“I know your throat is sore from the tube, but look.” Suzanne dipped a spoon into what appeared to be applesauce. “Slightly yellow ground up food matter, and it’s all yours. Not like pizza at the office, I didn’t lick it or anything. My cooties have been nowhere near it.”
“I do not want that, and you can take that chocolate-flavored chalk away too.”
“If you eat they’ll stop waking you up every two hours to ask you to eat. Plus, if you think I’m smuggling in your favorite sushi, you haven’t gotten a good look at the nurses. But I’ll make you a deal.”
Annemarie’s bloodshot eyes momentarily blazed with laser death rays.
“If you eat some applesauce I’ll read you some of today’s mail.” She had expected to spend the day after the party overseeing the cleanup and Annemarie likewise had not planned to be in the office. There had been no missed meetings, but email had arrived all day as it usually did. “I didn’t think to bring you some of Laura Izmani’s leftovers. She had these crispy strings that turned out to be red and yellow beets and the goat cheese pesto was so good with those on top.”
“You creep. Stop talking about what I missed.” Annemarie dipped her spoon in the applesauce and put the barely coated utensil in her mouth. “Ooo. Yummy.”
“Stop spitting at me like a wet cat. I spent the day watching you breathe.” She gestured at the tall narrow window. “I missed out on San Francisco sunshine because you wouldn’t get with the program and bring down your temperature.”
“Yeah, my day has been one grand adventure too. A real barrel of fun.” Annemarie put the spoon in her mouth again and this time it had actual applesauce on it.
Suzanne flicked up her messages and read off the subject lines and senders she thought might interest Annemarie, and let her choose if she wanted to hear the actual contents. The high temperature was stubborn, but after an anxious morning it had finally come down several degrees. Somewhere around noon Suzanne had fallen asleep for an hour, and as the clock ticked toward midnight she felt increasingly gritty. “Rosie reports that the EU estimates are under, but they know why. They feel our stake is as secure as it can be.”
Annemarie grunted which was exactly how Suzanne felt about it.
“This is more interesting. Rosie and Farouk want to pursue the reverse converter stake.”
Annemarie’s eyelids drooped. “I’d be fine if I weren’t so dizzy.”
“And still running a fever. And sleeping an hour for every five minutes awake. And setting new personal records for white blood cell count.”
“If I’m that sick I deserve better food. This doesn’t even taste like apple.” The dish was nearly empty, though, which would please the nurses.
“It’s what you get, and you have to eat. Now if you finish the broth I’ll let you have your phone for fifteen minutes.”
“I’m not drinking cold chicken broth.”
“Silly rabbit. What makes you think it’s going to taste like chicken? Drink-ee and you get-ee, there’s a good little girl.” She dangled Annemarie’s iPhone just out of reach. She was pretty sure Annemarie would find it difficult to focus on the small screen, but after several gulps from the small bowl accompanied by Annemarie’s colorful descriptions, she handed over the phone.
Annemarie sighed almost happily as the device powered up. She cooed to it, “We’ve been parted too long, my dear friend.”
Suzanne didn’t comment that some color was coming back into Annemarie’s lips and cheeks. “You like your iPhone more than you like me.”
“I like it more than I like all people. Siri and I were meant to be together.” She adjusted the hospital bed and propped the phone against her empty bowl. “It’s awfully heavy though.”
“Right. You’re just a little dizzy, sure. Not running on half voltage.”
“Delete, delete, delete, forward to calendar, delete.” She laughed, which turned into a half-wheeze. “You took out full page ads thanking that woman-hating cretin for donating to Planned Parenthood?”
“I kind of did, yeah.” It had created a great deal of amusement in some quarters of the web.
“You are so good when you’re evil and that’s right up—” Annemarie gaped at her phone. “What the hell, Suzanne? What. The. Hell! Are you nuts?”
“What did I do?” Oh crap. She’d forgotten why she’d been happily supporting the doctor’s no phones edict. “I had no idea she’d even be there.”
“Yeah, and when I woke up this afternoon and you went on and on telling me about the greatest party of the century that I missed out on, you never even mentioned her name.”
There was a chance that Annemarie would get faint or dizzier and not see the red burning heat Suzanne could feel in her cheeks. “I didn’t want to upset you.”
“She’s waving her boobs at you!”
“It was an accident.”
“Hashtag Boobarella.” Annemarie snorted. “Okay, that’s pretty funny. At least tell me you didn’t talk to her.”
She could sit calmly at a table and discuss millions of dollars and billions of data points, tell guys who thought they’d invented numbers that they’d made a mistake, but Annemarie could still make her feel like a blithering fool. “Well, we had to speak. I had to be a good host.”
“Hello, goodbye and don’t let the door hit you in the ass. That was all you needed to say, right?”
Suzanne had never been so happy to see a nurse in her life. It was even the petite one who was so far Suzanne’s favorite.
Nurse Jackson’s dark brown eyes didn’t miss a thing. “You’re eating, that’s good. But you shouldn’t be using your—”
“It was how I got her to eat.” Suzanne was happy to change the subject. “She has seven more minutes, then I’m powering it down.”
“Yes, and then I’m going to spend an hour reminding my friend here that she is an idiot.”
A professional flick of the hand changed the readout on the bedside monitor, displaying a barrage of numbers that the nurse scanned without a change in expression. “If you think that’s why you were put on this earth, go for it.”
“Hey!” Suzanne protested. “She already believes that, no need to further empower her.”
“Hospital beds are boring. She might as well do something she enjoys.” She fixed Annemarie momentarily with a side-eye that would freeze most mortals. “Within reason.”
“You are my favorite caregiver,” Annemarie volunteered.
Nurse Jackson tweaked the bed covers and checked the water level in the pitcher next to the bed. “By the way, if I’m not mistaken, your friend is going to be on TV later.”
It took Suzanne a moment to realize the nurse was speaking to her. “What?”
“Jennifer Lamont. I saw the picture of you two on Facebook during my break. She’s on one of the late night shows.” She gave Suzanne a wink on her way out the door.
“She’s not my friend,” Suzanne corrected, but the door was already closed.
“That took you a little too long to deny. You’re still a moron. And you didn’t answer my question.” Annemarie pushed her phone away with a weak cough. “You probably sat next to her and drooled.”
“I did not drool.”
“You shit. What are you thinking? More abuse? Don’t give me garbage about how she’s changed.”
“I don’t think she has.” Throughout the boring, anxious day she’d recalled the kiss in the car. “She’s more beautiful than ever. Success suits her. Since we’re being honest.”
“Honest would be me finding out she was there from you, not Twitter.”
“Your weak heart…”
“Con artist. I know all your moves.”
“Fine. She drove me to the airport.”
Annemarie put up a hand. “Okay, I can’t take anymore. Just tell me that you have no plans to see her again.”
“I don’t. We said goodbye and that was it. Finis.” She was never, ever going to mention the kiss.
“I’ll believe you for now.” She clos
ed her eyes and pulled the hospital blanket a little higher. “Wake me up in time to watch the show she’s on.”
“Why?”
“So I can throw a brick at the stupid TV, stoopid. So stooo...”
Annemarie would be out for a few hours at least, and there was no way Suzanne was going to wake her. In fact, she was going to go right to her condo, take a shower and get some real sleep herself. She was not going to sit here and wait for Jennifer’s face to show up on the television set.
She could always catch it online later. If she decided she cared.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
It was an entrance like any other, Jennifer told herself. Her exhaustion was hidden under a thick layer of makeup. She’d dressed the part and had a story to tell. The curtain swept back and she stepped into the bright stage lights—and paused. The laughter washed over her in a roar of natural joy that soaked into every part of her. At some level, any applause was good applause.
The affable host of Live from Late Night joined the gleeful howls, applauding as she went from runway model attitude pose to slinky walk. He rose to usher her into her seat next to the interview desk, saying as the laughter died down, “Way to rock that cardigan!”
“It’s Ralph Lauren—and you must be crazy if you think after what happened last night I would dress any other way!” She brushed fingertips over the buttons that ran from neck to lap. The sweater was a distinctive men’s golf plaid with sleeves almost to her knees. “If only I’d been wearing this.”
As they chatted about the hazards of high heels, the studio monitors displayed the least unfortunate shot, adding pixelation over The Girls. At least in that one she wasn’t gaping like a beached fish.
“Of course I caught my heel,” she answered. “And there I was, a-splay.”
“A-splay? Is that a word?”
“It is now. Trending hashtag by tomorrow. It’s truly galling as a former model to appear so clumsy. Butt glue doesn’t hold up when you floor dive facefirst.”
He lit up with his signature boyish grin. “Butt glue! You’re kidding. That’s a real thing?”
“It certainly is for models. Clearly not you.”
“I don’t have what it takes to be a model?” He feigned dismay.
“Let’s find out, shall we?” Jennifer treated him and the audience to the smile she used just before her zombie hunting character cleanly sliced off a zombie’s head. He faked a nervous swallow while the audience let out a low “oh” of warning and anticipation.
As the stagehands rolled a table out to center stage, Jennifer shucked off her cardigan to reveal her sleeveless little black dress. She showed the audience the product, which would make the manufacturer very happy, demonstrated how the ever-so-useful roll-on latex glue was easy to apply and then would anchor one of the pre-cut squares of silk from the table into place on her forearm. “Pageant contestants hold their bikini tops and bottoms in place with this stuff. I was covering my assets…” She paused to allow the audience to laugh. “Covering them with typical shields I didn’t want to slip. You know, when a regular bra won’t work.”
“Yeah, I know all about that,” he deadpanned.
She pulled the square of silk from her forearm, showing the sticky residue and patch of annoyed skin. “Butt glue is no fun to yank off all at once. Your turn.”
He protested but yielded to the egging-on from the audience, and feigned euphoria as Jennifer unbuttoned his shirt. She got cuddle-close to him and did her best femme fatale blink. “Ready?”
“Sure.” He fed the audience laughter by adding with a start, “Oh you mean for the butt glue.”
She coated the middle of his unshaved chest with the roll-on. “I haven’t used that much. And I avoided your nipples.” She smoothed on a square of silk.
“This is a family show after all.”
“I can’t say nipples?”
“You can say nipples, you just can’t play with them. So how do you get the stuff off?”
“With a little rubbing alcohol in the shower.” Making the most of the moment, she mugged another mischievous look at the audience. “If you’re lucky. But it’s not your lucky day.”
She yanked. He yelped and patted mournfully at his now patchy and mottled chest. The audience roared with delight and she could see the producer laughing appreciatively just offstage.
Make the most of the story, her agent had said. This was going to make the highlight reel.
“Ya big baby—that’s nothing compared to a real bikini wax.” She menaced him with the roll-on again and he waved her away.
The rest of the interview passed quickly with a few questions about American Zombie Hunters. At the break she retired to the green room, found it empty, and slumped gratefully into a chair. Her phone was buzzing from inside the leather bag she’d left on the table.
A text from BeBe. “Great bit! Worth it.”
Goodie. Her agent was pleased.
After begging forgiveness from the director for leaving the day’s shoot three hours early, a production assistant had driven her and luggage to LAX to catch a nonstop to JFK. A helicopter to the Metroport and a cab to 30 Rock had delivered her just in time to plan the gag with the staff and then grab chair time with a makeup artist who had managed to hide the circles under Jennifer’s watery, sleep-deprived eyes. Her adrenaline was now depleted.
She hoped it was worth it. The Buzztastic filth was in full swing: Is Junkie Jen back? It wasn’t even out of line, given her supposed history with rehab. She sent unkind thoughts in the direction of Phillip Questor and his brand of publicity. When poor Corey had been busted with cocaine, Phillip had advised her to play his tragic, misled girlfriend, and go to rehab with him. “Everybody’s doing it,” the idiot had gushed. He hadn’t meant just rehab, he’d also meant using the director to squelch the sly insinuations from bloggers surrounding how much off-screen time she and Lena had been spending together.
The damn of it all was that it had worked. Talk shows suddenly wanted to book her, and while most asked about her struggle with substances, some also asked if she was gay. She told them all what they wanted to hear, which was coy lies sold with cheesecake smiles. Phillip was sending her audition requests and scripts by the dozen. She was considered serious for stupid reasons, and she’d paid for her sudden visibility with the last glimmer of respect Selena Ryan had ever had for her.
Just playing the Hollywood Game. Exploiting the real misery of substance abuse for personal publicity and winning. Sure.
She didn’t like the tiny voice that reminded her that all of it had been her decision. It had paid off. Those early years of success as an actress had included reviews where her abilities were equally discussed with her looks. She was living the big dream she’d cherished from childhood. It was nearly everything she had thought it would be.
Nearly.
God, she was tired. She was not going to think about Suzanne.
A production assistant knocked on the door, his young face a picture of serious attentiveness. “Would you like me to get you a cab?”
“Yes thank you. My luggage already went?”
“I personally took it over and gave it directly to the front desk.”
Being tired made her feel old, but his earnestness was heartening coming from someone who probably worked twenty-hour days for pizza money. “Thank you so much, that was really very sweet of you. Do you have a book?”
He glanced over his shoulder.
“You didn’t ask me, I asked you. I’m happy to. You were a doll earlier.”
“You were tired after a long flight and late for makeup. I was glad to help.” He surreptitiously withdrew a small autograph book from his pocket.
Jennifer signed the next blank page with a flourish. “Selfie?”
“My boyfriend will die. He loves, loves, loves you in American Zombie Hunter this season. Do you get killed or live in the season finale?”
She leaned into the frame of his camera. Just as he pressed the shutter she planted a smo
och on his smooth, brown cheek. “He’ll have to wait like everyone else to find out.”
She wanted to say that of course she got killed, it was going to be a typically bloody season finale. Her contract was for the season and she had other projects on her schedule after that. Practicality alone meant she was going to lose her head in the end. But who knew for sure? She could be resurrected and do another season later on if the show continued to thrive.
She had washed the airplane out of her hair, peeled the stage eyelashes off and scrubbed her face down to real skin before she felt her brain finally stop spinning in circles. There was a good chance she’d sleep well, but she had a very early call to make a morning interview on a talk show. She’d be back on a plane to LA by noon and in her own bed by nine p.m.
In her own bed, by herself.
She couldn’t shake off the feeling of Suzanne’s mouth on hers. She’d expected anger and recriminations. The kiss and its tenderness had been the biggest surprise of the night.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Ignore him, Suzanne told herself. Just get your coffee and go.
Everyone waiting for their order in the tiny Java Stop was catching up on their morning feeds. She’d found in large cities the world over, that coffee pit stops were about as anticelebrity as it got. Everyone’s eyes were on their devices, the flow of people in and out was brisk. She was willing to bet that Jennifer Lamont herself could walk in the front door and no one would notice. Suzanne liked knowing she could come and go and nobody took notice of the fact that the CEO of CommonTech liked espresso tall, room for milk.
The suit-and-loafers man next to her was studying a still of Jennifer from last night’s late show. The sweater pic was positioned right next to the now infamous #Boobarella shot. The headline read “She Takes Off Her Sweater and You Won’t Believe What Happens Next.”
Gak. At least there wasn’t a picture of her, and so far the comment from her P.R. firm of “Ms. Mason is grateful that only her guest’s shoes were harmed” seemed to have kept her off the media radar. She inwardly groaned when she realized the guy was clicking down the link chain to find the undoctored pics of Jennifer’s chesticles. His quick scroll got to the photo of Suzanne down on one knee, with a topless, swooning Jennifer in her arms. At least her gaze was on Jennifer’s face.
Captain of Industry Page 20