Alex snorts. “And that was her being chilled out on Ambien.”
I grimace as the elevator arrives and its doors slide open.
“To be fair,” I say as we step onto the empty transport, “I imagine it would be pretty upsetting to have your child arrested.”
With his finger, Alex stabs the button for the lobby. “Between you and me, Danielle doesn’t give a damn about Sierra, which is precisely why the girl keeps pulling these stunts—they’re the only way she can get her mother’s attention, and she doesn’t care if that attention is negative or damages Danielle’s image as a loving and involved parent. A few months ago, Sierra ran away from the boarding school in Switzerland where Danielle had stashed her, stole a credit card from a woman in one of the VIP lounges at the Zurich Airport, then used that card to country-hop around Europe for two weeks while I had to cover with the press every time there was a sighting of Sierra somewhere no unsupervised teenager should have been. The PI Sierra’s stepfather hired finally tracked her down to a casino in Monaco where she was grabbed by security for stealing chips from players she was distracting with her low-cut dress.”
“Wow, I don’t know whether to be impressed, or horrified, by how wily Sierra is at such a young age.”
Alex leans back against the wall of the elevator and his body sags. “I feel bad for her because of the crappy parenting and all, but that kid is making my job ten times more difficult than it needs to be.”
“Using a fake ID to get into a nightclub isn’t that big of a deal, right? It’s almost a rite of passage for teenagers. I mean, I never had one because Viv’s house was basically a nightclub on the weekends, complete with DJs and celebrities, and both she and my mother said it was okay if I wanted to try alcohol to see what it was like, which totally took the thrill out of drinking.”
“You have a weird family, you know that, don’t you?” Alex queries with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, and I playfully punch his arm, which makes him chuckle for a second before he snaps back to serious mode. “It wasn’t the fake ID that got Sierra busted tonight,” he discloses. “She engaged in a slap fight with another girl in the club, which got her tossed out; then in a drunken rage, she vandalized several cars in the club’s parking lot.”
“Oh, geez,” I commiserate right before the elevator dings to herald our arrival in the lobby.
“Yeah.” Alex pushes himself off the wall, and we exit the elevator side-by-side. “I’m going to have to smooth talk and pay off a lot of people to get those charges dropped, then come up with a story that doesn’t make Danielle look like the world’s lousiest mother and coach her through a tearful performance for the press.”
“Your job kind of sucks,” I murmur as we stroll through the quiet lobby.
“Having two clients in crisis at the same time certainly isn’t ideal, but that’s why they pay me the big bucks.” Alex pushes against one of the hotel’s glass front doors and holds it open so that I can pass through first.
“Is it worth it?” I wonder as I brush past him, thinking about all the sacrifices he’s had to make for this glamorous, high-powered career of his, not the least of which was any chance at happiness we once had, but I never get an answer because he’s released the door and is striding purposefully toward the valet stand.
CHAPTER 23
“This will be a proposal Isla will never forget,” I assure my newest client, a man who found love six months ago on a Hulu dating show called “In the Bag.”
I’ve yet to see an episode of this inexplicably popular program that involves a bachelor meeting a bevy of women who all wear bags over their heads. He doesn’t get to see their faces until he eliminates the ladies one-by-one after spending “quality time” getting to know each of them. According to Cole, who binge-watched all three seasons of In the Bag in one weekend, the bachelor invariably eliminates the hottest girls, because they don’t have much going for them when they can’t rely on their looks, and usually ends up with a woman who’s in dire need of a makeover. (Cole’s words, not mine!) Not many of the romances cultivated on this show live beyond the filming of it, but Ryan and Isla have turned out to be the exception to the rule.
As the not-a-bachelor-for-much-longer and I approach Straight from the Hart’s reception desk, I say, “I’ll put in a call to my contact at Disneyland and hammer out the details with her, then get back to you with several options later in the week.”
“Sounds good. You know . . .” He stops and turns toward me. “. . . the more I think about it, the more I like the idea of working the proposal into their Magic Happens Parade. Isla would adore the spectacle of that, especially if you could get some of her favorite Disney characters to participate.”
Naturally, he’s excited about the most expensive idea I floated before he told me what his budget for this proposal was. Let’s just say it’s limited since Ryan is a software salesman and he didn’t hang on to much of that reality show money, so I’ll have to get creative with this proposal and stretch his dollars as far as they’ll go.
“Whatever direction we end up going with this proposal, I promise it will be incredibly special and romantic. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Ryan.” I extend my hand to him, and he shakes it before walking away with an ear-to-ear grin.
Ah, young love!
Spinning back around to face our new receptionist, Alyssa, I say, “Can you get Bonnie Ingram at Disney on the line for me? Her number’s in our database.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to wait on that call until tomorrow?” Alyssa queries. “You said you needed to leave the office no later than three, and it’s already twenty-five after.”
I gasp. “No! Are you serious?” I lean over her desk and twist my head around so that I can see the clock on her computer.
“Dammit! I can’t believe I ran so far over with that client.”
I do have a tendency to get carried away with my romantic “visions” in these initial consultations and usually depend on Cole to make a throat-slitting gesture to let me know when I need to wrap things up. Unfortunately, he’s off with Aubrey, helping her check out several dance studios and teachers so that she can find the perfect place for the Claytons to take private lessons. When Dwight mentioned one of his wife’s lifelong dreams was to dance the tango, I suggested he gift the lessons to her, then they can implement what they’ve learned when he takes her on a surprise trip to Buenos Aires that yours truly is planning. Oh, that reminds me! I never heard back about booking a private tour at Casa Rosada, the palatial, pink mansion and office of Argentina’s president where Eva Perón famously addressed people from the balcony. I’m going to have to call that tour coordinator—
“Three twenty-eight,” Alyssa reminds me of the time once again.
I give my head a shake and straighten back up. “Yes, thank you for staying on top of me. I need to put work aside for the moment and get the heck out of here.”
Having given myself that directive, I hurry down the corridor to my office where I collect my things as quickly as I can, then shoot back out of the room like a human cannonball and collide with Natasha, making her drop a bunch of sample menus I had asked her to pretty up and laminate ahead of a meeting we have in the morning with Mrs. Foster, who’s a ridiculously picky eater.
“I’m so sorry,” I say as I step back and dig my spiked heel into one of the downed menus, “but I am running really late.” Lifting my foot, I remove the now punctured paper and hand it to my recently appointed assistant. “Ian is picking me up at six, so I have to get home and transform this . . .” I gesture at my frazzled self. “. . . into a fabulous look worthy of an awards show.”
“Oh, right, you’ve got the LA Woman Magazine Awards tonight. How exciting! Can I do anything to help?”
“Just hold down the fort here and refer any problems or emergencies to Cole.”
“Will do. Have fun! I’m sure you’ll look gorgeous,” she shouts after me because I’m already trucking up to reception. I give Alyssa a perfunctory
wave as I zoom by and then I’m out the door.
Five minutes later, I’m in my car, pulling out of the parking lot onto South Flower and praying to the gods of glam that I don’t encounter any major traffic on the way to my apartment. If I can make it home by four, I’ll have two hours to shower, dry and style my hair, do my makeup, and get dressed. I’m regretting that I didn’t take Viv up on her offer to send Antony over to tame my copper tresses into submission. He could have given me a sophisticated updo, something I don’t have the skills or patience to attempt myself. I’ll just have to wear my hair down and hope I have enough time for a blowout.
That hope is dashed by a malfunctioning street light on La Brea, which has traffic so backed up I think I could walk the last four miles of my commute faster than I’ll ever get there in my car.
“Argh!” I scream in frustration as I punch a button on my stereo, changing the channel for the umpteenth time since I’ve been trapped in this moving-at-a-snail’s-pace car because I can’t stand to hear “Driver’s License” by Olivia Rodrigo again. It seems to be on every station no matter what type of music they play. We get it, Olivia. You’re sad because your boyfriend was a tool who dumped you for another girl. I am so ready for her to release a peppier follow-up entitled “My New Bae” so that everyone will know there’s life after heartbreak.
I’m not in the mood for Lizzo or the Jonas Brothers either and the episode of Love Is on the Air that’s being rebroadcast is one I’ve practically got memorized, so I decide to turn the radio off and enjoy the silence, which doesn’t even last a minute before my phone rings, playing “Urgent,” the song I’ve been hearing multiple times a day lately. Hitting the Bluetooth button on my steering wheel, I answer, “Hi, Jax. What’s up?”
“Some other dude gave Jaz a dog!” my client shouts agitatedly. “I wanted to do that, but you told me not to, and now I’ve been shown up by some jerk who’s using this mutt to make a play for my wife!!!!!!”
I counter his freakout with the calm inquiry, “How’d you find out about the new pet?”
“She just posted a photo on Instagram with the dog.” Affecting a high-pitched, female voice, Jax reads the accompanying caption, “Haven’t had much reason to smile lately, but this beautiful boy has really lifted my spirits. Many thanks to the very special friend who surprised me with Jet. He knew that this sweet pup was exactly what I needed right now. xoxo.” Reverting back to his own deeper pitch, Jax growls, “Those hugs and kisses had better be for that animal and not the guy who gave it to her. Otherwise, I am going to hunt him down and beat the sh—”
“Stop! You’re not going to punch anyone, not unless you want to be arrested for assault.”
“I need to do something!” he asserts. “Because being honest, vulnerable, and mature has gotten me absolutely nowhere with Jaz, and I can feel her pulling farther and farther away from me. She gave her new dog the name we agreed on for our son! If that isn’t a big, fat ‘Screw you, Jax!’ I don’t know what is.”
That was a pretty passive-aggressive move on Jaz’s part, probably encouraged by her Svengali, Nick Delucca. There is no doubt in my mind that he’s the “very special friend” who sprung this new furry family member on Jaz. I’m tempted to share my suspicion with Jax, but Alex cautioned me not to say anything to him about Nick since the manager’s romantic interest in Jaz is still just supposition and Jax can’t be trusted not to fly off the handle and do something stupid.
“I bet her co-star on Love Hacks, Grey What’s-His-Face, gave her the dog. He’s always trying to kiss up to her, complimenting her acting, bringing her food from craft services like he’s her assistant; he even texts and calls her at night to talk about their storyline or characters. I should go down to that set right now and tell him to back the hell off.”
“And if you do that, you can expect to be served with divorce papers tomorrow.”
“She wouldn’t—”
“Are you willing to bet your marriage on that? Because I think Jaz is in a place right now where one wrong move from you could push her into making this separation permanent. I stand by what I said about a dog being a terrible present for a woman. It just gives Jaz something else to devote her time and attention to. A dog was never going to make her forgive you for cheating, and it’s certainly not going to make her fall in love with another guy.”
“The dumbass didn’t even get her the dog she wanted,” Jax grumbles, “which means he doesn’t really listen to her or know her as well as she claims he does.”
“What kind of dog is Jet?”
“I don’t know, some kind of mixed breed. He’s huge, almost as big as Jaz. And a Shorkie is what Jaz has always talked about getting. She wanted to dress it up in cute outfits and carry it around in her purse. She’s definitely not carrying Jet anywhere. He could give her a piggyback ride.”
“Is Jet’s fur black?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Because that explains why Jaz named the dog what she did. It’s the color of his coat—jet black.”
“So it wasn’t a dig at me?”
“No,” I say this with authority although I’m not at all certain. I just need to placate Jax and hope my faith in Jaz isn’t misplaced.
“That makes me feel better. Thanks, Red.”
“Finally!” I exclaim.
“You’re right. It’s past time that I told you how grateful I am for everything you’ve been doing for me and I’m sor—”
“I appreciate the sentiment, but I wasn’t talking to you,” I say as I turn onto West Third, then bank left and pull into the underground garage for my terracotta-colored apartment building. “I just broke free from this gridlock I’ve been stuck in for the last hour and . . .” I screech into my reserved parking space, slamming on the brakes right before my front bumper makes contact with the concrete wall. “. . . I’m finally home!” I exult, transferring Jax’s call to my iPhone, then leaping out of my car and locking it with my key fob.
“It’s early for you to be knocking off for the day, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a thing tonight.” I bypass the elevators because they’re always so damn slow and head for the stairs on the outer edge of the building where I take off my heels and start climbing.
“What kind of thing?” he wonders.
“An awards ceremony/cocktail party. I’m one of the honorees.”
“Way to go, Red! Nothing better than being lavished with praise and getting a trophy for your awesomeness. I have a special room at home with display pedestals and spotlights for all of my a— Oh, shit! You don’t think Jaz would revenge trash my awards, do you? Maybe I should send Kelly over there to get my Golden Globe just to be on the safe side. If anything happened to Goldie, I’d be wrecked.”
Pausing on the landing between the second and third floors to catch my breath, I gasp, “You . . . have . . . a nickname . . . for your . . . Golden Globe?”
“Of course, she’s my favorite, and when I like something, or someone, I give them a nickname, Red.”
“I’m flattered.” Up until now, I figured Jax called me “Red” all the time because he couldn’t remember my actual name.
Feeling a little less winded, I begin my ascent up the second-to-last flight of stairs. “If Jaz didn’t toss your awards in the pool, along with your other stuff, when she first found out about your cheating, I think Goldie will be fine. So don’t insult her by sending Kelly over there.”
“What if I go? Not to get Goldie, but to try and talk to Jaz face-to-face. I know you said I should give her time and let her be the one to reach out—”
“It’s been long enough,” I say, having reached my floor. It’s apparent that Jaz is frozen in place, unwilling to give Jax another chance, but not able to put them out of their mutual misery and end their marriage either. Meanwhile, Nick Delucca is stepping up his game to win Jaz for himself, and we can’t let that happen.
“So we move on to the next phase . . . getting the two of you in a room together . . . so that you
can remind Jaz . . . of all the reasons she loves you . . . and show her how much she means to you.” I’m outside my front door now, panting and sweating like I just returned from one of those brutal Yoga Sculpt classes my neighbor, Hailey, talked me into taking with her a few months ago.
“Great! Let’s do it.”
“Patience, my young Padawan,” I say as I rummage around the bottom of my purse for my keys. “Let’s meet for breakfast in the morning and discuss the best way for you to approach this. Can you cool your, uh . . .” I stop myself before the word jets comes out of my mouth because I don’t want to poke that sleeping beast. “. . . be chill, until then? Stay off Instagram and do something to distract yourself—go for a swim, get a massage, binge-watch a good show.”
“I guess I could catch up on the last few seasons of Game of Thrones. Jaz would never watch that show with me. She thought it was too gory.”
“Perfect. Go watch people getting barbecued by dragons.”
Where are my freakin’ keys? I’m about to dump my purse upside down to find the damn things when I hear a clinking noise in the bag’s outer pocket.
“Okay,” Jax says in a sullen tone.
“Promise?” I slide my key into the lock and twist it.
“You want me to take a blood oath? That seems like something Jon Snow would do. I actually auditioned for that role back in the day. The casting director thought I was too cocky and would make a better Lannister, but I was too young to be Jaime and I said hell no to the Joffrey part. ”
Straight from the Hart Page 22
