“Ummm...”
“Yes, that’s what I’ve heard. I’m assuming you haven’t found out anything that would be worth a story, correct?”
She swallowed hard. “Right,” she answered.
“I’m sorry, Bertie. You may not believe it, but I really am. There was a time when initiative like yours would’ve been rewarded but not now, not here, not in these times. We’re all too worried about layoffs and the future of our business to be seen as lenient.”
Now she was responsible for the decline and fall of newspapers?
“But I want to work,” she said. “If I tell you what happened, off the record, will you reconsider?” Bertie had never in her entire life imagined the words ‘off the record’ coming out of her mouth.
“No, I can’t be responsible for the violation of your attorney’s advice. This is not a newspaperman talking, Bertie, this is someone who’s known you for years, and wants what’s best for you.”
Gag.
“Can I collect unemployment?”
“Oh, I forgot … you’re suspended with pay.”
“You forgot?” Bertie could feel the anger rising in her.
“Look on this as a paid vacation. Seriously. We won’t even ask you to clean out your desk. If you could just let your editor know what stories you have pending...” He started herding her toward the door.
“I’m going to HR, you can’t do this to me. This will make me look guilty in the eyes of almost everyone.”
His face went blank. “I can’t advise you about that one way or the other. You’re free to talk to them whenever you want.”
She turned at the office door, and asked quietly: “Did you find out about this from Shawn?”
“Not initially. I do have other sources outside this newspaper, you know. I heard about it elsewhere, and then dragged Shawn into my office and let him know he either told me what was going on or he was out. I’m running a newspaper here, not a Best Friends Club.”
Bertie left without saying anything more.
Gawd, she hated management. Their supercilious, all-knowing attitude. The unwillingness to hear any side other than their own. The unfairness; the stupidity. Where did they find these people? Was there a special job section in Editor & Publisher for management? Need not apply if you possess one lick of intelligence.
She wasn’t going to talk to any editors about what stories were pending. Let ’em figure it out by themselves.
She stalked out of the building, flinging dirty looks around like Jell-O at a strip-club wrestling match. Her ride home was fast, but mercifully ticket-free.
She had a glass of wine at 10:30 a.m. and mulled things over. By the second glass, she was talking out loud. “Shawn didn’t rat me out, that’s one good thing. Well, he did, but only after he was threatened, and I can’t blame him for that.”
She realized she was talking to herself. “Well, why shouldn’t I?” she asked out loud, pouring a third glass. “I’m the most interesting person I know.”
Bertie had a hangover by noon. Her future was such a nightmare she almost welcomed the pain.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Bertie spent the first few days watching daytime TV and drinking more than she ever had in her life. Who knew that “Knot’s Landing” was still on, and that watching TV from 9 a.m. to midnight and drinking two bottles of wine a day could produce a headache to die for. Literally.
She ate a lot and dozed fitfully instead of sleeping. The phone rang almost nonstop the first two days, but she let the answering machine pick up. Several people from work called, but she couldn’t talk to them … lawyer’s orders.
Shawn didn’t call.
Kate phoned on a daily basis and on the fourth day, Bertie shucked her sweats for jeans and a T-shirt and visited the kennel for something to do. She helloooooed and heard an answering helloooo from somewhere in the back. Kate and Gene were hosing down a pen in which a dog had had diarrhea.
“Wow, you guys really know how to have a good time.”
Kate, in rubber waders, looked distracted, and Gene was in a corner retching. And he wanted to be a vet?
“Hey, Bertie, I can’t really talk right now. As soon as I get done with this, I’ve got to give the dog that created this mess a bath. Are you all right, Gene?”
Gene had turned white and was leaning against the wall. Kate dropped the hose and went to him, taking his arm and leading him out of the pen. “Go sit at the front desk, OK? You can process the Pomeranian that’s coming in.”
“Pomeranian? Not Bonnie?” Gene asked.
“’Fraid so,” Kate answered. The stories about Bonnie were legend. She was 6 pounds of terror, biting and growling at everyone except her doting owner. After the last time Bonnie visited, Katie had purchased some quilted leggings, a shirt and gloves to deal with her.
If possible, Gene turned an even whiter shade of pale.
“Go, Gene, get the gloves, they’re about the only thing that’ll fit you, get a Coke and put your head down between your legs…but at the front desk, please.”
“Umm, I think I’ll leave you to it,” Bertie said, turning to go. “I’ll call you later.” As she started toward the front door, she heard loud yelping. That was Gene; Bonnie was growling.
Bertie turned and fled out the back door. In the confined space of her car, she could smell dog diarrhea on her clothes and went back home where that day-time-TV sex-bomb Gilligan waited for her.
“If I was any kind of real woman, I’d be cleaning out cupboards and finding a fortune under my sofa cushions while I vacuumed,” Bertie said out loud to Jerry Springer. “Yeah, right!”
She had to get out of the house. She called several borderline friends who didn’t work at the paper but the problem was, everyone worked during the day. She had hours and hours to fill before they got off work, and by the time they did, she was too depressed to make small talk. She didn’t want to tie up all of Kate and Dave’s evenings.
But she had to get out … even Gilligan was failing to thrill her … and made herself a promise to go to the zoo, the museum and other places she’d never had time for.
She went to the zoo, she went to the museum, and the day after that, she went to the library. She sat in the section where the homeless guys stayed to get off the street for awhile. It was penance for:
1. Sleeping with Shawn strictly for fun and not to procreate.
2. Hating:
A. Don Crotty
B. Nan Shepherd
C. All the other managers in the glass offices across the country and around the world.
D. John Gardener
E. Shawn
F. The Bellinghams and all their mean, arrogant goofiness
G. Homicide Detective Mad Madison
She pulled a copy of “Gone With the Wind” from the stacks and settled back in her seat. She’d read it halfway-through twice, same with “1984.” She wanted there to be happy endings in both, but she always skipped to the end and it was always the same downer.
Happy ending... that wasn’t going to happen for her. She started sniffing, tears running down her face. After several minutes, a horrible smell enveloped her.
“Good God, my life really does stink,” she thought.
A tap on her shoulder almost made her scream. A man, so dirty that he left a dust trail behind him and so smelly Bertie’s eyes started watering, stood over her.
“Ma’am, some of us are trying to sleep, do you think you could move to another section?”
That was truly the end of the life that Bertie had once known.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Bertie didn’t get out of bed the next day. She stared at the insides of her eyelids and ate vanilla ice cream with caramel sauce when she was hungry. She fell asleep watching “The Sound of Music” because she hated it (punishment).
The sun shining in her eyes woke her up, and she lethargically sat up enough to look at last week’s paper, thrown on the floor in disgust too many days ago to remember.
Bu
ried in the back of the paper under charity events was a reminder of the annual fashion show and luncheon sponsored by the Ladies Who Munch and hosted by Mrs. Robert (Delia) Bellingham II of Bel Air. Today.
This was it … a chance to see Delia in a role other than linebacker. Maybe even a chance to talk to her.
In the good old days (last week) when she was a reporter, Bertie would’ve gotten a free ticket for the asking, but now she’d have to pay. A ticket cost $250 for a front-row seat; $100 for a you-might-have-to-wash-dishes ticket.
A hundred bucks was a lot of money when you didn’t have job security, but “I’m going,” she thought. “I can’t pass this up.”
She pushed a foot out from beneath the covers: Grubby toes. She’d need a miracle to be ready in time for the 1 p.m. opening of the doors at the Grand Hotel.
“Why did I rush?” Bertie thought, sitting at a table in the back between two well-dressed matrons. Her eyes were glazing over from listening to rich Lady Munchers congratulating themselves about how charitable they were. The whole event could’ve been bagged if they’d just forked over the price of one of their dresses to charity.
The food was good, though. Bertie dove into her veal, swimming through the rich sauce on her way down to a bare plate.
Finally, the show began. The “models” were the Munch bunch, ranging in age from the 30-or-so to the late 60s. They swayed down the aisle in bad imitations of professional models. Bertie caught her breath: The fifth woman was Delia Pomeroy Bellingham. She was beautiful … white skin with a hint of rose, blonde hair that looked real, and a long, lithe body … but she had a blank look in her eyes. She’d only ever seen Delia as she dove on her husband and lover, so she didn’t know if her parking lot was always empty or if it was the stress of modeling that made her look like she was a few genes short of a full pool.
“So who are these beautiful women?” Bertie casually asked her table mates, who’d ignored her up to that point.
The ominously skinny woman to Bertie’s right let out a cackle, then slapped a hand over her mouth as a 60-year-old with huge breasts did a pitiful sashay down the walk.
“Oh, excuse me,” she wheezed. Her plate was full and Bertie resisted the urge to tell her to eat a sandwich. “That’s Mrs. Elliott Pirkle, her husband is the CEO of one of the biggest studios in Hollywood. Yes, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?” the woman said, still trying to stifle her laughter.
A titter broke loose as the other woman let her inner spitefulness out to play. “She’s lovely (snicker). How many times do you think it’s been?” the woman to Bertie’s right asked the woman to Bertie’s left.
“I’d say at least four times,” she answered.
Bertie’s head was swiveling back and forth to keep up with this ping-ponging pettiness, but she stopped, the confusion on her face apparent.
“Oh, that’s how many times she’s had plastic surgery,” the woman to Bertie’s left said. Her name tag said she was Eunice. The woman on the right shoved her spoonful of breast in Bertie’s direction so that she could read her name tag: Georgia.
Georgia cackled. “If she hadn’t had the last one, she’d be tossing her tits over her shoulder to keep ’em off the floor.” Cackling in stereo.
This was heavy duty stuff. Life was good.
Georgia and Eunice dropped more venom bombs with each new model until, finally, Delia came through the curtains again on her stroll down the runway. She wore a beautiful blue dress inlaid with pink beaded roses. As she turned to stroll back up the runway, Bertie saw the glitter of safety pins in the side seams. “What the...” she thought.
“Now there’s a beautiful girl,” Eunice said. “Yes, and so polite; they know how to raise them in the South,” Georgia said.
“Who is it?” Bertie asked, innocently.
“That’s Delia Bellingham,” Eunice said. `She’s the daughter-in-law of that filthy old man, Robert Bellingham. The first one, the one who was just murdered.” Eunice leaned over, giving Bertie a good look at her lifetime supply of silicone.
“She’s pregnant, you know,” she hissed at Bertie. “Did you see the safety pins holding her dress together at the side? The fashion people had a terrible time getting her into it. They finally just took it apart and pinned it back together.”
“Very selfish of her to get pregnant now. She’s known about the fashion show for months, she could’ve waited,” Georgia said petulantly.
“But how nice for her and her husband—a baby,” Bertie said. “They must be so happy.”
Both women gave a quick look around, then Eunice said, “Her husband? Maybe her husband is happy.”
“Maybe not,” Georgia said, knowingly.
They both stared at her expectantly, as if waiting for the idiot child of the class to get it.
Bertie had to be careful, so she smiled like she didn’t know what the hell they were talking about—which she didn’t.
“Having a baby can be a tough time for couples, there are a lot of changes, and some men don’t take to it as well as others.”
Eunice and Georgia exchanged a disappointed look.
“Well, dear, we never did get your name, and here we are chattering on to a complete stranger,” Eunice said.
“I’m Bertie,” she said, confused at the sudden change of topic. Both women shook clammy hands with her, a thoroughly unpleasant experience.
“Well, Burly, it looks like we’ve talked through most of the show, I’m so sorry you missed it because of us,” Georgia chimed in, “but if you’d like, I can introduce you to some of the women.”
Gad, if they were all like these two Bertie was going to bolt for the door. She followed them across the floor, stopping with them to be introduced to various people she intended to forget about right away, then enduring a barrage of cattiness from Toxic Twins Eunice and Georgia about each one.
“She’s the wife of the second biggest bank in Beverly Hills, I mean the wife of the president of the second biggest bank,” Eunice said. Georgia elbowed Eunice and they tittered.
“She’s mortified that it’s not the biggest,” Georgia added, “and she doesn’t let her husband forget that it’s not the biggest... so to speak.”
They both sniggered.
And so it went until they reached Delia, who was standing in the middle of an admiring circle of air-smoochers. As the crowd thinned, Georgia and Eunice moved up with Bertie in tow.
“Just stunning, dear,” Eunice, or was it Georgia? cooed.
Up close, Delia’s hair was spun-gold, her skin was flawless and her wide blue eyes were lit with vacancy signs.
“Thank you so much. You are really too kind,” she replied, her Southern accent softened after her years in Los Angeles, but still charming. The Twins did the gushy-cooey thing, then introduced Bertie as if she were a prize they were presenting to Delia.
“This is our new friend, dear, Burly,” Georgia said.
Delia’s blue eyes grew a little wider, but all she said was, “I’m so pleased to meet you,” extending a hand to her.
Normally, Bertie would have felt awkward and large in front of such a beautiful woman, but she got the feeling that Delia didn’t register much. She chatted until Mrs. Pirkle summoned the twins. “Burly, it was lovely meeting you,” Eunice said and they sidled across the room to their former target and her perky breasts.
“Your name isn’t really Burly, is it?” Delia asked.
“No, thank you for asking. It’s Bertie, short for Bertha.”
“I didn’t think it could be Burly,” Delia said, “but you never know these days. My best friend calls her little boy Dawg, did you ever hear anything so awful? She just loves that TV show, ‘Dawg, the Bouncy Hunter,’ but really, I mean, really! I’ve never seen that show myself.”
Bertie didn’t know what to say to this revelation, so she said nothing.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you at one of these events before,” Delia said.
“No, um, I usually donate anonymously” (the Santa
Claus on the street corner flashed through her mind), “but I was at loose ends today and thought I’d come and see the fashions,” Bertie lied.
“Well, I hope you come back for more. We need fresh faces like yours. Seriously, honey, these women are like dried-up old peaches and as sour as wine that’s turned to vinegar.”
Bertie laughed, while trying to think up a way to casually ask: “By the way, did you kill your father-in-law?” but couldn’t come up with the requisite words. To swing the conversation to family, she congratulated her on her pregnancy.
“Thank you so much,” Delia said. “I’ve only known for about a month or so. My husband was just bowled over when I told him. I mean, just bowled over. He was speechless. Do you know my husband? He’s Robert Bellingham II.”
“No, I don’t believe I know him,” Bertie lied again.
“Well, if you come to another one of these, I’ll introduce you to him, Burly.”
Burly … back to Burly again. Sigh. Bertie gave up on the name business. She told Delia she was the most beautiful model there and fled, picking her way through the idle rich to the street. She started home, smiling at the experience now that it was over.
A block from the apartment, she slammed on the brakes and screeched to a halt. Fortunately, she was on a quiet side street without much traffic.
“Wait a minute … she’s been pregnant for a month ‘or so?’ A month ago she was doing the bed boogie with John Gardener and apparently with her hubby at the same time.”
So whose baby was Delia Bellingham pregnant with?
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
Bertie took to her bed from the shock of it. She would’ve gone back to bed anyway, but this was a super excuse.
“A month or so?” she thought. That definitely put Delia in double jeopardy when it came to transferred bodily fluids.
Lots of rich women—more than Bertie realized—had affairs and some of them probably passed off their little nine-month indiscretions as their husband’s. But the timing was very interesting.
R2 knew she’d been having an affair with the gardener, but only after the fact. Did Gardener know she’d been horizontalizing with her husband at the time of their own roger-and-out?
Trashy Chic Page 16
