“That very same tidbit,” Stephanie said, unable to keep the sarcasm from coloring her words. She was glad that Harry couldn’t see the smirk on her face. She was in no mood to discuss, ad nauseam, the divine Ms. Donovan. This was her dime, and she was planning to turn it into dollars—many, many dollars. “Maynard Scarborough must agree with Vogue. He’s just announced that he’s signed her to represent his clothing and jewelry lines.”
“Old news, darling.”
“Oh, so you already know the confidential terms of her contract.”
“Do tell.”
“First things first, Harry. Before I tell you how much Gabrielle is getting paid, I’d like to know how much I’m getting paid.”
“Oh, Stephanie, you do cut right to the chase, don’t you, darling?” Despite his sometimes crabby attitude toward her, Harry Grain actually liked Stephanie very much. She reminded him of himself. Stephanie was wily, wicked, and desperate to get ahead.
“What exactly is the extent of your access to Miss Donovan?”
“Harry, I can tell you everything from what Gabrielle Donovan craves when she’s premenstrual to how messy she keeps her underwear drawer. For a price, of course.”
“Of course. I will double what I’m paying you now, but only if you assure me that I’ll have exclusive rights to any news about Gabrielle.”
“Harry, how could you even think I’d take my gossip elsewhere?”
“We’re in agreement, then?”
“Yes indeed.”
“Well, let’s hear about her contract. I do have a deadline to meet.”
After filling Harry in on the details, she hung up the phone, smiling as if she’d won the lottery. Why hadn’t she thought of this before? Handing Harry a few innocent bits of gossip about Gabrielle wouldn’t hurt. In fact, this could prove to be a real boon to the girl’s career. After all, weren’t all the big-time models mentioned in gossip columns all the time? Hell, you couldn’t pick up a paper without reading about the antics, engagements, divorces, or weight gains of Naomi Campbell or Elle MacPherson. Something else to thank me for, Gaby. One day you’re going to have to return the favor. And when I’m ready to collect, I’m going to collect big—real big.
28
“Get Greg von Ulrieh on the fucking phone now,” Maynard barked at his assistant. He was furious. Going through the clippings from yesterday’s press conference, he’d come across “The Grain Harvest” only to find the details of his contract with Gabrielle laid out in black and white for the world to read.
“How the fuck did a sleaze like Harry Grain get the details of Gabrielle’s contract?” he screamed in the phone after Gregory’s hello. “Do you know what havoc this will wreak on other contract negotiations I have going on?”
“What are you talking about, Maynard?”
“We agreed that our deal was to remain confidential, but not only do I read about it in the paper, I read about it in a fucking tabloid! How do you explain this?”
“Frankly, Maynard, I don’t know how to explain it, but I will get to the bottom of this. In the meantime, I’ll alert Felicia about the leak and advise her not to confirm or deny anything to the press. I’ll also talk to Gabrielle and remind her that all business dealings are confidential.”
“I’ll do the same here, and if I do find that the information was leaked from my side, heads will roll.”
“Gabrielle, I read about your deal with Maynard Scarborough. Why didn’t you tell me you were a multimillionaire?” Stephanie said.
“Where did you read that?”
“In Star Diary. Is he really paying you three million plus fifteen thousand a show?” Stephanie asked.
“No, I’m not making fifteen thousand dollars a fashion show,” Gabrielle told her, without offering the correct figure. “That information was supposed to be confidential.”
“This isn’t going to affect your deal, is it?”
“I’m not sure, but I’d better call Greg and let him know.” Before she could pick up the phone, it rang.
“Ms. Donovan?”
“Yes?”
“We’d like a comment on your contract with Scarborough Designs.”
“I—uh, I—” Gabrielle stuttered into the phone.
“Are the terms as outlined in Star Diary correct?”
“No, not really.”
“This is Stephanie Bancroft, Ms. Donovan’s publicist,” Stephanie said, taking the receiver from Gabrielle’s hand. “Ms. Donovan has no comment at this time.”
“Can you confirm this report?”
“No comment.”
Stephanie hung up the phone, only to have it ring again. “Hello. No, this is her publicist, Stephanie Bancroft. That’s B-A-N-C-R-O-F-T,” she told another reporter. “Ms. Donovan has no comment about the terms of her contract with Mr. Scarborough. Goodbye.” Again the phone rang.
“Ms. Donovan has no comment on—”
“Stephanie?”
“Felicia?”
“You obviously already know that we’ve got a problem.”
“Tell me about it. Somebody leaked the terms of Gabrielle’s contract with Scarborough Designs. The press has been calling nonstop. Don’t worry, I’m handling it.”
“I can see that. Excellent work, Stephanie. If you can take care of any calls on the home phone, I’ll cover the office. This should all blow over soon. May I speak to Gabrielle, please?”
“Sure,” Stephanie said, handing the phone to Gabrielle. She was both grateful and surprised by Felicia’s praise. Felicia’s behavior had been so quirky and withdrawn lately that Stephanie was beginning to wonder if she noticed anything that went on in the office.
“It’s pretty crazy around here, Felicia. How did they find out?” Gabrielle asked.
“I have no idea. Did you tell anyone?”
“Only Bea and—” Gabrielle paused, wondering if Doug could have possibly been the source. How could he be? He’d promised to keep the information off the record. Doug wouldn’t betray her, would he?
“And?”
“And I’m sure that she wouldn’t tell a soul, let alone a tabloid hack.”
“I agree, so don’t worry. This won’t last long. Harry Grain will soon move on to his next victim.”
“What can we do to fix this, Felicia? Can’t we call someone and get them to retract the story?”
“Believe me, it’s usually best to just ignore these stories. Besides, when you look at the big picture, it’s not that huge a deal,” Felicia said.
“Only to Maynard, who asked specifically that all this remain confidential.”
“I’m sure Gregory will take care of Maynard, and in the meantime Stephanie will talk to any reporters who might call you at home.”
“What did she say?” Stephanie asked once Gabrielle had hung up.
“She told me not to worry and that you’ll handle the situation here.”
“She’s right,” Stephanie said, smiling brightly. “I’ll take care of everything.”
Doug stood in the entryway of his Boston apartment building and sifted through his mail. The pile contained the usual bills and junk mail, plus a small package addressed in handwriting he didn’t recognize.
He sprinted up the three flights of stairs that led to his front door. Once inside, Doug threw the rest of his mail onto the table next to the door and carried the small padded envelope into his study. He sat down and tore open the envelope, spilling onto the desk a cassette tape and two Polaroid photos.
The first picture was of a man he didn’t recognize, holding a shirt he did. It was his lucky Boston University sweatshirt. This was the shirt that got him through his writer’s block and the one he wore whenever he was working on an important story—like his award-winning story on Romanian orphans. This ratty old sweatshirt was the most important piece of clothing he owned, and from the looks of things it was in big trouble.
The man was strangling his security sweatshirt in one hand, while brazenly flicking his Bic perilously close to the frayed righ
t cuff. The second Polaroid was a pinup shot of Gabrielle stretched out across a sofa wearing nothing but his shirt and a pair of black-suede pumps. Talk about torture.
With an expansive smile on his face, Doug popped the cassette into his tape recorder. After several seconds of silence he heard Gabrielle’s voice, sounding stern and mysterious.
“Doug Sixsmith, we have your sweatshirt. If you ever want to see it in one piece again, follow these instructions. You must arrive in New York City on Friday, September fifteenth. Be at the New York Hilton by one o’clock and look for a woman sitting behind a newspaper in the lobby. Come alone—and be prepared to be held hostage.”
Doug played the tape again and again, each time marveling over his lover’s creativity and sense of humor. He missed Gabrielle so very much and was thrilled that she obviously missed him as well. Doug couldn’t continue to live like this. Their short, sporadic visits in between work trips were no longer enough. He needed to be with Gabrielle on a daily basis, to go to bed with her wrapped in his arms and to wake up each morning with her beside him. It’s time to make some changes, he thought as he reached for the phone.
“This is perfect—holding me hostage in the same hotel where we first met,” Doug remarked.
Gabrielle replied by snuggling closer to Doug. She smiled and mentally congratulated herself on her luxurious surroundings. She’d come a long way from sleeping in the bathroom of this very hotel. Instead of scrounging off room-service trays, her meals were prepared at the whim of her appetite. And instead of dodging the hotel maids, they were now at her beck and call.
“It would be even more perfect if we could be together all the time,” Doug continued.
“That would be heavenly, but impossible with me here in New York and you in Boston.”
“It could happen if I moved to New York.”
“I’d love it if you were here all the time, but with both of us on planes as much as we are, it really won’t matter much, will it?”
“It would if one of us gave up all the travel,” Doug said.
“I can’t quit traveling.”
“How sexist of you to assume that I was talking about you.”
“You’re going to quit writing?” Gabrielle asked.
“I didn’t say I’d stop writing. I said I would stop traveling. I’ve been thinking it might be time for a career change. And since I finally finished this novel I’ve been working on for years, and my agent has gotten some serious interest from publishers, now seems like a good time. I can edit my book here in New York and we can be together.”
“That’s fantastic! When can you move?”
“Just as soon as I find us an apartment.”
“Us?” Gabrielle felt like a balloon that had just been pricked, releasing all the euphoria she’d been experiencing.
“I want us to live together, Gabrielle. What do you think?”
“Are you sure you could work with me underfoot?” she asked, stalling.
“Maynard Scarborough is not the only man you inspire,” he announced, kissing the tip of her nose. “Hey, where are you going?”
“To the bathroom. Back in a minute,” she promised. Gabrielle didn’t need to use the toilet; she needed to think. This is all moving so fast, she thought as she closed the door behind her and faced the woman in the mirror. There was no doubt that she loved Doug with everything she had inside her. Gabrielle also knew that there was nothing more in the world she’d rather do than to be with this man day and night. The delight she felt in his presence was overwhelming, and the idea of experiencing such joy on a daily basis was tempting. Her heart and body wanted to take him up on his offer, but her brain said no.
There was no way that she and Doug could set up a household together without his finding out all the ugly truths about her. Gabrielle couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing him like that. She had to figure out how to make Doug understand that as much as she loved him, she just couldn’t live with him.
Gabrielle returned to the bedroom to find Doug staring out the window. He was hoping he hadn’t scared Gabrielle off by rushing things between them. He was trying so hard to be patient, but it was difficult.
“So, what do you say? Are we going to be roommates?”
“No, and it’s not because I don’t love you.”
“Then why?”
“I just don’t believe in living together. My daddy always used to tell me that a man won’t keep what he gets for free,” she told him, giving her father credit for her mother’s words.
“Not all men.”
“Will you still move to New York?”
“I’m already packed.”
“Good,” she told him, feeling bittersweet. She was in too deep. How would she ever be able to give him up when the time came?
29
“Shit,” Stephanie yelled, as her thumbnail pierced the silky web of her pantyhose. It was bad enough that she had been summoned to Gabrielle’s stupid cocktail party, but now she’d ruined her last pair of hose. There was only one thing left to do—raid Gabrielle’s stock. Stephanie hurried into Gabrielle’s room, counting on her staying too busy downstairs to come up and find her.
Stephanie headed over to Gabrielle’s bureau and opened the top drawer. Not finding any pantyhose, she closed it and opened the next and the next. In the last drawer she found not only several packages of nylons but a supply of cassette tapes as well. Stephanie picked one up and read the label. It was an audiocassette of a recently published novel. She browsed through the rest of the tapes and found several other bestselling titles, including The Client and Waiting to Exhale, two books Stephanie had seen Gabrielle reading. She bought the tape and the book? I swear, people with money sure know how to waste it, she thought, closing the drawer and heading back to her room.
“Sorry I’m late. Traffic from La Guardia was outrageous,” Doug apologized after kissing Gabrielle in the entry of Beatrice’s brownstone. “Has the reviewing committee arrived?”
“They’re not a reviewing committee, they’re my friends.”
“Same difference.”
“Are you really nervous?”
“Of course I am. Once you introduce me as your boyfriend, the scrutiny will begin.” Doug was happy that Gabrielle wanted to share him and their relationship with her friends. It was yet another sign of her growing commitment. Still, he was apprehensive about meeting Gabrielle’s makeshift family. He wanted to impress them, particularly Beatrice.
“Don’t worry, they won’t bite—at least not hard,” Gabrielle teased.
With a kiss and a quick hug, the two walked hand in hand into the front parlor where the others were gathered. Beatrice and Felicia stood talking to Jaci, while Stephanie took the opportunity to corner Ruthanna Beverly from Appeal magazine.
“Ladies, I’d like you to say hello to a good friend of mine, Doug Sixsmith.”
“It’s good to see you again,” greeted Felicia.
“You, too. Where’s your better half?”
“He couldn’t make it,” Felicia said, offering no further explanation.
“You mean I’m the only male here tonight? I feel like a lamb about to be slaughtered.”
“Don’t be silly,” Beatrice told Doug. “You’re among friends.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Braidburn.”
“Please, call me Bea.”
“Doug, this is my booker/friend, Jaci Francis and my housemate/publicist, Stephanie Bancroft. Ladies, I’d like you to meet Doug Sixsmith,” said Gabrielle.
“Your article on Gabrielle for Appeal was dynamite,” Jaci said.
“Thank you.”
“I’m surprised that such a hot journalist would even bother to do a piece on a fashion model,” Stephanie remarked, still bitter about not getting to write the story. “Nothing against Gabrielle, of course, but you always write about important things. Fashion seems so trivial.”
“The truth be known, that’s exactly what I thought, but in fact it turned out to be the most important story I’ve
ever written,” he admitted before giving Gabrielle a hug. It was impossible to misread their feelings. They positively glowed in each other’s presence.
How did Gabrielle manage to fall in love without me knowing? Bea wondered. It disturbed her greatly that Gabrielle had not been totally honest about her relationship with Doug. She was well aware that the two had been seeing each other, but Beatrice had no idea until now that things between them were so serious.
If literacy was her enemy in the fight to hold on to Gabrielle’s devotion, love was its ally. Even if Gabrielle never learned to read, there was always the possibility that Bea could be replaced by the insinuation of some horny young man into their lives. Love and raging hormones were no match for an old woman’s affections. If it came down to a choice, Bea would much rather lose Gabrielle to a book than to a beau.
Until tonight everything in that department had seemed to be under control. Gabrielle had had little time or apparent desire for men and courtship. Though many had tried to woo her, Gabrielle’s reluctance to get involved with any man who showed interest in her had earned her the nickname “Gabrielle the Untouchable” from her peers.
Now, with Doug in the picture, Bea’s access to and influence over Gabrielle would be severely limited. Already he had managed to breech the confidential relationship the two women shared. Plus, he was too damn old for the girl. Despite the fact that Gabrielle spent her days dressed up to look like a grown woman, she was still only twenty years old. Bea thought she was too young to really be in love. Apparently Gabrielle felt different, and for right now Beatrice had no choice but to take a wait-and-see posture.
“Doug and I have something we’d like to tell you,” Gabrielle told the group. The five women went silent, each expecting an engagement announcement.
“No, it’s not what you think.” Doug laughed, reading the anticipation on everyone’s face.
“Then why have you summoned us all here?” Stephanie inquired.
“I asked you all here tonight because I wanted Doug to meet my friends. And I wanted my friends to get to know the very special man in my life. He’s moving to New York, so we’ll all be seeing much more of him.”
Read Between the Lies Page 22
