by Josie Brown
“Duly noted,” I say, as I jimmy the door.
The house, a post-modern monstrosity, boasts curved walls of glass to take in the view of Hilldale’s hills and the ocean beyond. Between all the sun streaming in and the all-white color scheme, I have to shield my eyes to the abundance of light.
Roger’s office is in the loft above the living room. Windows are on three sides. The fourth side consists of a wall with a double door that leads to the master bedroom suite. Both spaces share a terrace. As I make my way to the other side of Roger’s desk, I hear a cat: a fat white Persian. It stares up at me from one of the two large tufted leather easy chairs facing Roger’s desk. When it stretches up and out, I scratch it under its chin.
It purrs appreciatively. The cat could do this all day. Unfortunately, I can’t.
I glance down at the desk: dark mahogany with ball-and-claw feet, it’s an antique from the nineteen-twenties. The top is covered with a green blotter. But there isn’t a computer on it– just an old Underwood typewriter.
“No computer? How can that be?” I ask Arnie. “I thought we'd tracked the ISIS text to this address!”
“We did,” Arnie insists. “Maybe it’s on a bookcase or the credenza? Look for a smaller device as well—either an iPad or a second cell phone.”
“On it.”
Beside the typewriter is a three-inch stack of yellow paper: Roger’s current work in progress.
I slide open the middle desk drawer to see if it holds any wireless devices. Nope, just a bunch of bills—and a rejection letter from his editor:
Sorry, Rog, old chap. Despite a stellar premise and your typical elaborate plot for an incomparable hero, we must pass on the book. The lackluster sales of your last novel….
Yikes.
And considering the mortgage on this place, no wonder he and Sienna are scrambling to win the show’s prize.
The desk drawers on either side of the middle one yield nothing. Nor does the bookcase, or the small table behind Roger’s desk.
I enter the master bedroom. Again, nothing on the bookshelves in there, or in the nightstands—
However, the nightstand on the right has a drawer containing an extensive collection of dildos of all lengths, girths, and tactile sensations.
“I think I’ve found Sienna’s happy place,” I murmur.
“More like a little shop of horrors,” Arnie retorts. “Doesn’t say much for Roger’s ability to please his lady. Ha, funny! If you read that dude’s books, you’d think he was hung like a—”
“Shhh! I hear something…voices!” I run to the door and peer down the spiral staircase. “Arnie, give me eyes—pronto!”
“Shit!” he exclaims. “Roger is home—with Sienna, and two medical orderlies. They’re bringing her into the house!”
If I go back out into the loft, I can be easily spotted, so I stay in the bedroom. The massive round bed sits on a platform too low for me to slip under it. The door leading to the balcony is locked, and its key is nowhere to be seen. There are two other doors. I open them: closets, damn it. Unfortunately, they are my only choices for a hiding place. Now, which is the one least likely to be opened?
I choose hers.
The voices are getting closer. “Jesus, New Girl, she looks as if she ran into a boulder! Can’t you and your goons be more careful with her?”
“We’re doing the best we can, Mr. Pembroke.” Emma’s voice sounds tired. Kowtowing to these pseudo-celebrities is taking its toll on her.
They are now in the bedroom. I peek through the door.
Sienna is certainly out of it. Her delirious groans are heartbreaking, but no louder than the grunts from the orderlies who gently position her onto the bed.
“You’re not leaving her there in—that thing.” Roger is pointing down at Sienna’s hospital gown.
“Despite my explicit directions, the only other thing she brought with her was a flimsy negligee,” Emma counters. “We couldn’t very well wheel her into the surgical suite in that! The network censors would have had a tizzy fit—not to mention it would have distracted the medical staff.”
“Well, she’s home with me now, and I can’t have her upset over something so important as sleeping in something other than silk.” I duck just as he whips around to the closet. “In there you’ll find a collection of chemises.”
Emma rolls her eyes but heads toward the door.
I leap out of sight just in time—
But she’s already gasped before I’ve had a chance to cover her mouth with my hand.
“What is it?” Roger asks crossly.
“Nothing…It’s just…that her wardrobe is so, er, stunning! Not to worry, I’ll be right out. Mr. Pembroke, please listen carefully to the orderlies’ instructions on how to take care of Sienna over the next two days.” Emma’s eyes open wide, looking for an explanation from me.
Time for charades. My hand signals indicate one word, three syllables. I mimic typing on a keyboard.
She shakes her head and points toward the other side of the door.
“Tell her to put on her Acme earbuds,” Arnie suggests.
Duh. I pull one of mine out and stick it in Emma's ear.
In the meantime, Roger is hyperventilating. “What? But…aren’t you going to stay and look after her? I need her awake, and fast—or I can’t complete my book!”
“Please, don’t panic!” Emma’s screech isn’t that reassuring. She’s finding it hard to reply with Arnie shouting in her ear COMPUTER! WE’RE LOOKING FOR A COMPUTER OR OTHER WIFI DEVICE. “The show will have a nurse here twenty-four-seven until she’s back on her feet—as good as new!” She turns to me, hissing, “First things first—I’ve got to shut him up. Help me find a gown for Sleeping Beauty.”
While Emma rummages through all the hanging clothes, I fling open drawers, looking for anything long and see-through. I slap her arm when I hit the jackpot: a drawer filled with sheer nude chemises and see-through lace gowns.
Even more interesting: in the drawer underneath all of Sienna’s lingerie is an iPad. Its top is also a keyboard.
Hmmm. Why hide it in here?
There’s only one way to find out. I insert the scanner, and then signal Emma: Five minutes.
She nods, grabs three or four of the gowns, and heads out of the closet with them, but leaves it open just wide enough for me to glance out.
“How about these?” she asks Roger.
“That one? No! It will never do. Considering what she’s just gone through, it may be too small now…okay, maybe this one…No, no, this one is much better! Now, help me put it on her.”
Emma stammers, “But…that’s what the orderlies are for!”
“They’re men! I’ll not have them gawking at my fiancée!”
“They were the ones who put her into this hospital gown in the first place! Believe me; they’ve see it all,” Emma argues. “Haven’t you?”
I can’t see, but I guess the men are nodding.
“Don’t argue with me!” Roger screeches. “Or I’ll have you fired—and the two of them as well.”
“We’ll wait downstairs,” one of the orderlies mutters. The next thing I hear is the sound of their footsteps going down the stairs.
“Now see what you’ve done? She’s waking up! Quick! I’ll hold her up while you replace that rag with something decent!”
The scanner’s buzz comes not a moment too soon. I pull it out and then upload it to Acme’s secure cloud.
“Got it,” Arnie assures me.
Good, because I’m out of here.
I nudge the door open a few more inches and peek out. Now that Roger has propped up his fiancée, Emma is straddling her to place the gown over poor Sienna’s head. Getting down on my hands and knees, I crawl out of the closet—
Only to run into Sienna’s white Persian cat.
Its MEOW is loud enough to turn Roger’s head in my direction. I hit the floor. At the same time, Emma pulls the negligee over Sienna’s head, purposefully tangling her charge’s
arms through the holes as well. Standing up to block his view, she declares, “Hey, um, Roger! I could use a little help here!”
I smack the cat on its ass. It shrieks. Realizing now that I’m more foe than friend, it hisses before bounding onto the bed—
To burrow in its naked mistress’s lap.
Instead, it gets tangled in the gown along with Sienna, who screams deliriously.
“That is some…er, mean pussy,” Arnie murmurs.
It’s hard for me to appreciate his pun—not now that Sienna’s eyes are open wide, and staring straight at me.
“Don…Donna…there…how…”
Before her moans make sense, I roll out of the room.
I can hear the orderlies waiting at the base of the staircase, talking and laughing about something: photos of Penelope and Sienna, apparently taken while escorting the unconscious women to their homes. The men are comparing notes on their sales of celebrity patients to the various gossip rags.
I don’t want to be around my competitors when photos of their black-and-blue bruised and surgically inflated chests hit the newsstands. As it is, I’ve overstayed my welcome at Casa Pembroke.
So how do I get out of here without running into the two mercenary orderlies?
“There are some photographers out front,” Arnie warns me.
Shit.
I run to the terrace. At this height, I’ll break my neck in a jump—
Unless it’s into the large kidney-shaped pool in the backyard.
As I take off in that direction, I measure its distance from the house with my eye. Can I make the leap from here?
Arnie is on my wavelength: “If you’re thinking of jumping into the pool, I’d suggest—”
Whatever he has to say next doesn’t matter since Roger is coming through the bedroom door. He’s arguing with Emma. “What do you mean, you don’t have her meds! Don’t you hear her? She’s hallucinating! My God, she’s accusing me of having an affair with the one who’s a slut…what’s her name? Oh, yeah, Donna—”
I leap.
It’s a clean jack-knife, making barely a splash.
I wish Jack had seen it.
Then again, he probably has, if he’s been monitoring the video feed coming in from my contacts.
As I swim silently to the side of the pool, I wonder how the action will stack up against tonight’s show.
I guess we’ll see in a couple of hours.
The sun broils overhead. In a moment, any damp handprints I leave as I hike myself over Roger’s back wall will soon disappear without a trace.
I hear an appreciative whistle. Ah, it’s Jack. He waits on the hill overlooking Roger and Sienna’s house.
Jack has a large beach towel in his hand. Better still, he has the picnic lunch I’d packed for the Garretts.
As my man wraps me in the towel, he asks, “Dark or white meat?”
I kiss him before reminding him, “I’d like a bit of both, please.”
Up here, Hilldale seems peaceful.
As if reading my mind, Jack reminds me, “Four more days.”
Each one will seem like an eternity.
All the more reason to savor this little moment together.
Chapter 15
Big Love
“I don't know that a marriage based on love can go the distance: the sacred holiness of the institution; the sanctity of marriage. Without it, it's just random couplings, with no purpose or stick-to-it-iveness. How will we survive the bad times on just love?”
—Nikki Grant
There is no definition of marriage.
For some, it is a convenience.
For others, it is a commitment.
Still others strive to turn a temporary state of infatuation into their own reality show.
Reality Check: You’re just a couple of people stumbling through life—together.
You want him to slay your dragons. He hopes you can cast out his demons.
You are not the princess waiting for her savior. And he isn’t some Prince Charming who has been looking for you all of his life.
For you to sustain your happily ever after for a lifetime, remember one rule: you’re in this thing together.
The kids are happy to have us home with them, but no more than we are. It’s a relief to not have Hot Housewives of Hilldale’s harsh spotlight trained on us, if only for one night.
Along with the rest of the competitors, Jack and I already received texts from Brin:
We look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Day Four, no later than 6 p.m. sharp! By then, we anticipate that all of the brave Housewives who were generous enough to donate (their bodies) for charity will have recovered sufficiently to watch the videos of support that have been pouring in from your devoted fans! You’ll also hear your husbands’ awe and adoration for the sacrifice you made to become their ideals—and you’ll catch up with their adventures as well! Afterward, we’ll tally up your points! For those who have disappointed their fans with a lackluster performance, extracurricular tasks are available to boost your vote counts.
“She might as well have added, ‘Donna, this means you’—exclamation point!” I grouse to Jack.
“Hey, quiet in the peanut gallery!” Phyllis hushes me. “The show is about to start!”
All eyes turn toward the screen. In anticipation of doom, Jeff squints out of one eye. Trisha, also expecting the worst, covers her eyes with one hand, but the fingers are spaced so that she doesn’t miss one horrifying moment.
The opening credits are a montage of jaw-dropping moments in the Housewives’ lives. Intercut between lovey-dovey moments between husbands and wives are hair-raising shouting matches caught on camera when the couple thought they were in private. And yet, Penelope’s drunken escapades at the Casa del Mar are the most groan-worthy.
The montage fades away to a shot of Dominic in yet another new tuxedo, standing beside the full-length television screen in the media room of the Housewives’ mansion. “Welcome to Hot Housewives of Hilldale, where the question on everyone’s lips is surely, how big are my neighbor’s”—he pauses in order to leer directly at the camera—“fibs? And what will she do when they are exposed to the public?” He shifts his gaze to a second camera. “Tonight, you’ll see several acts of courage, all for a great cause: the very noble charity founded by one of our competing families: Plastic Surgeons Without Borders.”
The camera follows him as he walks to the coffee table in order to pick up the television’s remote control. “And tonight, you’ll be shocked to learn that we’ll be saying goodbye to one of our competing families.” He pauses, as if anticipating the gasps heard around the world. “The reason for their leaving is outrageous, as it was caused by the actions of a competing Housewife.” As the camera comes in for a close-up, Dominic raises a brow. “Stay tuned to find out who’s been naughty to one who has been nothing but nice…”
“Emma!” Ryan’s bark comes in so loud through our ear buds that both Jack and I sit straight up. “Should we be concerned?”
“Um…I don’t think so, Boss,” Emma mutters. “Let me see what’s up…”
Mary pats my arm. “Mom, are you okay?”
Shit! Was I caught on camera somehow?
I nod. Forcing a smile on my lips, I add, “Yeah, sure. I’m just anticipating the worst with this show.”
She frowns. “Me too. Um…I should warn you. He may be referring to something that I said…to Jenna.”
I hug her. “Honey, don’t worry. My guess is that it has nothing to do with you.”
She turns her head in order to whisper into my ear fervently: “Why? What did you do?”
I put a finger to my lips.
She sighs, frustrated and anxious.
We’ll learn about the culprit soon enough.
Except for a minute-and-a-half clip of “the one housewife who elected out of surgery but who’s always available to pose with adoring fans” (a.k.a., me, in all my retro polka-dot slut gear glory, posing for a selfie with the couple at the
grocery store) for the most part tonight’s show focuses on the women who opted for Franklin’s breast enhancement offer.
To build tension as well as to fill the show’s first hour, the patients are given six-minute personal profiles that begin with mournful stares in full-length mirrors. They then give soul-searching monologues as to why they think their decisions will be “a chance to wrong a few rights” (according to Penelope) or “because looking good means feeling great!” (Sienna) or “because my husband deserves the best wife in the world…” (Patty) or “I changed my mind because it’s for a good cause…” (Cassandra).
They are then taken in hand by Franklin, who describes completely but gently what the operation will entail; and how best to facilitate a speedy recovery. He ends each interview by showing them “before” photos, along with ones with their heads superimposed over computer-generated fantasy breasts.
A gal can dream, right?
Ironically, it won’t affect the one part of the chest he cannot touch: their hearts. Any doubts or feeling of self-loathing they have still swells somewhere deep within that organ.
I take that back. His ability to convince Cassandra to change her mind speaks volumes as to where her heart lies:
Firmly within his grasp.
The patients’ profiles then move to quick overhead cuts taken of their operations. Each of the women is honored with a music playlist chosen specifically for her: Katy Perry for Penelope, whereas Sienna gets a Taylor Swift mix. Patty’s operation is performed to Rhianna, while Cassandra goes under the knife with some old-school Beyoncé: Dangerously in Love.
The women’s faces and bodies below the chest are sheathed. Still, the viewing audience is surely gasping over Franklin’s terse commands for sharp or probing instruments. It must also be gulping back any bile that rises with each expert incision. As Franklin’s operating team oohs and ahhs over his deft skills, I’m sure that, like my family, viewers are also awed by his skills.
And when he finally declares, “Beautiful! That’s a wrap…” after each operation, no doubt applause can be heard around the world.