that Vince Neil?’”
“Don’t worry. I learned how to handle those guys back in my beauty pageant days.” She flashed me a dazzling Miss America smile. “And F.Y.I., hitting that button over and over won’t get us down there any quicker.”
I paced the perimeter of the tiny mirrored elevator while it stopped at every single floor to pick up passengers.
“Don’t mind her,” Harmony cooed to the bespectacled old couple with cameras around their necks and plastic cups of nickels in their hands. “She’s a psychologist.”
“Say.” The man squinted at Harmony. “Aren’t you that actress from Chicago? The Welsh one?”
“No, no,” corrected the thin, pale teenage girl who stepped in at floor 19. “She’s Harmony St. James, from Twilight’s Tempest.”
There was much rejoicing among the populace of Elevator Number Five. Harmony glad-handed everyone, the anemic teenager posed for a photo with her soap opera idol, and the elderly couple marveled over their good fortune.
“Imagine! We just get on the elevator and run smack dab into the rich and famous,” the old woman crowed.
“This is what makes America great,” her husband agreed.
Harmony shook her golden curls back and laughed. “Did you hear that, Gwen? I make America great!”
Exes and Ohs Page 18