And I wait for that feeling to hit me. The one that says I’m Kit the IT Girl and not Kitten Warchowski, the hippie freaks’ kid. The feeling that everyone there knows my name, even when I can’t make out their faces in the spotlight’s glare. That rush of exhilaration better than any high sold on the street. The excitement of being on stage with Vlad the Magnificent.
Only it doesn’t come.
The curtain closes, and all I’m left with is an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach and a loneliness as I watch Vlad walk away to consume his nightly fifth of vodka.
He showed up three minutes before curtain tonight, giving me last minute instructions as if nothing had ever happened between us. In a way, I was relieved. At least he didn’t avoid me. On the other hand, something did happen between us, and it feels unnatural and strained to pretend everything’s the same. We’re suddenly much too intimate, yet much too distant, all at the same time.
“Great show tonight,” calls Jim or Jack the stage manager.
“Thanks,” I say. Still standing in the middle of the empty stage, staring after Vlad’s retreating back like a forlorn little puppy.
I strip off my wig, running a hand through my sweaty mess of hair and carefully step over the cables and ropes littering the floor, picking my way back to my dressing room. Once I get there I whip out my cold cream and slather the stuff on my face, instantly removing the Ice Queen and revealing the tired, used up face beneath. I hate not sleeping.
I slowly peel off my eyelashes, one at a time, and rake a comb through my hair, tugging at the thick knots. I’m contemplating the raccoon worthy crescents under my eyes, when the unthinkable happens. The door of my dressing room opens. I freeze, holding my breath, and watch in the mirror as Vlad’s reflection enters the room. He hasn’t been in here since before The Troll came to town, and what used to be a nightly occurrence is now giving me butterflies.
I’m afraid to turn around, to really face him. To be alone with him. Are we friends? Lovers? Just two people who work together? What is my role, here, Vlad?
Ella said I should leave it alone. Last night at Men she said that if he was ready to be with me, he’d say something. As it is, she thinks he’s just not ready to start a relationship yet. She said he’s probably still sorting out his feelings for Maria, nowhere near ready to explore his feelings for me. Which makes a certain sense I guess.
But it wasn’t really the advice I wanted to hear.
Mary said I had to read Vlad’s signals to see if he was interested. I thought sleeping with me was a pretty big signal, but she said sometimes guys express things in weird ways. They’re not always the best at communicating exactly what they’re feeling. For example, her Brandon and his, “I’m not ready to commit,” which really meant, “I’m screwing Candi with an ‘i’.” Not the most uplifting example, but her point was I should try to read between the lines.
So, that’s what I’m doing. Desperately trying to read between Vlad’s lines as he steps into the room and closes the door behind him. Only he’s not giving me much.
“Hi, pet,” he says, crossing the room to stand behind me.
Pet. Meaning he feels affectionate towards me? But not “lover” or “beautiful” so he’s not infatuated with me, right?
“Hi,” I say back.
“Good show tonight, yes?” Meaning I loved watching you on stage, and I think you’re the most fantastic assistant, not to mention lover, I’ve ever had? Or, good show, but not a great show, just like you were good in bed but not great enough for me to keep you around in the morning?
“Thanks.” I think.
“You look tired.”
What does that mean? That he thinks I’m ugly? He’s not attracted to me? I can never be as pretty as The Troll? Or does it mean he wonders what I’ve been doing with my nights? Maybe he thinks I’ve been out partying, maybe he’s jealous.
“I didn’t sleep well last night,” I finally say.
“Poor pet.” Then Vlad puts his hands on my shoulders, his fingers kneading my muscles. It feels fantastic. I can’t help my mind flashing to his bedroom and the other places those nimble fingers worked their magic.
“The audience loved you tonight,” he says, his voice low and intimate.
Okay, Mary, what does that mean? Is he really trying to say he loved me tonight? Dammit, I need a man-speak dictionary and I need it now. This is important, I cannot screw this up again!
“I think it was your name they were calling,” I say, trying to sound flirty, in case he’s flirting with me, yet coy at the same time, in case he’s just being my charming employer.
Vlad chuckles. I tell myself not to react to the deep rumbling sound of his laugh. Make that deep sexy sound all you like, I’m not affected in the least. But self delusion eludes me. I feel myself softening into a mass of hormones again. Where is the Ice Queen when you need her?
“So, you were a little late with the rings trick again, my dear.”
“Sorry,” I say. Meaning sorry I freaked out last time you took me to bed, but please God, can we do that again because your hands on my shoulder are damn near orgasmic.
“Just try to come a little sooner next time, eh?”
I’m not even going to begin to translate that one.
“Sure.”
“Good.” He leans down, his lips brushing against my neck in the softest of kisses. That’s it. I’m a goner. God help me I’d rush up to his suite and get naked again in a second if he asked me. Please, please, Vlad, ask me.
“Kit?” he whispers.
“Yes?”
“I was wondering if you’d like to-”
But he doesn’t get to finish as Petey picks this moment to pop his beady little head in my door. I immediately begin planning his slow and painful death.
“Vlad?” he says, looking everywhere but at me. I think he’s still embarrassed about finding me in Vlad’s suite.
“Yes?”
“Moira Black is here to see you. She’s in your dressing room.”
“Ah. Thank you.”
Petey nods, still avoiding me, then pops his head back out.
Vlad takes his hands off my shoulders, the moment totally broken thanks to Petey’s shitty timing.
“Moira is a fan,” Vlad explains. “I invited her backstage after the show. Never hurts to have friends in show business, does it?” He winks at me in the mirror.
I try to manage a smile even while my shoulders ache for him to touch me again. “No, I guess not.”
Vlad turns away and walks toward the door.
It takes everything I have not to cry out and stop him. To contain that little voice from screaming, “Wait, give me another chance, I can make you love me this time.”
“Wait.” Oh shit. Apparently everything I have isn’t enough to contain that little voice, as I think it just escaped.
Vlad turns around. “Yes?”
“Um. That thing you were going to say before Petey walked in. You were wondering something. What was it?” I ask in a rush before I lose my nerve.
Vlad smiles that sexy grin at me now. “I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me in the penthouse tomorrow night?”
I blink. Trying to make sure I heard him right. And suddenly I feel so IT I may just burst into song.
“I’d love to,” I hear myself answering.
“Good. Seven then?” And he walks out, closing the door behind him.
I stare at my tired face in the mirror. Is that a date? Did Vlad the Magnificent just ask me out on a date?
There’s no other way to interpret this other than fucking magnificent.
Chapter Twenty-two:
Ella, the Full House
I slide the key into the lock and slowly turn it, trying to make as little noise as possible. Sylvia had the boys down hours ago, before Julio and I left, but I don’t want to wake Brad. Carefully, I open the door, latching it behind me with a click that echoes through the foyer. I take off my heels and pad barefoot across the marble floor. I
walk up the staircase one soft step at a time.
It feels like it’s been an eternity since I’ve been home. I even convinced Julio to stay out until last night ran into this morning, overriding his protests by taking him for an early breakfast at Le Croissant at the Paris. I knew if I could stay out long enough, I could avoid Brad altogether. I could slink into my bed after he’d gone to work without having to go through the motions of pretending to care where his Mercedes keys were and watching the sickening Karen Richardson in her matchy robe.
And it worked, too. But instead of feeling triumphant in my attempts to avoid my husband, I’m oddly depressed. I mean, it is fucking depressing just how good at avoiding my life I’ve become lately. I can almost completely ignore the myriad of Homeowners Association activates I’m missing, the messages from Brad’s mother sitting on my machine, the pile of bills gathering on the hall credenza, and all the juicy and utterly mindless gossip I’m sure Karen Richardson is circulating around the Lone Hills Development about crazy Dr. Brad’s Wife. In fact, I don’t think I’ve even seen my boys awake in the last two days. Sylvia’s got them down to bed long before I come home and dressed and off to play dates before I’ve been able to pry myself out of bed in the morning.
Which was well after noon today. Julio and I went out for mimosas again, followed by a day of cocktails and shopping, where I bought a stunning silver va-va-voom dress to wear to Kit’s show. I have to admit, I looked fabulous in the dress. Sleeveless straps highlighting my dedication to bicep curls, a cut down to there neckline showing off cleavage I didn’t even know I had, and the slit up the side showcasing the fact that, even though I’m seven pounds heavier, I clearly still have dancer calves.
But oddly enough, even decked out in new va-va-voom, Just Ella eluded me. I thought it would be fun and mischievous ambushing David’s family reunion with a flamboyant Julio. That Just Ella would surely get a kick out of it. But she didn’t. Instead I couldn’t even make myself stick around to see how things played out between Julio and David, suddenly finding the whole idea of their disintegrating relationship just too depressing to bear. Even a round of martinis in the lounge couldn’t convince Just Ella to come out and play. So, instead I got in a cab, threading my way through the packed Strip, filled with honking horns, staggering couples, and blinking neon. We passed the blazing lights of the Luxor, the fairy tales of the Excalibur, giving way to the harsh reality of the open desert beyond. The lonely stretch of the 15 freeway leading out into the dark, peaceful streets of Henderson until we reached deserted Yucca Drive.
Which brings me here. To the top of the stairs as I tiptoe down the hallway into my bedroom.
I crack open the door, barely able to see a thing in the dark. The last thing I want to do is trip over a discarded shoe and wake Brad up by flying face first into the carpet. Slowly I creep to the closet and turn on the light. It casts shadows across the room, illuminating the forms of our massive matching furniture set. Courtesy of Brad’s mother. Huge, honey oak armoire, dresser and shaker four poster. My eyes immediately go to the bed.
Empty.
Well, what did I expect? Brad knew Julio would be leaving today, and the guestroom would be free again.
But somehow it’s just the final nail in the coffin. The final confirmation. There is no excuse left in the world why Brad doesn’t sleep in my bed. Our bed. The twins don’t wake up in the night anymore, I’m usually up when he gets up to go to work anyway. What possible reason can Brad fabricate to still sleep in the guestroom?
There isn’t any. Except Karen Richardson.
My shoes drop with a thud on the beige carpet as I walk to the edge of the bed and look down at the perfectly made-up, blue paisley bedspread, still tucked into place. I’ve always hated that bedspread. Brad’s mother bought it for us.
That’s it, tomorrow I’m going to Bloomingdale's and buying a bright red bedspread. With satin sheets. Maybe in leopard print. Of course, they won’t go with the honey oak bedroom set, so I’ll have to burn that. Won’t Brad’s mother have a fit?
What do you mean you burnt the bed? I bought that set at Ethan Allen. It’s from their Suburban Tasteful collection, it’s guaranteed not to offend, shock, excite, or arouse passion in anyone.
I throw my mini purse down on the spread, feeling a headache begin to gather behind my eyes. Somehow I feel like I’ve lived an eternity in the last few days, and yet here I am back in the same place I ever was. Trying desperately to recapture myself in a martini and a low cut dress instead of contemplating the shadow of a life I have here with my husband.
I’m back at square one, only now I’m hung over, tired, and cranky. And I know I can’t take this life. I can’t stand being ignored any longer. I can’t stand being the shadow that lives in the background. The perfect wife to my perfect husband who can’t even stand to sleep in the same bed as me. All the calm, complacent months of ignoring the pile of shit that’s been brewing in my life wells up inside me, boiling over into an anger I can’t pretend to contain any longer. Fuck Karen Richardson. And Fuck Brad.
Before I realize it, I’m storming out of my room and stomping down the hallway to the guest room, no longer caring how much noise I make. I throw open the door, and it rattles on its hinges, banging into the wall behind it. Brad stirs in the bed, half sitting up. He squints though the darkness.
“Ella?” he asks, confused. I slam the door behind me, not caring who wakes up. Let the whole neighborhood wake up and hear Dr. Brad’s Perfect Wife losing it.
I flip on the light, and Brad sits up in bed, blinking against the sudden brightness. “Jesus, Ella. It’s the middle of the night. What are you doing?”
“I’m doing Woman Scorned, Brad. I got fucking sick of doing Ignored Wife, so I’m trying out for a new role. What do you think?”
His shoes are neatly lined up on the closet floor. His reading glasses are tucked into a case on the nightstand. His clothes are neatly folded on the armchair in the corner.
I cross to the chair, pick up the clothes and throw them at him. The belt buckle smacks him on the forehead with a satisfying clunk.
“Ow. What the-” he says, as I pick up his shoes and throw one of those at him too. He ducks as one wingtip flies past his head, bouncing off the upholstered headboard behind him.
“Out,” I say. “I want you to get the hell out.”
“Get out? What the hell are you talking about, Ella? Have you been drinking?”
“Drinking? Yes, I’ve been drinking. I’ve been drinking all goddamned week. Every time I think of you and your so-called-patients.” I throw the other shoe at him, and it clunks against the faux finished wall behind him.
“Ella, go back to bed.”
“I’m burning the bed, Brad. Along with those hideous sheets from your mother. Your mother has as much taste as a baboon.”
I pick up his watch from the bureau and chuck that at him too.
“What the hell-” Brad ducks again. Unnecessarily, as the watch misses him by a mile, landing against the closet door.
I spy a stack of papers on the dresser and grab a handful.
“No, Ella,” Brad says, putting his hands out in front of him. “Those are for work, they’re important. Do not throw those. Please listen to me, Ella.”
“No, Brad, you listen to me. I want you out. And not just out of my bed. I want you out of my house and out of my life. You’re a cheating, fucking bastard and I deserve so much better than this.”
You’re right, Ella. You’re a wonderful woman, and you deserve to be cared for. You deserve to be worshipped and respected and most of all loved.
Only Brad just looks at me as if I’ve gone insane. And who knows, maybe I have. Maybe this is what insanity feels like. Like you suddenly don’t give a shit about what anyone thinks of you, or what you’re supposed to say or do or sound like. You go so far over the edge you just do without thinking, without reacting.
“You heard me, get the hell out of my house. You cheating piece of shit.”
&n
bsp; He’s just sitting there, staring at me. His green eyes narrowing as he cocks his head to one side. “Cheating? I’m cheating?”
“I’m not stupid, Brad. I’m a lot of things, but stupid I am not. I know what’s been going on.”
Again he looks at me like I’ve gone off the deep end. “Then tell me, Ella, what’s been going on?”
“Don’t play cute with me. I know about you and fucking perfect Karen Richardson.”
“Karen? Jesus, Ella, are you insane? I’m not cheating on you with Karen Richardson.”
I don’t believe him. I don’t believe a word of it. He’s lying.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Karen is a patient. Nothing more. Ella, I’d never cheat on you.”
“Right, a patient. How stupid do you think I am? I’ve seen Karen’s face, Brad. She didn’t have a bad chemical peel. Her skin is fucking perfect. Just like the rest of her.”
Brad takes a deep breath. I raise the papers in my hand again, threatening to hurl them across the room. He throws his arms out in front of him to ward me off.
“Okay, okay. Just… take it easy, huh?”
“Well?”
He sighs again, running a hand over his face as if he just can’t deal with this right now. Ha! Join the club, pal.
“Karen Richardson has a… well a skin abnormality I’ve been treating. She didn’t want anyone to know about it, so she’s been telling everyone it was a bad reaction to a chemical peel.”
“What skin abnormality?”
“She has a third nipple.”
That was so not even close to what I thought he was going to say that I drop the stack of papers in surprise.
“Karen Richardson has a third nipple?”
“Yeah, she does.”
What Happens in Vegas Page 19
