by Lia Lee
“Don’t you think you’re overdoing it?”
“What, the necklace?”
“No, I mean you hanging out with golden boy, and screwing 24/7,” she says, perching her slim rump on the bathroom counter next to the mirror. “You’re with him all day ‘working’.” She air quotes. “And then going out at night, too. Has he made any kind of commitment? Is he taking responsibility for the baby? Making plans for the future?”
I straighten and admire the necklace in the mirror, swiveling left and right. Brilliant sparks flash as the light reflects off the stones and the gleaming metal. “He needs time, Claire. He’s under a lot of pressure at work, trying to get ROO-TV off the ground in time for the launch. He has priorities.”
‘Priorities?” She gapes. “I should think legitimizing his offspring would be a priority.”
I turn to face her. “He’s a very high-profile businessman. I can’t ask him to drop everything and focus on me. We didn’t plan this, you know. It just happened.”
“That’s no excuse,” Claire says, shaking her head. “I just worry about you, Mils, and the toll it’s taking on you and our studio.”
“What do you mean? Derric’s given us a fifty-k contract. The studio’s never been in better financial shape.”
“I know that, and it’s great but, what about you? From what you say you’ve been going at it like rabbits. Are you sure it’s good for the baby? And what happens when the network launches? Will he go back to Australia? Leave you holding the bag... in this case, a diaper bag?”
“We haven’t discussed it yet.”
“Well, you’d better discuss it, and soon. I say this not just because you’re my business partner, Mils, but because you’re my best friend, too; we’re practically sisters. This isn’t what I want for you—to end up a single mom, taken in by false promises and left high and dry.”
“That won’t happen, Claire. Everything will be fine. We just need time to get to know each other first before jumping into anything permanent.”
Claire harrumphs and folds her arms across her ample chest. “Those sound like his words, coming out of your mouth. He’s either into you, or he’s not. It’s not a complicated choice, Mila.”
I look at my friend, not knowing what I can say to her that will put her at ease. We’ve always looked out for each other, had each other’s backs, and now is no different. I know she doesn’t want to see me hurt, but I can’t help wondering if there’s something else at play here. “You’re not... jealous... are you? Of Derric and me?”
Claire looks aghast and drops her arms to her sides. “Oh, Mils, how could you think that? No, no... jealous? No! I just want you to be happy. Does he make you happy? Honestly?”
I reach over and take her hands in mine. “Yes, Claire. Deliriously happy. Honest.”
Claire holds my gaze for a moment, then smiles and gives a satisfied nod. “Okay then. Where are you going tonight?”
“We’re going to see The Lion King, finally! I’ve wanted to see it for so long, and it’s been sold out almost every night, but I managed to get tickets. They were expensive, but they’ll be worth it.”
“C’mon, you’re dating a billionaire. Who cares what they cost?” She laughs. “I better let you finish getting ready.” With that, she slips off the countertop and exits the bathroom, leaving me in peace, more or less. What she doesn’t know is that I paid for the tickets with our company money. Derric was so busy at the station, I just decided to take care of it myself. I didn’t want to bother him about it, and he’d just bought me this fabulous piece of jewelry. I wanted an occasion to show it off.
I hadn’t lied to Claire, but I hadn’t exactly told the truth, either. Was I dating a billionaire? Sort of. Since the day we rented that cheesy room a month ago, where I told him the news, we’d been out together a lot—to movies, to dinner, and some sports matches. Other times we just stayed in at his place because he often worked late. I didn’t mind—since his place is a gargantuan 2500 square foot penthouse that I’m certain visiting royalty would envy. But everything revolves around his schedule, not mine.
What Claire did nail on the head was sex. We do have a lot of sex. A lot. Some might say an obscene amount, but it is fantastic every time. We can’t seem to get enough of each other. And she is right about something else. His words are coming out of my mouth.
There is no plan for the future. He never seems to have time to talk about it.
“Everything’s fine, I’ll support you no matter what,” he always says. “We’re still almost strangers to each other. I just want us to get to know each other better first. Rushing into things can backfire.”
Funny he didn’t seem to have the same reservations when we were in Sydney.
I take a last appraisal of my appearance in the mirror. Derric said he’d be working late again tonight, so I’m going to meet him at his place and leave for the theater from there. My deep blue, scoop-necked cocktail dress sets off the sapphires perfectly, and for this occasion, my explosion of curls is tamed with jeweled barrettes. I chuckle at the thought that if I wore it loose, my mane would look just like Simba’s.
I turn a three-sixty to check for stray hairs and lint on my dress and find none, but compulsively stroke my hands across my abdomen. I’m not showing yet, and I wonder how much longer I will be able to wear stylish, slim-fitting clothes and be seen on the town with my dashing billionaire. Will he still want me on his arm when I’m big as a house? Will he even still be here? He says he’ll support me; I have to believe he means more than just financially.
I take a taxi to Derric’s apartment tower. Because the doors open directly into his suite, I have to swipe a card key in the elevator panel in order to access the top floor. The cab zooms upward then slows as we reach the penthouse level. I’m excited about this evening, and I can’t help but smile as I get ready to step out of the elevator.
I’m already moving forward as the polished steel doors begin to part, and I can’t stop myself from stumbling over something that’s fallen crosswise right in front of the doors. A frightened shriek leaves my throat as I go down, arms outstretched to break my fall, and land awkwardly on the cold marble tiles. I’m not hurt, but a fall is never a good thing, especially for a pregnant woman.
I look around, confused by the mess all around me. What the hell happened here? Was it a break-in? How does that happen thirty floors in the air? The item I’ve just tripped over is a metal floor lamp lying on its side, its glass globes smashed on the tiles. The dining chairs are overturned, and the wall-mounted flat screen has a nasty, spider-web crack across its dark surface. I rise carefully to my feet and hear Derric’s voice from the other room, uttering a string of curses so profane I think my hair might go straight. I’ve never heard him say such things.
I move toward the open doorway to peer inside, and narrowly miss getting struck by an object flying past. It smashes into the corner in pieces. At my gasp of surprise, Derric whirls around and sees me. He’s breathing hard from exertion, and a look of rage darkens his handsome features.
“What are you doing here?” he half-shouts.
I recoil from his harsh tone. “It’s just me, Derric,” I say, my voice reduced to a timid squeak. I glance nervously around the bedroom, which is also in disarray; the bedsheets in knots and clothing and papers scattered everywhere. “What on earth is going on here?”
“You should call before coming over,” he snaps, snatching a couple of shirts from the floor and tossing them on the bed. “I’m in the middle of something.”
I can see that. “But... you said to meet you here... We’re going to the theater tonight, remember?”
He looks at me curiously, still scowling. “Theater?”
“Yes, theater... The Lion King,” I say, growing worried at his foul mood and trashed surroundings. “Are we still going?”
“Shit,” he swears, raking both hands through his hair and taking a few paces back and forth. He stops and faces me, his expression softer but still owly. �
�I’m sorry. I forgot. We’ll have to go another time.”
“Another time? But... I’ve been trying to get these tickets forever,” I start to say. This isn’t like him to just blow off something we’ve planned. Clearly, something is very wrong. “Are you alright?” I ask warily. “This isn’t like you, Derric. What’s happened? Why is everything in such a state?”
“It doesn’t concern you,” he grumbles out, scooping up some loose file folders from the floor and pitching them onto a desk next to his open laptop. “You’d better go. I’m up to my arsehole in alligators.”
“And this is how you handle it? By going ballistic and throwing shit around? I tripped and fell over a lamp coming in here, just so you know.”
He looks up at me, his blue eyes wide. “Aw, fuck... I’m sorry. You alright? The baby...”
“We’re fine, but clearly you’re not,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ve never seen you like this, Derric. You’re scaring me.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Mila, this isn’t about you. I’ve got a shit-ton of work to do. Can’t you see that? I gotta blow off a little steam sometimes.”
“A little steam? The place looks like a bomb hit it.” Is this some dark side of him I don’t know about? I take a step backward, confused and frightened of this angry man who doesn’t resemble the Derric I know. I’ve heard the story too many times about men who are all sunshine and sweetness in the beginning and then turn into abusive bastards when the doors are closed. I don’t want to believe that could be Derric. “What happens when you need to blow off a little steam with a newborn in the room?” I ask.
We stare at each other, suspended in this unpleasant, awkward standoff until his cell phone breaks the silence. He reaches for it and checks the display.
“I have to take this,” he says, his voice stiff. “It’s an important business call.” He glances toward the door. “Would you mind?”
He wants me to leave? My mouth drops open in disbelief. An important call? More important than discussing our child? My heart shrinking, I retreat from the room and retrace my steps through the mangled mess of his living room. Maybe Claire was right after all. His priorities really are fucked-up.
Chapter Twelve
Derric
No Apologies
Be careful what you wish for. You may get it.
The hackneyed phrase buzzes in my ears as I try the number for the fifth time today. It doesn’t even go to voicemail. It’s like she’s switched it off. Who does that? No one I know under the age of forty. We’re all addicted to our devices, and I’m no exception. Since Mila hasn’t been taking my calls, my phone has become like a broken appendage; useless and painful to lug around.
I try her office number only to hear her bespectacled young assistant deftly screening my calls. How can I explain what happened, or even apologize if the woman won’t hear me out? Won’t even acknowledge my existence? I’ve seesawed between remorseful and indignant for the better part of two days. When I said it was an important business call, I thought she’d just wait in the other room, not do a complete runner.
I’ve lived alone, done things my own way for so long. I never gave a shit who disapproved of my behavior, especially when it came to Steve. Sometimes I think I acted like a shit on purpose, just to get his goat; give him a taste of how it felt to be treated as insignificant and undeserving of respect. It never mattered to him what I did; I gave up trying to please him long ago—when he burned down the doghouse I’d built for my new puppy because it was only ‘half a job’.
Well, I gave as good as I got, but the old bastard really outdid himself this time. Just when things were coming together at the station, he tears it all down with one phone call. Seems I can’t hide from the paparazzi as well as I thought. Business-wise, I’ve kept a low profile, just like he ordained. Not out of any desire to impress him, but to earn my freedom. To make my mother proud, God rest her soul.
And what does he do? Hires a goddamn PI to follow me around. Real Philip Marlowe shit, hiding in bushes and behind lamp posts, taking pictures and video, and live streaming them to guess who. He’s been creating a goddamn documentary of Mila and me, going out together, dining together, touching and kissing. Thankfully nothing beyond that, but enough to stir the evil brew bubbling in the Steven Faris cauldron of cock-shittery.
He calls me to say if I don’t dump her, he’s pulling the expense accounts and sending another producer to replace me. Someone he can trust; someone who won’t litter the countryside with a trail of bastard children all jockeying for a piece of the Faris fortune someday. Weren’t there enough Ozzie Sheilas willing to drop their knickers for me without luring some poor American retro flower-child into my web of debauchery?
That’s when I lost it. That’s when the shit—and most of my furniture—hit the proverbial fan. While physically destroying inanimate objects give me some satisfaction, I’d rather they’d been my father’s expensive trappings. Or even better, his own wrinkled, brittle carcass. Unfortunately, that’s when Mila came in. I’d forgotten our plans for that evening and just about everything else in my shitstorm of rage. Now I’m the one inside a flaming doghouse.
Hearing my father’s lurid opinion of Mila makes my blood boil, and all the more determined to pursue our relationship. That anal-retentive buzzard has no right to judge her or anyone else he’s never even met. Somehow, I’ve got to make it up to her. This whole sorry episode makes me realize how empty I’d feel if she weren’t in my life. Just because Steve made a shit job of fatherhood, doesn’t mean I will. It’s finally hit home for me: she’s having my baby—our baby, brand new and perfect, something of mine that Steve can’t touch.
But I’m going to need some help seeing as Mila won’t even speak to me right now. I redial a number on my phone’s call list. After three rings, I get an answer.
“Yes, hello,” I say. “May I speak with Claire Strait, please?”
***
“Don’t let the building super catch you up here while I’m out,” Claire says, handing me an extra key. She dusts her hands and surveys the area the two of us have swept and tidied the best we could in one lunch hour. “I never realized what a great view we actually have from up here. Nothing compared to yours, I suppose.”
“Well, since we’d have a hard time getting her to come there short of a kidnapping, this will have to do,” I say, following her gaze across the adjacent rooftops. “In fact, it’s perfect.”
“Now, remember, she gets home around five—make sure you’re out of the apartment before then. I’ll make myself scarce—tell her I’m meeting a friend for dinner straight from work and not returning until late.” Claire turns and walks toward the heavy fire door that we’ve propped open with an old metal chair we found discarded on the rooftop of the building she and Mila live in. “Gotta get back to the office before she suspects something,” she calls over her shoulder.
“Claire,” I say. “Thank you.”
Claire does an about-face. “You’ll be welcome when you’ve put a smile back on my best friend’s face.” She looks me up and down, a wry grin curling her lips. “Not sure what she sees in a surfie slacker like you, but there’s no accounting for taste.” She throws me a wink and disappears down the concrete stairwell.
I’ve certainly been a slacker in some areas of my life, I’ll admit. Money can do that to a person, especially when it’s handed to you without having to earn it for yourself. But earning Mila’s trust is something I’ve got to really work for. And it starts now.
I set up the table, chairs, sound system and strings of lights I had sent over from the props department at the station. Nothing says movie magic like stuff that’s already been in a movie.
After a couple hours of probably the most energy expended in a day outside of a fitness gym, I use Claire’s key to slip into the girls’ flat to clean up and change. After meeting the caterers and showing them in, I’ve got just enough time for one final detail; the note on Mila’s door and the trail of breadcrumbs—in this ca
se, rose petals from a florist down the street—that will lead her up the steps to the roof and back into my life.
The sun is setting behind a jagged horizon of spires and towers as I stand on the rooftop, waiting. It’s a reasonably warm spring night here in New York, but I do miss the Aussie heat and sunshine. Could I really stay here permanently? It’s curious how the seasons are opposite; it’s coming on autumn back home. I switch on the sound system and check my phone for the time. 5:20 p.m. What if she doesn’t turn up? Might serve me right for taking so long to realize what’s important.
Just then I hear the heavy door squeak open. I move to the side of the table where there’s a clear line of sight to the stairwell entrance, and out of its dark orifice, Mila appears. My chest feels like it’s about to cave in with my giant exhale of relief. She looks stunning in a white sleeveless dress, the sapphire necklace I gave her sparkling against her tawny skin. Her lawless curls tumble unbound over her shoulders. She pauses in the doorway and looks straight at me, then her eyes pan out to take in the makeshift, corny, but hopefully romantic tableau before her that I’ve spent the afternoon creating.
Miles of Edison-bulb light strings swag overhead and a plate of pillar candles flicker on the round table in the center of the brick and concrete space. A slight breeze flutters the hem of the white linen tablecloth and bobbles the stems and leaves of the four giant flower arrangements positioned around the table. Potted dwarf evergreens wrapped in fairy lights stand guard on the brick sill at the edge of the roof, while polished silverware and glossy china reflect the myriad points of light from every direction.
Mila gasps and presses a hand to her throat. She seems frozen in place, afraid to venture forward as if the whole scene is a mirage that might disappear once she gets too close. I hold out my hand. She lets the door fall closed behind her and steps slowly toward me. I draw her even closer as her palm slips into mine.