“A girl could get used to this…” she tells the empty room.
As clichéd as she knows the feelings are, here, she doesn’t have to answer to anyone. Here, she can do exactly whatever she wants. She can use the bathroom with the door open. She can wander around the room naked. She can get ridiculously and unapologetically drunk, if she chooses. She can call whomever she’d like. She can fuck off on her diet and order nothing but glorious desserts from room service.
Pulling her iPhone, Jane plugs the device into the dock and pulls up one of her favorite songs. As the opening chords of Miley Cyrus’s ‘Party in the USA’ begin to play, Jane sings loudly, dancing, making up choreography as she goes. When the song comes to an end, she turns down the volume, and forgetting she’s supposed to be mad at him, calls her husband and asks, “What is freedom to you?”
“Should I be worried?”
“No, I’m just saying, hypothetically, what does it mean to you?”
“In the big picture sense, or what exactly? Sorry, you’ll have to give me some context here.”
Jane would be happy to admit she is glad her husband, Ian, is not here with her. They’ve been together for nearly seventeen years and he is, as ever, the pragmatist. She knows exactly what he would do if he was here with her. He would somehow find a sports channel that was showing golf, make himself a Seagram’s and Seven (purchased outside of the hotel in an effort to save money), and be settled in for the rest of the day. His nod to luxury and freedom would be turning off his Blackberry for a few hours. Furthermore, before she left, they had a minor tiff surrounding their intended travel plans for the holidays and neither has conceded yet. She wants to take the kids and go skiing and he wants to spend time with his family.
“Never mind,” she clarifies.
“Has all that smog gone to your head? You only landed this morning.”
“Actually,” she peers outside the curtained windows and says, “it’s pretty clear today.”
“The traffic?”
“Not so bad.”
“See any celebrities?”
“I thought I saw Zach Braff, but that’s about it.”
“Call me before you go to bed?”
“Yes, honey.”
“Love you.”
“Give my love to the kids.”
As predicted, neither brought up the topic of holiday travel. Difficult conversations like the one they need to have should be done in person and not over the phone. Hanging up, Jane is torn and sighs heavily. Part of her wants to draw the hottest bath she can stand, order the latest romantic comedy on demand, and drink the remains of the wine in the minibar. Maybe finish her book for upcoming book club. Another part of her entirely seeks adventure. With her fortieth birthday fast approaching, Jane knows her years of being a desirable woman are approaching a different phase. Yes, with her long, naturally glossy chestnut hair (natural, and not salon produced) and a figure she takes care of by swimming whenever possible and weekly Pilates sessions, she can’t help but wonder who else might be in the hotel tonight.
What would her mystery man look like?
Would he take the form of her college boyfriend she sometimes fantasizes about?
Would he look like cute Charlie from the accounts department?
Given this is Los Angeles, would he be a minor celebrity?
No matter who he was, he would certainly support her decision to go skiing at Christmas.
With her libido revving, Jill tears through the contents of her suitcase and realizes she has nothing truly suitable for a ‘SoCal cool’ look and, with aching feet, has no desire to walk to the nearby boutiques of Via Rodeo. After trying on different combinations, she finally feels confident in the dark wash denim jeans she wore during the flight, decent sized heels, a camisole which she has somehow refashioned into a top, finished with a chic scarf. It’s not what she would usually wear out in public at home, but at the Winchester, Jane thinks she’ll be more covered up than most. After putting the finishing touches on her makeup and liberally spritzing herself with Issey Miyake, she looks at the chaos behind her – clothes everywhere, make up on most available surfaces.
Grabbing her clutch, she smiles to herself and, hand on the door, says, “Just one drink.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
September 16, 1:14 A.M.
The door clicks open. Feeling every bit as nervous as when she received her first kiss from Bobby Dodge when she was sixteen, Jill hesitates in the doorway. Tonight has been a fantasy, but how does the dream end? She’s dodged texts and calls from her husband, instead focusing on the handsome (and younger) stranger she met at the bar.
“Invite me in.”
“You’re demanding, aren’t you?” Jill answers flirtatiously, still hesitating, unsure if she’s willing to have this man cross the threshold into the room. As she twists her wedding band, in that moment, the unexpected happens. The earth trembles. The ground moves. From inside the room, glasses clink and rattle loudly together. Already inebriated, it takes Jill’s alcohol soaked brain a few moments to realize what is happening – an earthquake.
Desperate for balance, Jill grabs onto the door, and her companion clutches onto her.
After nearly twenty unbearably long and heart stopping seconds the shaking mercifully comes to a stop. During the tremor, a thousand thoughts flash through her head. What if she dies? What if the building collapses around them and they find her with this random guy buried in the rubble? What will her husband think? What will her children think? Why did she have to come to this convention? Why didn’t she stay where the rest of the attendees are? All she wanted was a bit of flirting and not to die with someone not her husband in some unsafe hotel. Suddenly, she realizes she would be happy to go spend the holidays with his family, screw the skiing trip.
Gasping for breath, Jill asks the man, “Are you okay?”
“Thank goodness that was a small one.”
They both walk into the room, trying to control their breathing. The phone rings – shrilly, unexpected and Jill moves to answer the device. With shaking hands, she picks up the device and says, “Yes, I’m fine. No, everything is okay. No, I’m not alone. Thank you.”
“The hotel manager?”
“Yes. They are going to do an inspection of the property and let us know if we have to leave.”
“It’s a new building and that probably wasn’t more than a five, so we should be fine.”
They sit in silence, listening to the far away sounds of emergency vehicles.
“I should call my husband.”
Jane had told the man from the bar about her marriage. She had no reason to lie. They were both adults. He is David Harber, local Angeleno, professor at UCLA, and had been stood up on a prospective first date with a woman he had met online. At the bar, they had bonded over their love of the Cavaliers, of which there had been a small pre-season blurb on ESPN. David had bought her one drink and then another. Jill knew her limits and even though she had been drinking water, had said yes to a fourth drink.
With her heart rate settling down, Jane thinks of her husband, tucked away on the second floor of their two story Cape Cod. Their first house purchase was supposed to be a starter property, but they never got around to preparing the small home for the market. 310 Blix Street was cosy, but Jill likes the space. It’s where her children learned to walk, to ride a bike, where they’ve eaten countless Thanksgiving dinners and gathered around the television to watch silly sitcoms. Looking around her current room, she realizes the entirety of her upstairs at home would fit into the suite.
“Should you?”
She knows what Ian’s response will be. He’ll be concerned for her safety, but this far away, there’s nothing he can add to the situation. He probably won’t even tell the children, leaving her to surprise them when she gets home.
“I guess I don’t have to wake him.”
“Will you tell him about meeting me?”
“No, why w
ould I?”
Misreading the comment, David leans over to kiss her. She hasn’t had a first kiss in years. The embrace feels strange. Buzzed from the alcohol, shaken from the earthquake, there is a surreal quality to kissing someone else. Jane opens her mouth, trying to summon passion, but comes up short. Whether the adrenaline from her body has dissipated or she’s actually worn out, she sees nothing physical happening between them.
Breaking off the kiss, she moves aside and says, “If you don’t want to get a cab, you can crash on the couch.”
“Sorry, I’m confused.”
“Nothing’s going to happen. Sorry.”
Disappointed, David sighs and leans back and asks, “Was something going to happen?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
Feeling rejected, he stands up and says, “Bad timing then.”
“Sorry, David. Be safe.”
She watches as he exits the room and wonders what would have happened if the earth hadn’t decided to shake. Too exhausted to put further thought into the question, she walks into the bedroom and fully clothed, slides under the covers, falling quickly and deeply to sleep.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
September 22, 8:17 A.M.
“I don’t want this,” says three-year-old Kaitlyn.
“What do you want, sweetie?”
The toddler sits down, crosses her little arms and says, “I want to go outside and play.”
“And you can do that. After we go out for a little.”
The Southern California regional Little Miss Darling pageant is in a matter of hours. Victoria, a former beauty queen herself, was delighted to have a daughter. Thinking back fondly to her own experience in the pageant circuit, Victoria was initially optimistic her daughter would enjoy the same friendship and confidence boosting qualities she had experienced.
Unfortunately, Kaitlyn seems to have been born without a single ‘girly’ gene in her body. She hates wearing dresses, would rather be outside in the dirt than playing with makeup and the closest Victoria can get to having her daughter get excited about dancing or music is the Jesse cowgirl outfit from Toy Story 2. She doesn’t like the tiaras or the sashes or the glitter. When all is said and done, she would rather play with blocks and chase the other girls around the hotel lobby. The truly incredible thing is that when finally prompted, Kaitlyn has an amazing voice. It is this quality which has gotten them past the district competition to the regionals.
Kaitlyn’s father, Victoria’s husband, Hugh, has approximately zero interest in these endeavors. Still a bit unsure how to handle having a daughter, he assumes this is a type of traditional mother and daughter bonding. However, he is secretly excited at the prospect of coaching a soccer team for Kaitlyn when she’s old enough, and delights in her tomboyish tendencies.
“No.” Kaitlyn is not prone to temper tantrums, nor is she someone who usually raises her voice. However she might feel about participating in a pageant, her parents have raised her with manners.
Realizing this might be more involved, that little Kaitlyn is showing her father’s stubbornness, Victoria sits down on the floor next to her daughter. She points to the costume, zipped up in a protective bag along with a frilly green dress and asks, “Why not?”
“Mama, I don’t like that stuff.”
“What don’t you like about it?”
Obviously uncomfortable about displeasing her mother, Kaitlyn squirms and says, “It’s just…like, the other girls like it and I don’t.”
Trying to remain neutral, Victoria says, “Is there any part about it you do like?”
“I like being with you!”
Unexpected tears threaten to spill over, but Victoria manages to remain composed and says, “And I love spending time with you, pumpkin. But you don’t like any other part of it?”
“No. I miss Daddy and my toys and my friends.” Kaitlyn picks at her shoe and then her nose and says, “And my overalls.”
“You really don’t like the outfits, do you?”
“I really don’t.”
“What about your singing?”
“It’s okay, I guess.”
“Does it make you happy?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you like singing in front of other people?”
“In the neighborhood and when you and Daddy have parties, that’s when it’s fun.”
Kaitlyn looks up at her mother, who appears to be struggling with a major decision. Victoria opens her arms and says, “Come here, pumpkin.”
Kaitlyn needs no further encouragement and instantly cuddles up to her mom. They sit silently on the floor of the suite, the dresses hanging and make up kit ready to go. Victoria breathes in her daughter’s warm scent and comes to a decision. Still holding her daughter tight, she says, “I can think of something else we can do today.”
“What’s that?”
“Do you know what’s close by?”
“What?”
Even if it isn’t that close, she knows her daughter’s been dying to go, “How about we skip the pageant and go to Legoland instead?”
There is a moment when Kaitlyn says nothing and then springs out of her mother’s arms. Jumping up and down, she says, “Really? Mommy?”
“Yes, darling.”
“And I don’t have to dress up or sing there?”
“No, pumpkin, we’re just going to go and have a good time together.”
Kaitlyn steps back over to her mother and with a tentative hug, says, “Thank you, Mommy. I love you.”
CHAPTER SIXTY
September 29, 2:14 P.M.
Angel Lee carefully sits a digital tape recorder on the glass-topped coffee table in front of her and tries to calm her nerves. She also checks the recording function on her iPhone and, feeling secure she has both a primary and secondary device to tape the upcoming conversation, sits back against the couch. This is potentially her biggest story ever, and she doesn’t want to risk any sort of technical issue in recording what the whistleblower has to say. The story was all but dropped in her lap, and knowing the players involved, she knows she has to act fast – faster than she would prefer or will give her time to adequately research her subject. Still, it’s a lead and she’ll take it – she would be an idiot not to. The past few days have been a flurry of calls and interviews, but she still doesn’t feel entirely ready.
And that includes her clothes. She looks down and wonders if she’s dressed the part. Undoubtedly, her subject will be in a suit, an expensive one and she wishes she had the funds to pull off the same. The reality is that the freelance writing she’s been doing doesn’t pay that well and her Ann Taylor clearance suit is going to have to work. While she saw a minor rise in her professional career earlier in the year by gaining access to an anonymous but important player of a major drug dealer trial, Angel needs something to take her to the next level.
Although the days of hard hitting and investigative newspaper reporting are slowly fading towards ‘infotainment,’ Angel hopes there’s a chance she can still make it to the big leagues. Well aware she has a face for radio, there’s no way this story will end up as a package on a local television station. Furthermore, her whistleblower is shy – and has specifically asked for no cameras to be present during his interview. The allegations the whistleblower was bringing forward today are big, and would grab headlines around the city, maybe even the country.
There is a knock on the door and Angel jumps up, then breathes a sigh of relief when she checks the peephole. The arrival is just the snacks she’s ordered. Although she can’t afford room service or the hotel room, she has bent to the demands of the whistleblower and arranged this meeting at the Winchester. As she fusses with the placement of the fruit, coffee, and tea, there is another knock on the door and Angel looks at her watch, noting the gentleman is right on time.
“Mr. Simpson?”
“Yes.”
He looks uncomfortable, which Angel expected, and she tries to put
him at ease, sensing he still might back out at any moment, “Please, come in. I’ve ordered us some refreshments.”
“And you’re the only one here? No police? No colleagues?”
“Yes, as you requested, I am alone.” He walks past her and scans the room, allowing her to study him. Unlike most people, Karl seems taller than the pictures she’s studied of him. He wears a navy suit, probably bespoke. His hair, very light blond is professionally groomed and clipped short, very conservative. Although he is not her type, she understands how many people of both genders are attracted to him.
“No video camera?”
Angel had actually brought one just in case, but given how uneasy her guest seems, she decides to leave the device in her bag and says, “None. Nothing hidden, just you, me and a tape recorder. Are you still okay to go ahead?”
“Yes.”
As the man pours himself a cup of coffee, Angel follows her guest to the seating area and asks, “You realize you have certain privileges, correct?”
“As in?”
“I know you want to go officially on the record as yourself, but you can be protected if you choose. As a source, I am not required to give up your identity.”
“I’m aware.”
“But you still want to have these charges and accusations accredited to you?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re certain?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You are and I am grateful.” Angel picks up a clipped set of documents and says, “As we’ve agreed, here is the latest agreement for this interview.”
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