Jillian tried not to get mad. Owen fooling around with Maisy hadn’t been the reason for their breakup. They’d already been living separately when she walked in on them in Maisy’s dressing room.
Maisy had been too busy giving him a blow job to notice Jillian, but Owen had locked eyes with her before breaking into a huge cat-who-ate-the-canary grin. Instead of feeling enraged or betrayed, Jillian had quietly taken a step back, closed the door and felt a great weight lifted off her shoulders. Her innocuous date with a guy she’d met at an industry event was nothing compared to what she’d just seen.
Owen had taken her to dinner that night and by dessert, they’d agreed it was best if they officially ended their marriage.
“Let’s not fight, Jilly,” Owen said as he ran his fingertip over her collarbone. Instead of the familiar tingling she usually felt at his touch, Jillian was left cold. “It’ll spoil the mood.”
“Too late.” Jillian gathered her purse and what was left of her libido and stood up. She bent over, giving him an eyeful of her own cleavage and kissed him, hard.
“Where are you going?” he asked, confused. He pulled her hand down toward the hard bulge in his pants. Jillian gave it an affectionate pat as if were a cute puppy and not the reason they even bothered keeping in touch. “I got your favorite lube upstairs.”
“Don’t worry, Owen, it won’t go to waste.” She smiled at her ex-husband, knowing he’d be okay. “You have more than enough time to work your magic on the waitress.”
****
Jillian watched as Trudy went through a series of yoga poses that were supposed to increase her fertility. They’d set their mats off to the corner so they could talk with minimal chances of getting shushed by the stern yoga mistress.
“So you just walked out? Left him there with a hard-on and a hotel room?” Trudy rocked from side to side on her back, her knees to her chest. “Bravo, Ms. Winters. Brav-freaking-oh.”
“For whatever reason, the thought of getting into bed with him was as appealing as coming down with the stomach flu.” Jillian shrugged her shoulders, watching the door for the instructor. “Anyway, he got over it. He texted me the next morning that he’d had a great time with the waitress.”
“I guess he’ll be adding her to the rotation.” Trudy rolled up to a sitting position. “Not that you were just another booty on his booty call list.”
“Please, I was number one on his list, or at least I’d like to think so.” Jillian grimaced as she eased herself into a pigeon pose, her right knee protesting slightly as she bent it so she could extend her left leg behind her. “I just need a little time off from our…whatever you want to call it.”
“Good because I know this guy who is perfect for you. He’s in—” Trudy started.
“I’m going to stop you right there,” Jillian interrupted. “I’m going on a full-on sex sabbatical.”
“I’m not talking about sex, I’m talking about love, marriage and a baby carriage crap,” Trudy said. “This guy has definite relationship potential.”
“Thanks, but I’m going to pass,” Jillian said. “I know you’re trying to help, but my love and sex life need to take a backseat for now.”
“I’m doing exactly the opposite.” Trudy lowered her voice as the instructor marched in. “I got some this morning. That’s why I was late to work.”
“Good for you.” Jillian smiled as she arranged her long limbs into a full lotus pose, her hands resting serenely on her knees.
“Not for fun! I’m ovulating,” Trudy said. ”The hubby says his cock is going to fall off.”
“Didn’t he used to complain about not getting enough?” Jillian whispered as the soft strains of New Age flute music filled the studio.
“No, that was me. And thanks to all the hormones I’m on, I’m twice as horny and a thousand times bitchier. Not to mention bloated.” Trudy sighed she as struggled to place her right foot over her left knee. “Even I don’t want to fuck me, but I’m under medical orders to have as much sex as humanly possible.”
“It’ll happen. Why don’t you guys go away for—” Jillian swallowed the rest of her encouragement when she felt the wiry yoga instructor’s bony finger on her shoulder.
“You two are going to have to leave the studio if you don’t stop talking,” she admonished.
“Sorry,” Jillian mouthed with an apologetic smile.
Jillian went through the next series of poses until she felt it was safe to look over at Trudy.
“What a bitch,” Trudy whispered. “You should give her Owen’s number.”
Jillian pressed her lips together and somehow kept herself from laughing out loud.
****
Jillian sat cross-legged on the floor of her office, unable to work up the willpower to haul herself back onto her desk chair. She had literally fallen off the seat of her chair, something she only thought happened in clichéd romantic comedies.
“Jillian? Where are you?” Trudy dashed in, stepping around set design boards, shoe boxes and the various detritus that represented each of their working days.
“Here,” Jillian answered, her voice sounding hollow and defeated to her own ears.
“This is beyond unbelievable,” Trudy said as she grabbed the open copy of InStyle magazine off Jillian’s desk. “Who the hell is ever going to believe that a dipshit, no-taste airhead like Maisy York decorated her new house all by herself! That woman has to be told which foot to put which shoe on!”
“It doesn’t matter.” Jillian shrugged with great effort. “It says so right there in the second paragraph: ‘Besides starring in and producing her hit TV series, Maisy York, the multi-talented actress decorated her new Hollywood Hills completely by herself.’ Then there’s some blah, blah, blah and she says, ‘Bringing my vision to life was such a personal thing, I knew exactly what I wanted and I knew it would be that much more fulfilling knowing I did all the work myself.’ Shall I keep quoting? The whole article is burned into my brain. Forever.”
Jillian was more disappointed than angry. It had been a mistake to assume someone as selfish as Maisy York would ever share even the dimmest ray of limelight.
“What bull crap, pure bull crap. You should sue, write a letter to the editor, set her hair on fire,” Trudy seethed. “Start with her hair—she’s so conceited about it and most of it isn’t even hers.”
“I can’t,” Jillian said, pulling herself up off the floor. “She’s Maisy York and I’m a set designer with an agent who doesn’t return my calls. I can’t afford to get into a pissing match with her and she knows it.”
“This is so unfair. Call the editor. Or better, get a lawyer,” Trudy said, unwilling to give up on retribution.
“No, I’m going to be a grownup about it,” Jillian sighed, knowing it would be better for both of them if she didn’t bring up the fact that Maisy still hadn’t paid her. “I’ll have other clients.”
“I’m so mad, I can’t even think straight.” Trudy grabbed the thick magazine, rolled it up and twisted it as best she could. “And just because you’re going to be all high-road about this, doesn’t mean I am, too.”
“What are you going to do?” Jillian asked, curious to hear what her friend had in mind. “And it better not involve lighter fluid.”
“Worse,” Trudy said, her eyes dangerously narrowed. “I’m swapping out all her costumes for a size smaller. Even her shoes.”
Despite the disappointment Jillian was feeling, she felt herself smile. “That’s going to drive her crazy.”
“Exactly. Now get out of here. I have to switch out labels from her wardrobe.” Trudy hauled Jillian up and pushed her out the door. “Go get drunk or something.”
“Nah, I’m heading home.” Jillian reached into her desk and pulled out a small box, dropping it into her tote bag. “Have fun, Ms. Ortiz.”
“For the both of us, Ms. Winters.”
Jillian walked out of their office. It was late and everyone had already gone home for the day. She stopped by the almost-bare
craft table for a chocolate Twizzler, the only flavor sweet Maisy would allow on set. She bit off a piece and then another before tossing it, along with the box of freshly-printed business cards, into the trash can.
“This is bull crap,” Jillian said under her breath. She plucked the cards out and marched back to her office. “You’re right.”
“About what?” Trudy asked from her sewing machine, a seam ripper in hand.
“Maisy York can’t be allowed to get away with this,” Jillian said firmly. “I’m going to talk to her, not her assistant. She can’t deny the fact that I did all the work and more. I have the receipts to prove it.”
“Good! You talk to her and then we’ll burn off her hair,” Trudy said excitedly. “Or at have a bonfire of her extensions.”
“No.” Jillian looked over at wadded-up magazine. “Well… maybe.”
Three
Jillian held out her arm so Trudy could slip a wide, oxidized silver cuff onto her left wrist. Behind her, Valerie, Maisy’s hairstylist and makeup artist, finished back combing Jillian’s hair and was fastening it into a messy, low chignon at the back of her neck.
“You look great—tough, sexy.” Trudy held a pair of dangly earrings up to Jillian’s impassive but beautifully-made-up face.
“Not those. Never wear long or hoop earrings to a girl fight,” Valerie said as she gave her work a quick blast of Elnett hairspray.
“We’re not going to rumble,” Jillian said. “We’re going to have a discussion.”
“That bitch deserves a beat down of the first degree,” Valerie said as she sprayed her own spiky bleached hair before setting the can aside. “I mean it. What she did to you is a betrayal of biblical proportions.”
“I’m not sure it’s that bad,” Jillian protested.
“InStyle is her bible,” Trudy agreed. “Just hit her once. For us.”
Valerie pointed the sharp end of a rattail comb toward the studio where the crew was milling around, waiting for Maisy to emerge from her dressing room. “You’ll be a folk hero.”
Jillian shook her head. “We’re just going to talk. She knows what she did was wrong and I’m willing to give her a chance to make it right.”
“Whatever happens, you should keep this look,” Trudy said. “It suits you.”
Jillian stared at herself in the mirror. Dressed in all black, sleek, form-fitting pants, a long-sleeved knit top and simple unadorned leather ballet flats, Jillian looked like a particularly chic cat burglar. Her eyes were heavily lined with black liner so they looked an almost unearthly shade of gray instead of their usual dark hazel. Valerie had painted her lips the perfect shade of deep matte red—“The color of dried blood,” as she'd put it—but had kept her cheeks bare.
Valerie gathered the hairspray, dry shampoo, a comb and the makeup she’d used into a tote bag and handed it to Jillian. “Now you have no excuse not to.”
“I look pretty, but scary. Do men like that?” Jillian wondered aloud.
“They say they don’t, but they do,” Trudy answered as she nixed the earrings and left Jillian’s own small diamond studs in place. “Now march into that dipshit’s dressing room and demand justice.”
Jillian stood up and walked out of the make-up trailer. At the closed door of Maisy’s dressing room, she hesitated. Jillian had set the meeting through Maisy’s main assistant to make sure she was allotted a full 15 minutes, but for the first time since she’d decided to confront her, Jillian felt unsure.
Jillian had no idea what she could expect from Maisy. There was no chance that Maisy would call up the editors of InStyle and tell them “Oops! I sort of forgot to mention I worked with Jillian Winters.” Jillian couldn’t (and didn’t) want to quit her job over it, but she knew she couldn’t keep silent.
“I’m right, she’s wrong and whatever happens happens,” she said under her breath and gave the door two firm knocks. Almost immediately, it was opened by one of Maisy’s many assistants.
“You’re late,” the young woman hissed. “She’s on the phone. Your 15 minutes starts as soon as she hangs up.”
Jillian nodded and took a seat on a simple, mid-century reproduction chair Jillian had custom upholstered in a silk paisley print that cost as much per yard as a car payment. She looked around Maisy’s sitting room, noticing that nothing had been changed since she’d decorated it the year before.
Maisy had been effusive with her praise, complimenting Jillian’s work on the set, and had asked her to redo her dressing room. With a limited budget, except for the fabric which Maisy had purchased on a whim during a trip to London, Jillian had worked decorating magic. She’d turned a couple of boxy, anonymous rooms into an oasis of livable luxury within the space of a month. When Maisy asked her to redo her new home, Jillian had been quick to say yes, knowing that such a project would expose her work to the upper echelons of Hollywood’s elite.
From the other room, Jillian could hear Maisy’s irate voice as she laid into yet another hapless victim. Despite her resolve to be strong, Jillian gulped.
“I don’t care! And why should I? It’s my perfume and I want that bottle. I saw it first. Listen very carefully: if they want me to put my fucking face on that fucking box, they better give me that fucking bottle and tell fucking Kim Kardashian and her mother that they can kiss my perfectly-formed ass.”
As soon as the phone hit the opposite wall, Jillian watched as the assistant started the clock on her appointment.
“Maisy?” Jillian called out, knowing her presence wouldn’t be announced by the assistant. “It’s me, Jillian.”
There was a moment of silence from the next room before Maisy answered in a voice that sent chills down Jillian’s spine, “Come in.”
The assistant sent Jillian a terrified look. Jillian smiled back at her, rubbed her moist palms on her pants and went in.
****
Jillian sat on an unbalanced—but pleasantly weathered—vintage steel café chair, one of a pair Ives was willing to sell her at cost since the matching table was missing. Or less, he’d offered, to cheer her up. Even the promise of a bargain couldn’t put a dent in her gloomy mood.
Her 15-minute meeting had gone off the rails in that many seconds. Not only had Maisy been unwilling to give Jillian credit for her decorating work, she had even refused to admit that Jillian had ever set foot in her house. She had, though, offered her the use of her Manhattan pied-à-terre for a long weekend during the height of summer in lieu of paying Jillian back for what she owed her.
Jillian glanced up as the bell that hung over the front door jingled. She expected to see Ives returning with coffee and pastries, but instead a tall, dark-haired man strolled in, coming to a stop in front of a table stacked with dinnerware.
Jillian watched, but was able to only catch glimpses of his profile as he picked up one plate after another. Finally, he went back to the first plate with its distinctive watery plaid pattern.
“No, not that one,” Jillian blurted out, unable to help herself. “They’re an uneven set and the pattern is way too bossy for everyday use.”
“Sorry?” he peered over a tall cabinet.
Jillian forced herself to leave the sanctuary of her little corner. “Those plates. I keep telling Ives to put them downstairs, but he has a thing for Vernon Kilns.”
He put the plate back down, his hand hovering over the next stack, but his eyes were squarely on her face, gauging her reaction. He moved to the next set, stopping when Jillian smiled.
“Wellsville. Sturdy, classic restaurant china,” she said as she came closer to point out the light green bands on the rim of the plate. “And, I happen to know, Ives has a full set that’s never been used.”
“Sounds good to me.” He switched the plate from his right to his left hand and held his hand out for her to shake. “Ethan Marshall.”
“Jillian Winters.” She looked into his dark blue eyes and felt her heart lurch in her chest. “I don’t mean to be pushy. If you like the Vernon Kilns, feel free to buy them.”
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“I trust your judgment. You’re the expert,” he smiled, revealing a dimple on the side of his wide, sensual mouth. “I just bought a loft. Downtown. I don’t exactly know what I’m looking for.”
“Oh. Well, it can be confusing at first,” Jillian said, trying to get her bearing. He was tall, lean, with short, dark hair and the deepest blue eyes she’d ever seen. “But everything is laid out in sections. Housewares are here, front of the shop, accessories around the periphery, work and dining furniture in the middle, living and bedroom stuff in the back. What are you looking for?”
“Everything. Aside from a couch that’s seen better days, it’s empty,” Ethan said in a rush, stumbling adorably over his admission.
“That sounds horrible,” Jillian said without hesitation. Something inside her told her that this guy could put up with being made fun of.
“It is,” he said with a smile.
Jillian nodded. “So you’re shopping for everything from plates to artwork?”
“I have artwork, stacked against a wall along with more than a few unpacked moving boxes,” he said as he ran his left hand through his hair. Jillian’s heart skipped a beat when she noticed it was thoroughly and wonderfully free of a wedding ring or the hint of a tan line from one. “I’m not too proud to admit that I’ve been putting it off for a while and it took a very good friend of mine getting me to come here to do something about it.”
“It can be a lot of work—especially if you’re doing it on your own,” Jillian said, hoping she wasn’t being too obvious. Just because he wasn’t wearing a ring didn’t mean he didn’t have a girlfriend.
“It’s just me, and if it wasn’t for you, I would have gone home with those plaid dishes and never thought twice about it,” Ethan smiled. “Truth is, my ex-wife kept the house and most everything in it. But, in her defense, she did do all the work in making it look great.”
“Oh. Well, maybe she can help you decorate your new place?” Jillian asked, crossing her fingers for luck behind her back.
No Need to Ask Page 2