Confessions of a Bombshell Bandit

by Gemma Halliday

  “Sorry, Maddie. I’ll call you later, I promise.”

  “That’s okay. I understand. I’ll talk to you tonight then?”

  “Sure. Tonight.” He gave me a quick peck on the cheek before disappearing back through the frosted doors and into the bowels of Dewy, Cheatum and Howe. Jasmine looked up just long enough to give me an Elvis smirk before going back to her solitaire game.

  * * *

  I walked the two blocks back to my Jeep and left another message on Dana’s answering machine. If she didn’t pick up soon I was going to have to start taking résumés for a new girlfriend. I started my Jeep with a roar that echoed in the parking structure and instead of getting back on the freeway, made my way up Grand to Beverly Boulevard. I hit a drive-thru Mc Donald’s and ordered a decadent Big Mac, large fries and a strawberry shake. This was not a day to be counting carbs.

  I parked in the lot, enjoying my comfort food in the privacy and full blast air-conditioning of my Jeep. As I slurped the last of my shake, I wondered what to do now. I should go back to work, something I’d neglected ever since staring in horror at my calendar this morning. However, the thought of being creative right now didn’t seem quite realistic.

  As a little girl I’d always dreamed of being a fashion model, parading down a Milan runway in the latest designer creations as the world ooh’ed and ahh’ed. But by the eighth grade it was abundantly clear I was not going to achieve fashion model height. So, I settled for the next best thing, being a fashion designer. After four years at the Academy of Art College in San Francisco, I was ready to make my mark on the fashion scene. Only I hadn’t counted on it being almost as hard to break into fashion as it was to break into modeling. After begging, pleading and promising to wash every fashion exec’s car in the greater Los Angeles area, I finally landed a job. Designing children’s shoes for Tot Trots. Okay, so it wasn’t Milan, but it paid the bills. Most of the time.

  The perks were I set my own hours, I worked from home and I was happy to say that my work had been featured on the feet of fashionable tots everywhere, including the Barbie Jellies last spring and the SpongeBob slippers in the fall collection. Currently I was working on the Strawberry Shortcake high-tops – available in both iridescent pink and sparkling purple, thank you very much.

  However, at the moment the idea of spending a day with tiny tot fashions didn’t hold enormous appeal. Kiddie shoes made me think of kids, which made me think of babies, which led to thoughts about condoms that for no good reason at all sometimes broke and led to women being in my current position.

  I looked down at my dash clock. One forty-five. Dana was probably getting to the gym right about now for her step-and-sculpt class. In addition to being my best friend, Dana was an aerobics instructor at the Sunset Gym. That is, in between auditions and bit movie roles. Like 90% of Los Angelinos, Dana wanted to be an actress. Though she swore as long as she didn’t moonlight as a waitress, she could keep from becoming a cliché. I figured if I took the 101, I might be able to catch her between classes.

  I set my shake down and put the car in gear, pulling up in front of the huge concrete and glass structure of the Sunset Gym in record time. I parked in the lot, declining the valet parking. Yes, in L.A. people actually avoided walking the two yards from the parking lot to the gym before doing their three-mile run. Go figure.

  As I entered the gym, a tall guy with a buzz cut and Popeye arms stopped me at the front desk. He looked me up and down, taking in the two-inch boots, Ann Taylor skirt and lack of Nike bag slung over my shoulder. I wasn’t fooling him. We both knew I only used my membership for a swim in the pool on those hundred degree plus days.

  After whipping out my ID card and satisfying the steroid gatekeeper, I entered the main floor, scanning past rows of exercycles for any sign of Dana. I spotted her at the front of a class by the windows, stepping and sculpting their little hearts out. I had a brief moment of guilt over my gazillion calorie lunch, but it didn’t last long. Certainly not long enough for me to actually suit up and jump on a stepper.

  Instead I grabbed a dog-eared copy of Elle, settling onto a bench along the wall to wait. It didn’t take long for the gyrating steppers to finish, breaking into a self-congratulatory round of applause. The teacher of the step class came jogging toward me, her strawberry blonde ponytail swishing back and forth. A perfect size two, she looked like she’d just stepped off the pages of Sports Illustrated. And not the swimsuit edition, but the women-who-lift-and-the-men-who-love-them edition. I would hate her, except for the fact that Dana, a.k.a. aerobics queen, was my best friend.

  “What’s up?” she asked, looking down at my high heeled boots with a frown.

  “I just ate,” I said by way of defense.

  Dana shot me a dubious look but let it go. Instead she began doing a little jogging in place thing as she talked. “So, I got your message. What’s the big emergency?”

  “I, uh…” I looked over my shoulder as if I almost shouldn't be saying it out loud. “I’m late.”

  “Okay, we’ll talk fast. What’s up?”

  “No, no. Not late. Late.”

  Dana cocked her head to one side, taking this in before the meaning hit her. “Oh my God. You mean you missed your period?”

  “No. I didn’t miss anything yet. I’m just a little late.”

  “No wonder you’re freaking out.”

  “I’m not freaking out. I’m… just a little late.”

  Dana shot me the yeah-right look she’d been using on me ever since we bonded over our love of New Kids On the Block in seventh grade. “Right. And that’s why you left four messages on my machine this morning.”

  I cringed. Did I really leave four? “Okay fine. I’m freaking out. But just a little.”

  “Did you take a test yet?” she asked, switching to a jumping jacks routine.

  “Like a pregnancy test?”

  “No, an algebra test. Geez, anyone would think you’ve never been late before.”

  Truth was, I hadn’t. And that’s what was scaring me even more about my predicament. Ever since my monthly visitor began arriving, I’d been twenty-eight days like clockwork. Which is why I’d panicked and left a near stalker amount of messages on my best friend’s machine. Hey, wait a minute, if she got my messages, how come she didn’t call me back?

  “Why didn’t you call me back?”

  Dana got that wicked smile on her face that said she was either dating someone new or about to give someone twenty push-ups.

  “I wasn’t exactly alone.”

  “Do I want to know who?”

  “Sasha Aleksandrov,” she said, switching to a little two-step footwork in place.

  “Excuse me?”

  Dana giggled. Yes, grown women with 1% body fat still giggle like middle schoolers with braces when it comes to men. “He’s a Russian body contortionist. Sasha’s the bottom of the human pyramid in the Cirqué Fantastique.”

  I tried not to roll my eyes. Dana had an uncanny ability to pick guys who were destined for short-term relationships. “So where did you meet Mr. Pyramid Bottom?”

  “Here. He came in with the Spanish trapeze artist to work out last week. I offered to show him how to use the Cybex machine. He doesn’t have them in Russia.”

  “Of course not.”

  “And, we hit it off. He asked if I wanted to see him perform.”

  Considering the many meanings behind that statement, I’m betting Dana said yes. She never passed up an opportunity to see a muscular man “perform.”

  “That’s it. I don’t want to hear any more,” I said, covering my ears. Dana giggled again.

  “Okay, so how late are you?” she asked instead.

  “Three days.”

  “And you called me before noon for that? Honey, three days is nothing.”

  “Dana, I’ve never been three days late before.”

  “Lucky for you, I’ve got an emergency preggers test at home. I have one more class then we’ll go to my place and make a pitcher of margar
itas while you pee on a stick. It’ll be fun, okay?”

  “No. No margaritas, Dana. I can’t drink that stuff, I might be pregnant.”

  At this, Dana actually abandoned her aerobics, standing perfectly still. She stared at me, her pert little mouth hanging open. “You’re not actually thinking of having a baby are you?”

  Was I?

  “No. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t know what I’ll do if I… if… you know.”

  “We see a pink line?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Fine. No margaritas for now. But you are so peeing tonight.”

  * * *

  Luckily I convinced Dana that peeing on a stick was a solo mission and left her to her Kickboxing for Seniors class. I did stop by the drugstore and picked up a test, the most embarrassing purchase of my entire life including the first time I ever bought condoms and accidentally grabbed super ribbed for her pleasure. I also purchased a Big Gulp, so by the time I pulled into the driveway of my second-story studio in Santa Monica, I was ready to pee. Physically that was. Mentally, I was a wreck.

  I locked my Jeep, climbed the wooden stairs to my apartment, and let myself in, dropping the drugstore package on the kitchen counter. Despite the fact I had to pee like a racehorse, I couldn’t quite get up the courage to take the pregnancy test into the bathroom with me. Somehow now that I was faced with an entire array of IF’s, that test had become scarier than a Wes Craven movie. I mean, what if it did turn pink? Did I really want a baby? I looked around my cozy (translation: dinky) studio apartment, filled to max capacity with a fold out-futon and my sketch table. Where the hell would I even put a baby?

  I guessed I’d always assumed I’d have kids someday. But even though I was closing in on thirty (and I refuse to say just how closely) someday still seemed far, far into the future. When I was more settled, domestic. Married. Oh God, would Richard think I wanted him to marry me? Did I?

  I think I was hyperventilating again.

  I went to the bathroom, sans stick, then checked my answering machine. No messages. Namely, no Richard. I picked up the receiver and dialed his number, waiting as it rang on the other end. His machine kicked in and I left what I thought was a relatively breezy message, considering the circumstances.

  I plopped myself down on the sofa and clicked on the TV, settling for Seinfeld reruns while I waited for Richard to return my call. By Letterman, I still hadn’t heard from him. Which was annoying and also a little worrisome. He had said he’d call me tonight. And it wasn’t like Richard to ignore my messages. I tried not to freak out, instead promising myself I’d take the pregnancy test just as soon as I heard from Richard.

  A promise that would soon come back to haunt me.

  Chapter Two

  Three days later, still no Aunt Flo. And still no Richard.

  I was beginning to worry. About Richard, though the unopened pregnancy test on my kitchen counter didn’t help matters. Richard had never ignored my calls like this. Usually he checked his messages every hour on the hour, returning mine with at the very least a text messaged smiley or “hi beautiful.” Only I’d left about a gazillion messages and gotten no smileys back.

  I left a second breezy message Saturday morning: Hi, how are you, guess you got too busy to call last night. At lunch I called his office, only to be bumped to voicemail. I held off calling again until almost five, when I then left another message on his voicemail, cell phone, home phone and emailed him a message full of my own smileys and “where are you?”s.

  Dana intervened at that point, promising to tie my hands behind my back if I didn’t give the man a little space. She was right. I was beginning to be bunny boiling scary. So, I didn’t call all day Sunday until the time the perky newswomen on the channel two late report came on chatting about a burglary in Reseda and the day’s record highs. Then I left three more messages. Still no answer.

  This was really unlike Richard. And try as I might I couldn’t shrug off the feeling that Richard’s commitment radar had somehow picked up on my lateness and he’d headed for the hills.

  So, Monday morning my over active-imagination and I woke up determined to track down the MIA boyfriend. I showered, dressed in my favorite jeans, green silk sleeveless top and strappy emerald slingbacks. After a quick turn under the blow dryer and a little requisite lip-gloss, I was ready to go. It was only ten when I parked in the garage down the street from Dewy, Cheatum and Howe, but already the sidewalk was beginning to haze from the heat. Nothing like a smog layer to add a little sizzle to your July.

  Two blocks and three homeless guys later, I entered the cool, air-conditioned interior of Richard’s building. Predictably, Jasmine was standing sentinel over the reception area.

  “May I help you?” she asked, looking anything but helpful.

  “I’m here to see Richard.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  I swear that should be this woman’s epitaph. Here lies Jasmine “do you have an appointment” Williams. May she rest in peace.

  “No. But I’m sure he’ll see me if you’ll just let him know I’m here.”

  “And you are?”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “Maddie Springer. His girlfriend.” I emphasized the word.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Springer, but Mr. Howe isn’t in. He’s taking a few personal days. But, I’ll leave a message that you stopped by.” She seemed to take inordinate pleasure in the fact.

  “Why didn’t you just tell me he wasn’t here in the first place?”

  Jasmine’s over-sized lips curled into a smile. At least I think it was a smile. Maybe a sneer. “You didn’t ask.”

  I took a deep breath. Rationalizing that if I reached over the mahogany desk and scratched her eyes out I might ruin another manicure. “Fine. Did he say where he was going?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said with what was clearly a sneer this time, “but I’m not at liberty to divulge-”

  “Never mind,” I cut her off. I’d already given Jasmine way too much enjoyment today. Instead I spun around, digging my heels into the maroon carpet and stalked off toward the elevator, leaving Jasmine to her solitaire.

  Clearly Richard wasn’t at the office. Next stop – his condo.

  Richard lived in a two-story condo in Burbank, nestled in a gated community of tall stucco buildings on Sunset Canyon. The condos were all painted a pale taupe that hid dirt and on high smog index days matched the exact color of the air. Richard’s was the third structure on the right.

  I parked across the street, thankfully finding a spot on the same block after circling only twice, and clubbed my steering wheel.

  I keyed in the entry code on the electronic pad next to the iron gates and made my way through the mini garden courtyard, consisting of yucca trees, leafy green bushes and flowering agapanthus. I paused as I reached Richard’s door, took a deep breath, and stuck my key in the lock.

  I was halfway expecting Mafia thugs to jump out at me, or the place to look trashed as if Richard had been dragged away against his will, kicking and screaming, “Wait, just let me return my girlfriend’s call first!”

  I was disappointed. The condo looked exactly as it always did. Sleek, black leather sofas were set in the sunken living room, offset by chrome and glass end tables. The alcove kitchen to the right was clean, the green granite counters gleaming as morning sun filtered through the sliding glass doors to the second story balcony.

  “Hello?” I called into the silence. But almost instinctively, I knew I wouldn’t get an answer back. The house had the feel of disuse, the air slightly stale as if the windows hadn’t been cracked in days. Which did nothing to reassure the anxiety building in my belly.

  Richard wasn’t here. He wasn’t at the office. I was running out of places to look for him. Was it possible that he’d been called out of town suddenly? Maybe a family emergency? His mother lived alone in Palm Springs, maybe she was sick?

  I crossed the room, angling down the narrow hallway that led to the marble tiled bathroom, Richard�
��s bedroom, and the spare room Richard used as a home office. I opened the office door, gingerly peeking my head in first. No Richard. But the answering machine on his desk was blinking like mad. Feeling just the teeny-tiniest bit intrusive, I pressed the play button.

  Would you believe all twelve messages were from me? Yikes. Quickly I erased all but one. There, that sounded more like a rational, sane girlfriend.

  I took a quick look around the rest of the office. No plane tickets to the Bahamas, no telegrams saying, “Mom’s sick, come now.” I moved on to the bedroom, my heels echoing on the polished hardwood floor.

  Like the rest of the house, the bedroom seemed untouched. The bed was made, the burgundy duvet unwrinkled. The dresser held only the usual bits of clutter: a tin of loose change, pair of old sunglasses, book of matches, packet of vitamins, and two Bic pens. Feeling a little like Colombo I checked the address on the matchbook. It was a club he’d taken me to last week. Drat. So much for my brilliant detective skills.

  I opened the top drawer of his dresser. Rows of rolled up socks and Hanes briefs didn’t provide any clue to his whereabouts either. I had a sinking feeling I was just snooping at this point. I searched through the drawer, grimacing as I found a pair of purple argyle dress socks. I opened another drawer. T-shirts and gym shorts. I shuffled them around a bit and came across a pair of neon blue spandex running shorts. Egad! Those had to go. I tossed them in the direction of the wastebasket, sure that Richard would thank me later.

  I was just moving on to the pajama drawer when I heard a sound other than my own clucks of disapproval. The sound of the front door opening.

  My first thought was that it was Richard and Obsessive Woman was caught red handed. Then I heard something else.

  “Hello? Richard, are you in there?”

  I froze. It was a man’s voice, but not Richard’s. Good Lord, what would I do if it was one of his friends? Sure, Richard had given me a key, but not so I could come in while he was gone and inspect his wardrobe. At the risk of forever being labeled “that crazy chick who went through your drawers,” I quickly jumped into Richard’s closet, securing the sliding paneled doors behind me. Just call me the obsessive chicken.