Me Tarzan, You Jane

by Camelia Miron Skiba

  The third one snickers, “I wonder if he’s as good in bed as some say. I’ve heard lots of authors consider his models for covers. I guess business is picking up for Lucas now that he opened his own agency.”

  “All I know is that her name is Jane, but there are eleven Janes at the conference,” the woman next to me says, her fingernails tapping on her phone. “She must be really something because apparently he got mad at her for leaving before he woke up. He does strike me as one of those men with a healthy sexual appetite. Bet he had a morning woody.”

  The women laugh so hard one of them jumps off the treadmill.

  One thing that always angers me is people’s infatuation with others. As if they can’t get enough out of their lives and need to poke at others. Who cares that gossips are nothing but machinations, lies to destroy someone’s life? The juicier the details the better. Biting my tongue turns painful, but the women continue their chatter. This garbage they enjoy is too much for me to take, so I crank up the music and hit the treadmill, forcefully, faster and faster.

  Running is not helping. Sweating doesn’t cut it. Increasing the speed only adds laps to my run but doesn’t tire my mind. I sure got myself in trouble—heck, I dug myself a hole. There’s no doubt in my mind that Reese and Virginia spread the rumors about my being in Lucas’s room last night. Not in any other guy’s room, but Lucas, with whom I refused to be photographed and to whom I roll my eyes.

  The treadmill reads three miles in twenty minutes, which under different circumstances I’d consider a triumph. I’ve run marathons and my best time ever was 8.32 minutes per mile. Maybe for the next marathon I should get really mad and then run. I might win.

  With a towel around my neck, I don’t stop until I’m back in my room, door locked. There’s one item that always calms me when I fall apart. It gives me strength and courage to go on. Evan’s wedding ring. It’s enough for me to hold it in my palm and calm pours over me like a slow rain. I wanted it for Ella more than anything, a precious reminder of her daddy. Until she grows I wear it on a necklace he gave me at graduation.

  I only took it off last night, not wanting people to know to whom it belonged. Evan was mine. Even telling people that ring was his is too much, as if through sharing they’d take him away from me. Who am I kidding? I lost Evan four years ago, on a rainy night, in a gas station shooting. In the process of grieving I lost myself as well.

  It’s 8:00 P.M. when I make my entrance in the suite housing the party. Evan’s wedding ring rests around my neck, cold against my skin under my embroidered black blouse.

  Virginia and Reese stand in the back of the room and I stop by. A tiny voice tries to make its way to my brain, telling me I need to explain myself, but I push it away. I don’t owe anyone anything. If I choose to spend a night in a man’s room, I’m free to do so without asking for permission, or feeling guilty about it.

  “Still stubborn about photos with Lucas?” Virginia speaks louder when at first I pretend not to hear what she said. “After last night and all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  When she clears her throat she sounds like a woodpecker. “You know . . .”

  “No, I don’t. I really don’t know what you mean.”

  Virginia looks at Reese as if asking for help then back at me.

  “Well … he said you left his room.”

  “No, he didn’t. He said I left the room, which means it could be any room. Did you think about that?”

  The look on Virginia’s face reminds me of the squirrel in “Ice Age” when losing the acorn.

  “No, you didn’t,” I continue. “You were too busy taking that little bit of information and turning it into major gossip. Which, instead of hurting me, actually propelled me to overnight stardom. Add that to the contest I just won, my day couldn’t end on a better note. Thanks for lending me a hand.”

  I turn my back to the two women and walk to the bar. It’s time to celebrate. A plastic cup filled with ice and white wine in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, I make my way to Marie.

  “I’ve something for you, Jane. Come.” Marie, who exchanged her ballroom dress for an orange t-shirt and beige capris, takes my elbow and holds onto it even outside the suite, down the hall. “I’ve books I plan on giving out tomorrow during the book clubs. I want you to pick which one you want and I’ll sign it for you.”

  Say what? A book autographed by the one and only Marie LaSalle, for my library? Did I hear right?

  Around the corner we bump into the guys, except Lucas. Michael and Tatum don’t stop but rather salute us before hurrying away. Aaron tries his charms on Marie. We both voted for Aaron and I can tell by the look on her face she’s excited to talk to him away from everyone. I’ve a feeling he’s her next cover model.

  Cameron takes me aside. “Jane, thank you so much for everything.” He avoids looking at me, pushing a hand through his black hair, back and forth. “I’d be dead without you.”

  “I’m glad I was there to help . . . you don’t have to do this, Cameron.”

  “But I do, Jane. I do need to say it aloud for you to know how embarrassed and sorry I am.” He finally lifts his eyes. Sadness and weariness torture his face, adding a few years to his handsome features. “I screwed up. Last night I really pushed the envelope. Lucas has been telling me for months I need help and each time I’d brush him off. I thought I could drink as much as I want, that I’m invincible and have everything under control. I guess I don’t.” Cameron chuckles bitterly then pulls me in for a hug, which takes me by surprise. “You’re a good person, Jane. I’m glad we met.”

  He smiles and winks at me then returns to Aaron and Marie. Moments later the guys walk one way and Marie and I walk in the opposite direction.

  “Did you get photographed with Lucas?”

  “Oh, Marie, not you, too!”

  She furrows her brows.

  Embarrassed I sigh and say in a mellower voice, “Why is everybody so crazy about this guy? Are there no other men as handsome or even better looking than he is?” I know I’m losing my cool but I feel like Marie will understand my frustration. “Tell me, Marie, what’s wrong with all these women that throw themselves at him like they haven’t seen a man in their entire lives, huh? They all slobber over one guy, one guy whose name should be legally changed to Arrogant A-hole. I don’t intend to have any pictures taken with him. Not now, not tomorrow, not in a million years. And really? Ten bucks for a photo? I’ll give my money to the first homeless person around the corner rather than pay Lucas Oliver a damn cent.”

  We get to Marie’s room as I’m done venting. She opens the door and says, “Too bad. The money is not for him, you know? All profits go to the Polar Bear Charity.”

  Chapter 6

  “Polar Bear what?”

  Marie walks in her room. I stop in the doorway, unable to take another step, nauseated and mortified. Maybe I didn’t hear right. Maybe I’m dreaming. Heck, alone talking with Marie LaSalle is a dream, so in theory I could be dreaming, right?

  Oh dear God.

  But this isn’t a dream, and I just made a big fool of myself. So big, I wonder if I’ll ever fit through a door. Will I ever learn to keep my mouth shut?

  “You don’t know the Polar Bear Charity for kids with kidney diseases?” Marie motions for me to enter and browse through the books spread on the desk by the window. She sits on the bed, toying with a pen. When I shake my head she answers her own question, “Well, I suppose there are tons of charities and the likes. This particular conference has raised money for the Polar Bear Charity for quite a few years now. Susan is one of the strongest advocates for it.

  “Her son died after a round of dialysis went wrong many, many years ago. When Lucas found out he offered to help and so the idea of ‘Ten bucks for your own Lucas’ started.” Marie stands. When she smiles, the freckles on her nose come to life. “We love his photos. It’s fun, especially when we know it brings a bit of sun into the lives of the less fortunate. Now, did you pick y
our book?”

  My brain aches, my heart sinks into a bucket of shame. For two days I’ve resisted taking photos with Lucas, thinking the worst of all women who do. Detesting them for such childish behavior when the one behaving childishly all along was me.

  I grab the first book on Marie’s desk, wanting nothing more than to run and bury my head under a pillow. She signs the book, and gives me her business card to which she adds her cell phone number. She’s way too kind to me and I don’t deserve it.

  “Any questions you have about the publishing industry, call me.” Marie’s hug is warm and motherly and I leave her with a heavy heart.

  I can’t take back the anger I’ve felt with Lucas, the thoughts I’ve had, the words I’ve said. Truth be told, he deserved some, but I can do something right, maybe it’s not too late. I rush to the suite where they take the photos, and arrive as they’re packing up. A banner covers an entire wall with the conference and charity logos on it. Lucas and the lady taking photos earlier talk casually. She sees me first and stops rolling up a cable.

  “Sorry, no more pictures,” she says, returning to her task.

  “It’s okay. I didn’t come for that.”

  Lucas cocks a brow, measuring me from head to toe. “Maybe we can make an exception? Maybe double the price? You know, VIP treatment deserves VIP payment.”

  Why can’t he just shut up? Why does he have to be so conceited?

  “Thanks, but no thanks.” I pull out of my back pocket a crisp twenty dollar bill and drop it in a large glass jar filled with money on a table near the window.

  “That’s all I have on me, but would like to donate more. Where can I find more info about the charity?”

  Because I can’t stand Lucas staring at me, I look at the photographer who approaches and hands me a flyer.

  “Thanks.” I take it and walk toward the door.

  Lucas blocks my path, right in my face like a spaceship entering earth’s atmosphere. The green V-neck shirt accentuates the green in his eyes. “You donate money, but don’t want a photo?”

  Why does he whisper? Maybe he does it to torture me with his low, sexy voice. I’ll never know. All I know is that I’m not safe in his presence.

  It’s not rocket science to recognize the attraction I feel for him. And now that I finally admit it, it invades me, a sweet pain reminding me how hungry I am for a man’s touch. How I’ve denied myself male companionship since losing Evan because I don’t believe in more than one man for each woman.

  “You don’t like me very much, do you?” Lucas wakes me from blissful memory.

  Um, why do people ask stupid questions? How does he really expect me to answer? The photographer leaves with two cases and I’m tempted to scream after her, “Take me with you!” But I don’t. Instead I place the flyer in Marie’s book.

  Lucas studies me. A frog before dissection—apprehensive, vulnerable, that’s how I feel. His eyes trace my face, my neck, lower over my breasts. There’s a half grin on his face when his eyes return to mine.

  “No pictures, huh? You’re stubborn. The most stubborn person I’ve ever met.”

  I almost blurt out that he doesn’t know me since we haven’t even been properly introduced, but I bet he’d accuse me of being rigid. I resort to, “Is it a good or a bad thing?”

  “Depends on how you look at it.”

  “Great,” I take a step aside and around him. “I’m glad we had this conversation. I’m gonna . . . um . . . leave now.”

  I do as I say, relieved I’m almost to the door. What he says next freezes me in place. “I look forward to working with you on your cover. We’ll catch lunch or something. My assistant will call you.”

  I turn. “I’m not coming to New York to ‘catch lunch or something.’ I said we won’t work together. I thought I made myself clear.”

  “Who says you have to come to New York?”

  “Isn’t that where my agent is?”

  Lucas shrugs one shoulder. “What has that to do with you and me working on the cover? We can do it at home, in LA. Give me a hand here, please?” He stands near the banner, ready to remove it from the wall. He lifts an arm and takes the upper left side, motioning me to reach for the right side, but even with my heels there’s no way I can grab it. He brings a chair and helps me step on it, a tight and warm grip of his fingers over mine. I almost yank my hand from his, but resist the urge. I can handle this. Lucas doesn’t seem to observe my struggle. He goes to the other side and we work together until the banner is folded between us, both still holding onto its edges.

  “I don’t know why I thought you, the agent, and everyone else lives in New York.”

  “I used to live in New York. Not anymore. I now live in LA, like you.” He winks, and takes the banner away from me and puts it into a fabric bag.

  I have a sinking feeling in my stomach. I don’t recall ever telling him or anyone here at the conference where I live. “How do you know I call LA home?”

  “Easy. I googled you.”

  “You did what?”

  “Googled you, as in looked you up on the Internet. Which reminds me, your public persona is non-existent. For someone about to become the next big shot among authors, you need a lot of work. I know everything about the publishing industry and can help big time. I’ll cut you a pretty cool deal.” He ends with another half-faced grin, which is not as annoying as the others, since his monologue baffles me more than anything.

  My mind tries to wrap around what he just said, but I’m lost. How does he know all of this? He’s not an author.

  He hands me a business card. “Maybe you and I can become partners.” He rubs his hands together, scanning the room as if trying to see if he packed everything. “I need to hire a makeup artist. You help me, I help you. Partners?” He stretches a hand, waiting for me to shake it.

  At least he didn’t spit in his palm when he reached out. With his “abundant” manners I wouldn’t be surprised.

  “You’re confusing me,” I say, dizzy from the carousel ride he’s put me through. One moment I’m a chicken, then I’m after him and his brother to sell their scandalous photos on the Internet, then he wants to show me positions in which he could in theory appear on my covers, then he wants to become partners.

  I refuse to believe in the Twilight Zone, but that’s how I feel right now. It’s too much for one day, too many emotions—and that on only a few hours’ sleep.

  Lucas is either bipolar or a complete lunatic. I can’t handle him, one moment charming, the next cold. Warm again, then crazy. For a moment I wonder if he’s just playing with me, having the time of his life at my expense. Or if he’s on some sort of medication and skipped a dose or two, but he looks too serious.

  “I gotta go.”

  “Jane, wait. Would you at least think about it?” I hear Lucas behind me, but I’m out the door like a bear chased by a swarm of bees.

  Chapter 7

  Traffic in Los Angeles sucks, whether it’s 2:00 P.M, or 6:45 A.M. like now. I’m on my way to a photo shoot with Madame Vivienne Beaumont—or Madame V as everybody knows her—a famous French comedian turned American fashion consultant and gossip queen. Everyone on the red carpet dreads her ribbing comments. God forbid she doesn’t like someone’s attire. The whole world will know it. She no longer does stand-up comedy, too busy nitpicking VIP’s wardrobes, the next divorce or hookup.

  Ella, my four-year-old angel, sleeps in the car seat, bundled in her purple blankie.

  I only work with Madame V when she’s in California a few days a week, although she’s tried to convince me to come work fulltime for her in New York. She’s very fussy when it comes to her makeup, hard to master on her thinning skin due to numerous cosmetic surgeries. There’s not one makeup artist, no matter how starving or famous, in the whole area willing to put up with her quick temper and sharp tongue, but I don’t mind it. It’s because of her generous payments that I don’t need to work every day but rather choose a few small jobs for the fun of it. The down side of i
t: regardless of other engagements, the minute she lands I must drop everything else.

  I arrive at the address Bernard, one of her assistants, e-mailed me. Although it’s early, I need a lot of time to arrange my arsenal. As demanding as Madame V is, that’s one thing I give her props for—punctuality. If a session starts at 9:00 A.M., everyone better be ready or we’ll never hear the end of it.

  I bring along two cases full with cosmetics delivered on a regular basis straight from France. I smell rain while dragging them inside the studio. I wish for snow with the upcoming holiday season. Maybe I’ll take Ella up north for some skiing. Evan and I used to rent a cabin at Lake Tahoe every February. The same wooden cabin, only the two of us, up on the slope during the day and cuddled with a cup of cocoa and marshmallows at night, sometimes falling asleep in front of the fire, too tired to make it to the bed.

  It’s not doing me any good thinking of Evan right now when I’m about to face Madame V. I better pull myself together before my hand begins to shake. It happened only once. She sent me packing, canceling the photo shoot. At that time I was recently widowed, and losing my job was the last thing I needed. But I had nothing left inside me to want to keep going, to apologize, or even want a job. According to Bernard, the magazine offered to replace me with someone else, but Madame V said it’s either me or the deal is off. Needless to say I returned a few days later. Somehow that incident propelled my name to the top of the list of in-demand makeup artists. Funny how bad things sometimes turn into good ones.

  Ella doesn’t wake up as I carry her inside the studio. Her corner is already arranged and I cover her along with her favorite dolls, Snow White and Cinderella.

  “Café,” Bernard’s French accent and pitched voice envelops me. He hands me one of the coffee cups in a Starbucks holder, leaning forward to air-kiss me. It’s not a kiss, but rather a sound he makes with pursed lips near my right then my left cheek, not touching me for real.