“Since you won’t read it or can’t read it, let me read it for you,” Stephanie continued, pronouncing the word “read” with wicked emphasis. “ ‘Illiterate Supermodel Has Secret Past.’ ” With pleasure, Stephanie watched the undeniable look of dread flicker ever so briefly in Gabrielle’s eyes. It’s true. The bitch can’t read. Now it all made sense—the books on tape, always memorizing everything, never writing anything down, the ignored notes and lame excuses. They all made perfect sense. “I told you you’d be amused.”
“I can’t believe you came here to show me a story some reporter made up to sell papers,” Gabrielle raved on, hoping she sounded more convincing than she felt.
“So, it’s not true. You can read.”
“Of course I can. I have to read things like scripts, speeches, and contracts all the time. How could I do my job if I couldn’t read, Stephanie? In fact, I have a script for a commercial right here I need to learn—”
“Don’t you mean a storyboard? I think instead we sit down and start going over your biography—the one I’m going to write.”
“For the last time, you’re not writing my life story. Not now. Not ever.”
“You listen to me, Gabrielle Donovan. I’ve spent the last three years of my life promoting you into a fucking superstar. Well, now it’s your turn. You, whether you like it or not, are going to help me finally realize my dreams.”
“I think you give yourself too much credit.”
“You know, Gaby, I always thought you were kinda dumb, but now I realize you’re just plain stupid.”
Gabrielle’s face stung just as if she’d been slapped. “I am not stupid,” she said defiantly.
“Oh, yeah? Well, that headline—pure bullshit. I made it up, and you fell for it. But now you’ve really got my interest piqued. You can’t read. What else are you hiding?”
“Leave.”
“Fine. I’m gone. But understand this, Gabrielle: With or without you, I’ll write this book. Now, with you, it’s sure to be a kinder, gentler story. In fact, who says we even have to mention this whole little reading thing? Without you, well, that’s an entirely different story. I can’t guarantee complete accuracy, because—I have to tell you—unauthorized biographies are so much more of a pain in the ass to write. I’ll have to dig up childhood friends, old teachers, and enemies, too. It’s an incredible amount of work.”
“Get out of here, Stephanie.”
“I’ll give you a few days to come to your senses, and then I take matters into my own hands,” she replied, turning to leave.
Gabrielle sank slowly to the floor. Her head was reeling, and she felt as if she was going to vomit. How could she possibly allow Stephanie to blackmail her into writing her biography? But if she didn’t agree, Stephanie would seek her revenge to the fullest, investigating every dark corner and putting her own evil spin on each story or nuance of a story she found. And that would not be the end of it. The media vultures would get into a feeding frenzy over the multitude of stories that would contradict the web of lies Gabrielle had so carefully woven throughout the years.
How would people react when they found out that the famous Gabrielle Donovan, supermodel and successful businesswoman, was nothing more than an illiterate sham? A more terrifying thought occurred to Gabrielle: What if Stephanie found out about Tommy? If that story ever got out, the ramifications could be unthinkable. What if, based on that tragic incident, the authorities deemed her an unfit mother and took her baby away?
Stephanie had to be stopped.
49
Gabrielle continued to knock frantically on Beatrice’s front door. Just as she was about to turn around and go back upstairs to call, she heard movement on the other side of the door.
A confused and groggy Beatrice peered through the peephole. Startled into wakefulness by the blatant distress on Gabrielle’s face, she threw open the door. “Honey, come in. What’s wrong. Is it the baby?”
“The baby’s fine. It’s me. I can’t take it anymore,” she sobbed and collapsed into Bea’s arms. “She knows, and she’s going to tell if I don’t—”
“Who knows what? What’s happened?” Bea asked.
“Stephanie. She found out that I can’t read!” Gabrielle cried out.
“How?”
“I don’t know, but either I let her write the biography or she’s going to destroy me. Bea, why is she doing this to me? Not now. Not after everything that’s happened already. And not with the baby due in six weeks.”
“Some folks don’t need a reason to be cruel.”
“I can’t do it, Bea. I can’t spend the rest of my pregnancy defending myself against my own lies,” she cried miserably.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m calling Felicia,” Gabrielle said, picking up the phone. It was going on 11:30 P.M., but this was an emergency.
“That’s good. I should have thought of that. Felicia will know what to do,” Bea said. She waited as they talked, wondering why Stephanie would want to hurt Gabrielle like this.
“She’s coming over for a strategy meeting tomorrow morning at ten,” Gabrielle announced, no longer crying but feeling dazed and unfocused. “She agrees that whatever Stephanie has planned is going to need some sort of public cleanup.”
“You look worn out. Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”
“I think I will. I’m feeling kind of weird.”
“Come on, honey, I’ll walk you back upstairs,” Beatrice said, leading Gabrielle toward the door and back up into her own apartment.
Gabrielle had just retired to her bedroom when the phone rang. Bea quickly picked up the receiver, not wanting the ringing phone to disturb her rest.
“Beatrice, it’s Stephanie. I need to talk with Gabrielle.”
“It’s late, Stephanie. Gabrielle is resting right now and can’t be disturbed,” Bea said tersely.
“Who spit in your Cheerios?”
“I heard about your visit with Gabrielle tonight. I think you’re despicable for trying to blackmail her, and I can’t believe you would do something like this to a friend.”
“And you of all people would surely recognize a despicable act toward a friend.”
“Don’t play games with me, Stephanie.”
“Bea, this is no game. This is serious business. I found your mailbox. You know, if you put it out in the open, everybody might get their mail.”
“How dare you snoop around my house!” Beatrice reprimanded, feeling much less forceful than she sounded.
“Please, cut the indignation—at least until you can give me a legitimate reason why you have a sealed letter written to Gabrielle from Doug Sixsmith locked away in a box, in a chest, deep down in your closet.”
“That letter is none of your business.”
“I didn’t see your name on it. Don’t you know that tampering with the U.S. mail is a federal offense, punishable by law?”
“What do you want, Stephanie?” Beatrice asked in a weary voice. There was no point left in denying her actions, and she’d rather Stephanie know the truth than create and spread her own twisted version.
“For starters, I want to know why you kept this letter?”
“It’s very simple. I was afraid if I gave it to Gabrielle, she’d get hurt all over again.”
“Why would you think that? Doug’s letter was dripping with regret and self-condemnation.”
“I didn’t read the letter, and you shouldn’t have either. I’m not proud of what I did, but I honestly thought I was doing what was best for Gabrielle.”
“Always protecting your girl, aren’t you, Bea? Anyway, that’s water under the bridge. It’s time for you to help me out.”
“Help you out how?”
“By convincing Gabrielle to let me write the authorized version of her biography.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Okay, fine, but I can’t promise that I won’t mention to her that you were responsible for keeping her and Doug apart.”
&nb
sp; “She doesn’t want you or anybody else writing a book about her. Nothing I say can make her change her mind.”
“You underestimate your influence, Beatrice. Gabrielle trusts you to protect her and help her make the right decisions, or at least she did,” Stephanie said, the implication clear. “With everything she’s been going through, you don’t want to disappoint her, too, do you?”
Stephanie was right, there was only so much pain and disappointment a person could bear before falling apart. The news that Beatrice had intentionally sabotaged her relationship with Doug might be the apple that tipped Gabrielle’s emotional cart. Beatrice had no choice but to go along with Stephanie. She couldn’t afford the risk to Gabrielle’s well-being, not with the baby’s birth so close.
“I’ll talk to her, but I can’t promise you anything.”
“Look, this book is practically written. All it needs is a little fine-tuning by Gabrielle. It will be published, and when it is, for once Stephanie Bancroft will get what she deserves. Now, are you with me or against me? Before you answer, just think about what being against me is going to mean.”
“I said I’d try.”
“Good. And don’t worry, as long as you cooperate, your secret is safe with me. We’re partners now, Bea. You look out for me, I look out for you. Oh, and by the way, I’m holding on to the letter for safekeeping, because if Gabrielle doesn’t agree to do this book, before you can say ‘special delivery,’ this letter will be plastered all over the front page of every newspaper in town. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Oh, Bea, one last thing. Who’s the sailor in the picture?”
Bea replied by slamming down the phone. Stephanie had to laugh. First Gabrielle, now Beatrice, and Felicia next. All her ducks were lining up nicely in a row. She couldn’t wait until it was time to take aim and fire.
“Deena, when Stephanie gets in, please tell her I want to see her immediately,” Felicia requested as she walked through the front doors of Wilcot, Jourdan & Associates.
“She’s already here.”
“Good. We can get this over before the rest of the staff shows up. Please buzz her and ask her to be in my office in five minutes.”
Twenty minutes later, Stephanie came strolling into Felicia’s office. “I heard you wanted to see me.”
“Fifteen minutes ago. Please close the door,” Felicia requested sharply.
“I was finishing up a press release,” Stephanie explained without apology.
“Stephanie, I’m not going to beat around the bush about this. Gabrielle called me last night.”
“Yes.”
“She says you dropped by to insist that you be allowed to write her biography.”
“I think her hormones must be working overtime. I didn’t insist on anything. I simply suggested that perhaps it was time she gave the public what they’ve been clamoring for—a book about her life. I also mentioned that, considering our history together, I would be the perfect one to write it.”
“And you didn’t issue her any threats or ultimatums?”
“As a matter of fact, I did,” Stephanie answered defiantly. She was tired of sucking up to this bitch. Those days were over, beginning right now. “And you know what else I told her?” she asked with a wild look in her eyes. “I told her that I knew a big, fat, juicy secret about her, and if she didn’t let me write the book, I was going to tell the whole world. Maybe that’s the part she took as an ultimatum.”
“Not only did you attempt to solicit a client for personal gain, you tried to use blackmail to accomplish it. Your behavior is unprofessional and unacceptable. You’re fired. Clear your office and be out of here this morning by ten.”
Stephanie responded to Felicia’s statement with a loud chuckle. “Like I really care about this stupid job. Though you’re a fine one to talk about soliciting clients.”
“If you have something to say, say it.”
“What do you think your husband would say if he found out that not only did you have an affair with one of your clients, but also an abortion?” Stephanie asked as she sat back and watched Felicia’s face fall apart.
“Go pack your things, Stephanie,” Felicia hissed. “And I’m warning you, you’d better keep your filthy lies to yourself.”
“Oh, Felicia, don’t get your panties in a bunch. We can work something out. Here, you take these,” Stephanie said, handing Felicia two sheets of Wilcot, Jourdan & Associates letterhead. “Now, you make sure that Gabrielle shows up at this press conference and reads—oh, silly me—memorizes this statement, and the two gentlemen in your life need not know a thing.”
“What makes you think anybody is going to show up at a press conference you call?”
“Take a good look at that. You’re the one doing the inviting. Everybody knows that if Felicia Wilcot calls a press conference, something important must be going on.”
“Have these already gone out?”
“Didn’t you teach me that if you want people to attend, you must give them plenty of notice? I faxed most of them out this morning. The rest are being hand-delivered. Believe me, I’ve done everything necessary to ensure that we have maximum attendance. I did learn from the master, you know.”
“Stephanie, get out of my office before I call security and have them bounce your ass out of here.”
“First a friendly warning: If you or Gabrielle even think about canceling this press conference or not showing up, the front page of every tabloid in America will be screaming out the secrets you two are trying so hard to hide. I have lots of connections, and I’m not afraid to use them.”
Felicia waited for the door to close behind Stephanie before she broke down. How did she find out about Lexis and the abortion? She had confided only in Lois, who would never betray her confidence. How she found out isn’t important, Felicia told herself. All that mattered at this point was what Stephanie planned to do with the information.
What a mess. Another breaking scandal was not what she needed now, not with both men in and out of the papers—Lexis with his movie success and Trace with this lawsuit pending against the New York Police Department. Felicia wished she’d listened to Lois and fired Stephanie a long time ago. Now she had to figure out some way to deal with her, and she’d have to do it fast. The press conference was three days away.
“That’s the secret she’s holding over me,” a much calmer Gabrielle said, telling Felicia of her illiteracy. Bea sat nearby holding her hand. A victim of Stephanie’s treacherous threats herself, Felicia knew exactly what Gabrielle was going through.
“I’m shocked, to say the least,” Felicia remarked. “How? I mean, all these years and I had no idea.”
“I’ve been illiterate a long time. I’m very good at hiding it and compensating for my lack of skills. Beatrice is the only other person who knows, and she’s my lifeline to the literate world.”
“That’s why I’ve never seen you order from a menu,” Felicia commented, remembering incidents throughout their relationship that corroborated her story.
“Or read any of my press clips or anything you give me without taking it home first. The list goes on,” Gabrielle elaborated.
“But you’re rich, and famous, and beautiful—you don’t look or act like an illiterate person,” Felicia remarked.
“I could say the same about you—that you don’t look or act like the typical black person. Just like it’s unfair for me to stereotype all African-Americans, you shouldn’t try to pigeonhole all nonreaders. Illiterates come in all shapes, sizes, colors, and tax brackets. It’s an equal-opportunity disability.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that. I guess I’m just bowled over by this.”
“There are some other things I need to clear up before we figure out what to do about Stephanie. I want you to know everything.”
“Okay,” Felicia responded.
“First of all, I didn’t live the dream life my press kit claims. My father was not in the military. The truth is that he
abandoned us the day I was born. I was raised by my mother, who made her living as a waitress—not a surgical nurse—in between her six marriages. She loved me very much, and more than anything she wanted me to be a famous model.”
“Believe me, Gabrielle, there are very few celebrities whose real life matches their press bio,” Felicia told her.
“There’s more. Much more,” Gabrielle remarked as she reflected a moment before continuing. “When I was thirteen, my mother and I were living in Raleigh-Durham, North Carolina. My mom had just gotten divorced again, and we were strapped for cash, so I baby-sat some of the neighborhood kids whenever I could to help out. One of my regular jobs was watching Tommy Montebello, a little boy who lived down the street. I would baby-sit every Thursday after school. Tommy was a really cute kid and so sweet. I really loved him.” Gabrielle paused to steady herself. She found herself trembling as the memories came rushing back. Bea patted her hand in support, curious to hear the rest of this story.
“On this one particular Thursday, Tommy went outside in the yard to play with two little boys from down the street. About five minutes later he came back carrying a small package of cookies and asked if he could eat them. See, he was very allergic to nuts, so they were real careful about what he ate,” Gabrielle explained as she began to cry softly. “I recognized the package—they were double-chocolate-chip cookies; my mom bought them all the time. I asked him if they had any nuts in them, and he said no.”
Beatrice and Felicia sat, sympathy written all over their faces. They didn’t know the exact details, but it was evident where this story was headed. “How old was Tommy?” Felicia asked.
“Five. That’s right, I took the word of a five-year-old.”
“Are you okay, honey?” Beatrice inquired. “Are you sure you want to go on?”
“I’m okay,” Gabrielle assured them through her sniffles. “Anyway, I told him it was okay to eat them, and he went back out to play. About five minutes later, one of the boys came running over to tell me Tommy had fallen down and wouldn’t get up. I went outside, and he was on the ground gasping for air. His face and throat were swollen. He couldn’t breathe. By the time the ambulance came, he was already in shock.” Gabrielle began weeping miserably. Bea put her arms around her, crying also. This story explained so much—like why Gabrielle was so fearful about being a good mother.
Read Between the Lies Page 38
