by Kylie Adams
"You really think so?" Suzi-Suzi wondered aloud, her voice rattling with self-doubt. "I've never been in a Broadway show. I don't even go to them. Except for Mamma Mia ! I've seen that twice. I love ABBA. Does that count?"
"Sure!" Kiki sang, doing her best to rev up Suzi-Suzi's confidence. "At the end of the show, every-body gets up to dance in the aisles during 'Dancing Queen.' By that measure, you're practically in the show. Put it down on your resume'starred in Mamma Mia !' Nobody will ever know."
"That is so brilliant!" Suzi-Suzi said. "And so true, too. I mean, last time I was totally rocking out in the lower orchestra. In fact, one of the chorus boys pointed at me and gave me this big smile."
"See. It's not a lie. Maybe a slight exaggeration. But nothing more than that."
"So how do I get in touch with this Doug person?"
"Oh, God, I have no idea. I can't remember his last name or the name of his agency."
"KM!"
"Calm down. I know a girl at Bliss. He's a regular there. She'll know who I'm talking about and give me all the contact info."
"I feel so much better about things now. It's like I suddenly have a new career or something."
Kiki nestled back against the pillows, feeling quite pleased with herself. Basically, she'd just rescued Suzi-Suzi from a near breakdown. This would make another great chapter for the book. Just as she opened her mouth to say something, Kiki heard the distinctive break of someone else's call-waiting.
"OohChad's beeping in. I better go. He gets mad when the phone rings into voice mail. Call me later." And then the line went dead.
For several long introspective moments, Kiki just lay there, wondering what to do next. Glancing over to the nightstand, she noticed Fab's business card. It practically glowed radioactive. She reached out for it, fingering the raised lettering and embossed graphics. Then she flipped it over to see his cell number scrawled on the back.
The mere thought of him made her body itch, the so-vivid memory of Fab's impossible attractiveness crawling all over her like a hot rash. God, he really was extraordinary. Everything about himhis proud aquiline nose, his sensuously deliberate mouth, his strong, square jaw. And even covered up in his regulation Armani, Kiki knew that the body was the stuff of punishing five a.m. workouts. She could tell by his broad shoulders, the triangular shape of his chest, the discipline of his trim waistline, and his shapely butt that deserved its own cable channel.
Kiki had to wonder, though, about the character of a man who lived such a charmed existence. The success was on the cover of Fast Company . The looks were instant legend. The media was covering his every move. The women were falling at his feet. Certainly he believed some of the hype. After all, he called himself Fab. But how many deals had he struck with the devil to become Mr. Perfect?
And how many hearts had he broken along the way?
* * *
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Word of Caution
Kiki,
Hello, doll! I'm still tickled that we're back in touch. What a glorious blast from the past. I must say, though, I've never taken my wedding planning orders from a bridesmaid. A horrifying mother of the bride? Yes. Scratch that. ALWAYS. Except for Angela Binder. Remember her? She was the bitchy yearbook editor all through high school. I did her wedding two years ago, and she didn't even INVITE her mother. Something about a confrontation on Maury Povich about Angela's stepfather. I didn't ask. The point is, no bridesmaid has EVER marched right up to play General Schwarzkopf. Leave it to you to start a new trend. But are you sure that you're on the same page as Roman and this girl from New Jersey?
Big Hug, Breckin
* * *
Chapter Six
Kiki's finger wavered on the cellular keypad. There had to be a good reason to call him. Hmm. Well, the music selection left something to be desired. That was certainly a worthy issue to raise. Feeling emboldened by the legitimate concern, she dialed.
"Fab Tomba." The voice was in efficient business mode but still sexy.
"Hello, I'm staying in the Mistress Hideaway and would like to speak with the owner of this hotel."
"Yes, speaking. How can I help?"
Kiki could sense him smiling into the receiver. "I'm in the mood for some music, and the only choices here are Frank Sinatra, Michael Buble, Luther Vandross, and Barry White."
"Ah, you must be a hip-hop girl. I'll have the latest Snoop Dogg CD brought up in a flash."
"No, I'm more of a metal chick. You see, I have anger issues, and I like to thrash around the room breaking stuff. Metallica is more my speed."
"Not a problem. Consider the matter handled." And then he signed off without a goodbye.
Kiki just held the phone to her ear for several long, tormented seconds. Something about their exchange left her unsettled. Paranoid thoughts began to consume her. Had she just been dissed? Basically, the man had hung up on her. She could probably call housekeeping for extra towels and get better conversation. Maybe Fab was just busy, though. He did have a hotel to run. Still, it seemed rather abrupt.
For at least fifteen minutes, Kiki merely lay there, silently driving herself insane as she deconstructed the micro-moment for all of its real and imagined subtextual meanings.
All of a sudden, three fast knocks rapped the door.
Kiki's heart lurched. It was him. She knew it. That's why he ended the call so quickly. Because he wanted no unnecessary delay between finishing his task at hand and standing outside her suite.
But she opened the door to find Tate on the other side of itholding a big stack of Metallica CDs. What looked to be the band's entire catalog, too.
Kiki relieved Tate of the multidisc joke, snatched a twenty-dollar bill from the Gucci boot box, and sent him on his way. She flipped through the hard rock collection. No flirty Post-it. No teasing little note on Affair stationery. No communication at all.
She continued obsessing over the situation. Did he really think that she enjoyed listening to Metallica? Suddenly drowsy, she closed her eyes for a few minutes. When she opened them, it was dark outside. How long had she been asleep? She checked the clock on her cellular. Quarter past eight. Oh, God, she must have been dozing for hours! Scandal fatigue could really take the energy out of a girl.
Kiki indulged in a hot shower, tossed on a Junk Food Cookie Monster baby doll tee with a pair of low-waisted velour sweatpants emblazoned across the ass with the words he's trashdump him, and slathered onto her face a generous heaping of Borgh-ese Fango mud.
Feeling a little pissed off, she loaded the stereo with one of the Metallica discs and blasted "Enter Sandman" at top volume, hoping some of the other guests would call the front desk to complain. That would teach Mr. Fabrizio Tomba!
But the self-imposed sonic assault only served to irritate Kiki further. Unable to stifle her frustrations another second, she twisted down the volume and called the front desk herself.
"Good evening, Miss Aniston. How can I assist you this evening?"
"I need a message delivered to Mr. Tomba," Kiki announced tartly.
"Please tell him that the color is dull on my plasma TV, that the bath towels feel like sandpaper, and that if he had an ounce of sophistication, then he would stock imported gummi bears from Spain in the mini-bar and not the domestic kind."
"I'll see that he gets this straightaway, Miss Aniston."
"Thank you."
"My pleasure."
Kiki used her thumb to wipe off the Fango mud smudged on the telephone mouthpiece, banged the receiver back into the cradle, and turned up the music again. Even louder this time. Only at the track break did she hear a pounding on the door. Maybe the politician was done being dominated and wanted some peace and quiet.
Kiki peered through the peephole. To her astonishment, she saw Fab. There was no point in scrambling to make herself presentable. It's not like he even bothered to call. And why waste a perfectly good Fango treatment only minutes into its topical
benefits? So, hair balled up in a scrunchie, face plastered with mask, she swung open the door.
Fab noted her appearance but betrayed no reaction. "In the immortal words of Paris Hilton, 'That's hot.'"
As Kiki smiled, she felt the drying mud crack a little.
He gestured to the dining cart behind him. "I hope you haven't eaten. I brought dinner. Takeout from Spice Market."
Kiki yanked him into the room. "That's my favorite restaurant, and I'm starving."
Fab laughed, reaching back to navigate the cart inside. "I brought a pitcher of blood-orange mojitos , too. If you get me drunk and take advantage of me, though, please be responsible. Safe sex only."
"I did notice the emergency seduction package available in the minibar. But don't even think about charging that to my room."
He lifted three silver domes to reveal mushroom egg rolls, fried chicken wings in lime and fish sauce, and egg-drop soup with a tomato puree. "You like?"
Kiki grabbed a wing. "Me like a lot ." She tore into it while he poured the first round of drinks. "Do you handle all complaints with such a personalized touch?"
He gave a quizzical look as he passed over a crystal highballer. "What complaints?"
Thank God her face was Fango green. Otherwise, it would be scarlet with embarrassment. "Urn I woke up from a long nap and was kind of groggy. I might've called the front desk. But disregard that. I was a little out of it." Greedily, she gulped down the mojito to the halfway point, hoping to get even more out of it. While she had been terrorizing his staff, he had been plotting out a romantic dinner.
Fab took a bite of egg roll. "You know, now that
Q
you mention it, there was an odd complaint tonight. A woman on this floor, actually. Something about scratchy towels and bad gummi bears."
She waved off the teasing accusation. "Was that me? God, I don't know what I said to that poor man. Like I was saying I was half asleep."
Fab laughed a little. "Should I come back in twenty minutes? Give you a chance to rinse that stuff off your face and change clothes?"
Kiki shrugged. "What's the point? You've already seen me like this." She finished the rest of Fab's egg roll. "This is so good. I love Spice Market."
Fab grinned. "I've never seen a woman in full beauty prep before. It's kind of cute."
Kiki found this announcement illuminating. "Never?"
Fab shook his head.
"I take it you prefer short relationships."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because if a man sticks around long enough, women get over the whole he-can't-see-me-without-makeup thing."
Fab rolled the cart closer to the bed, sat on the edge of the mattress, and began serving up the egg-drop soup. "But we just met today. So what does that say about us?"
Kiki took a seat beside him and splayed out her left hand. "It means you better start shopping for a ring, because this could be serious."
Fab laughed again. "You're funny. Why do you act in soap operas ?" He spat out the last two words like sour milk. "You should be on a sitcom."
"What's wrong with soap operas?" She sounded defensive. She was defensive.
"I suppose the ones that come on at night are oka)'. But the daytime shows are a joke. Nothing happens. And no real time goes by. They drink the same cup of coffee Monday through Friday. And I hate those long pauses when people just stare at each other and say nothing. Nobody does that."
"Well, it's good steady work and a great training ground for other things. I'd sign up for another soap in a heartbeat."
"Way to go, baby. Aim high."
Kiki finished her drink and looked at him. "You have no idea what you're talking about. And just so you know, there's a cure for AGS."
"What's AGS?"
"Average Guy Syndrome. It's this terrible affliction that many men have."
Fab smiled, playing along. "What are the symptoms?"
"Pretending to be an expert on subjects you know nothing about."
"I see. This sounds serious."
"Oh, it is."
"And you think I have it."
"Oh, I'm sure of it."
"Is there anything I can do?"
"Well, for starters," Kiki began silkily, "you can shut the fuck up about soap operas."
Fab laughed and poured another round of mojitos .
"And by the way, getting me drunk won't make your condition any less unattractive."
"Hey, all I'm saying is that you could be selling yourself short."
All of a sudden, Kiki grew pensive. Just hours ago she had been giving the same speech to her best friend. Suzi-Suzi thought PLK Management was her personal Mount Everest. And Kiki would dance naked in Times Square if All My Children called to say Jeannette had survived the plunge from the cruise ship by floating on a piece of driftwood. "This business can be brutal when you reach a certain age."
Fab seemed to pick up on her vulnerability. "America is youth obsessed. I'll give you that."
"But it's different for men. You can age gracefully. Producers don't scrutinize you for lines around the eyes or react to a few extra pounds by writing you out of a swimsuit scene."
"But how responsible are you for that?" Fab asked, his challenge gentle yet firm.
"For sexual politics and the age-old double standard? I think you overestimate my influence on the world."
"But we all make our own place in it."
Kiki stared at him. "And what's mine?"
Fab regarded her closely, curling his lips into a half smile. "It's not easy talking existentialism to a woman with a green face, but I'll give it a go."
"Please do. I'm anxious to hear."
He hesitated. "Do you mean that? Because it sounds like you're giving me permission to walk the plank." With that, he reached for the pitcher and refilled her glass with more blood-orange mojito .
Kiki took a generous sip, beginning to feel the tingle of the alcohol. "No, I'm inviting you to share your perspective."
"You won't take it the wrong way and torpedo the evening?"
"Now, I can't promise that."
"I didn't think so." And then he pretended to drink straight from the pitcher before topping off his own glass.
She laughed at him. "Hey, you swam out to the deep end. Not me."
"This is true." He took in a deep breath. "Okay, here goes I think that you've trapped yourself into believing that trading on your beauty is the only road to take."
Suddenly, Kiki realized that the easy banter, flirty games, and silly arguments were morphing into something far more substantial. They were engaging in heavy-duty emotional intercourse. Obviously, he wanted that. And she was glad that he did.
"If the tabloids are to be believed, your Miss
America days happened ten years ago," Fab went on. "But it seems like you're still zeroed in on being the pretty, sexy girl. Maybe that's why you walked down the aisle with that old rich guy. Maybe that's why you're still going after the starlet roles on soaps. What amazes me about you is that you're so smart. You're so funny, too. But making those qualities really work for you doesn't seem to be in your master plan."
Kiki sat there, completely stunned. Being part of a careful, psychological exploration with a man was a new kind of intimacy for her. An awkward silence lingered. Definitely a who-goes-next moment. She waged an internal debate on how much to reveal to him, since they had now merged into major league getting-to-know-you. All of a sudden, she felt high up, as if on a tightwire.
Finally, she spoke. "I'm not a good actress." It was simple. It was matter-of-fact. And it was true. She cocked her head to one side. "That's why I got breast implants. Nice boobs can compensate for lack of talent. Just ask Carmen Electra."
"What about training?" Fab asked earnestly. "Even the best actors continue developing their skills. Both Charlize Theron and Halle Berry worked with a coach on the movies that won them Oscars."
"I've tried classes," Kiki said, downing the remainder of drink number two and feeling more
relaxed than ever. "But I can't do those silly exercises. Like pretending I'm a tree that's about to be cut down. I mean, what's that about? I suppose the real culprit is my own lack of drive. Being the pretty, sexy girl has always come easy for me. It's the only thing I've ever really been good at. And it's the only thing most people have ever paid attention to."
"Don't you think Charlize and Halle felt the same way at some point? For a long time they were just beautiful scenery in movies, but they worked hard and dug deep. And look what happened."
Kiki gazed adoringly at Fab, and she really liked what she saw, beyond the more obvious hot-guy appeal. There was an optimistic sparkle in his eyes, an Up With People quality that was sweet, refreshing, and totally against type. Where was the midnight rambler that the society columnists gushed about? They had him pegged as a serial dater, the kind of guy who turned up missing if sex didn't materialize quickly, preferably right away, definitely by the third date. Yet here was a perfect gentleman, content to offer motivational platitudes to the ambition-challenged as a substitute to foreplay.
"So why couldn't you win an Oscar one day?" Fab asked.
Kiki laughed lightly, equally amused, enchanted, and mystified by his belief in her. "God, you really are a frustrated Tony Robbins."
He averted his gaze and concentrated on his soup, saying nothing.
Worried that she might have hurt his feelings, Kiki talked fast to explain. "It's just that I don't think I want it bad enough. The whole acting thing. I'd be fine with a decent supporting role that paid well. I'm not a good actress, but I'm competent. I can deliver decent line readings and hit my mark. I've never had a story arc to call my own, and that's okay. I usually just play the best friend. My function is to react while a major character confides a secret or yammers on about being in love with two men at the same time."
