I saw him hesitate, and out of sheer panic I added, "Like for a drink or something." It was funny. I suddenly realized I never say the words "Do you want to come in?" On all my assignments I make it a strict rule that the subject has to initiate. He has to invite. I only follow. I don't lead.
And now I was on the other end. Dying for him to come inside. No longer nervous or apprehensive about letting him walk into my house, into my life, but instead wanting nothing more than to entrap him inside and never let him leave.
"I don't think I should," he said, almost pained. As if he obviously wanted to but something was holding him back. "Unless you have some Macallan twenty-five-year-old Scotch."
I laughed, relieved that he had made a joke and successfully managed to cover up his blatant rejection of me.
"Do you honestly think a twenty-eight-year-old girl would have aged Scotch in her apartment?"
"Ah! So that's how old you are," Jamie said with a bright smile that lit up his whole face. "You're way too young for me."
"I know," I said playfully. "I'm practically paying your social security."
"Ooh, that's hot." He kissed me again, and then buried his head in my neck.
I reached around and rested my hand on the back of his head. His dark brown hair felt soft on my skin as I gently ran my fingers through it.
Was he going to say anything else? Or was he just going to leave it at "I don't think I should"? Obviously a response like that warranted an explanation. But I didn't want to bring it up again. Why should I? I was the one who just got rejected, a feeling I certainly wasn't all that familiar with. And not sure I liked very much.
He pulled his head up. "I really like you, Jen. I just think we should take this slow."
Slow? I repeated the word in my head, although I hadn't the faintest idea what it meant. When had any guy ever wanted to take things slow? In my world, men had sex (or thought they would have sex) after two hours of flirting... maybe three. Some of them only waited thirty minutes. My version of taking things slow was making out for twenty minutes before he tries to remove my pants.
But I knew that my world was far from the norm. So I said, "Yeah, that sounds like a good idea."
Jamie nodded and smiled, seemingly relieved. "I don't want to rush into anything. And honestly?" He touched my face again. "Not to sound presumptuous, but I kind of have the feeling that I might be around awhile."
I couldn't resist a girlish grin. "Really?" I asked him, amused. "Is that what you think?"
Jamie raised his eyebrows. "Yes." He kissed me on the lips again. "I'm going to New York for business next week, but I want to see you as soon as I get back."
I shrugged my shoulders callously. "I don't know. I'm getting pretty bored of you."
Jamie's eyes pleaded with me.
"Fine. What night?"
He pretended to search his pockets. "Damn, I forgot my Palm Pilot. I'm gonna have to get back to you on that one."
I laughed and pushed him in the direction of the elevator as I started to fish through my bag for my house keys. "Get out of here."
"I'll consult my secretary and have my people call your people," he said, stumbling across the hallway. "You do have people, don't you?"
I put my key in the lock. "Yeah, sure. We'll do lunch."
Jamie ran back over for one final kiss before I stepped inside. "Bye," he said as he watched my face disappear behind the slowly closing door.
Once I was on the inside, I silently leaned my forehead against the back of the door. This is insane, I thought. Nobody is supposed to fall this fast. I'm not supposed to fall at all. Especially when it's become my job to remain unattached – no matter what.
I couldn't understand what was happening to me. I couldn't understand why I was feeling things I swore I would never feel. That I promised myself I would never feel.
Because I had become so certain that there was no point in feeling them.
God, was I ever wrong.
21
Celebrity Status
I'D HAD little time to prepare for tonight's assignment.
And the only reason I'd had little time to prepare was because Sarah Miller had given me little time to prepare when she insisted that this inspection take place tonight, a mere three days after our initial meeting. The fast-track approach was extremely unorthodox in my line of work, and I didn't really like the ad hoc feeling of it all. Given that I knew very little about Daniel Miller, I opted for a fairly generic wardrobe selection. A pair of black dress pants with a tan sleeveless turtleneck sweater and my red backless Manolo mules. One of the biggest mistakes you can make is to overdress. Since this inspection would take place at a regular, upscale bar in Westwood, I had to look the part. Showing up in this bar wearing an over-the-top designer dress that drew the attention of every man and woman in the place would not do the trick. Then I would just come off looking like a gold digger, hitting on older men who appear to have money. It was the last image I wanted to put forth. Men don't want to cheat with gold diggers because they're not trustworthy. Well, most men anyway. Raymond Jacobs would probably cheat with anything with two legs and a pair of boobs, the disgusting, classless asshole.
I checked my reflection in the mirror and decided that the ensemble was perfect for the occasion. Sexy enough to draw attention but classy enough to make it look like that's not all I was after. Tonight the key was to be just another girl in a bar. Not looking for anything in particular. But also not ruling anything out.
I hurried into my office while I attempted to put my second diamond-stud earring into my ear. The folder labeled Daniel Miller was sitting on my desk. I had put together a few pages of his biography based on some of the information shared by his wife, but I hadn't had time to do a lot of additional research. And the fact that my Google search for Daniel Miller had yielded 261,000 results and more than four thousand images, none of the first two hundred of which even remotely resembled the photograph that Sarah Miller had given me, didn't help much, either. This was going to require some serious mind-reading, superpower "wingage." I flipped through the pages casually, reminding myself of some of the smaller details, and then retrieved the key hidden in my office closet to open the bottom locked drawer of my desk. I pulled out one of my black business cards, running my fingertips over the slightly raised surface of the crimson A on the front. Then I flipped the card over and studied the toll-free number on the back. The number that Daniel Miller would call at the end of the night should he choose to fail his inspection. The same number that everyone calls.
And yet every time I pull one of these identical black business cards out of my locked bottom drawer, I silently pray that I won't have to use it.
Every time I place that card in my bag at the beginning of the night, I fantasize about ceremoniously tossing it into a nearby trash can on the way out of the bar or the hotel, or wherever I have just been rejected.
Sadly, though, those cards, more often than not, end up in someone else's hands by the end of the night... and not in my fantasy trash can.
I dashed into the living room and stuffed my red Louis Vuitton leather pochette with all the necessary items: keys, credit card, cash, ID, phones, failed fidelity inspection card. Then I was out the door.
WHEN I arrived at the bar I spotted Daniel Miller in a back booth, nursing a drink and gazing off into space. His half-empty glass on the tabletop was clenched tightly in his hands. He looked concerned, lonely, contemplative. The glass itself was not quite as lonely as the man holding it, however. Surrounding it were several other empty glasses, once belonging to Mr. Miller's former company.
To anyone else it might have looked like he'd recently said something offensive, causing everyone at the table to abruptly depart, leaving him there alone. But to me it looked just as Mrs. Miller had described it. He most always stays afterward for another drink. The business associates she mentioned appeared to have already left, and from the look on his face, the meeting hadn't gone quite as well as he had hoped. I reme
mbered what she'd said about his recent layoff and made a mental note not to bring up the topic of employment.
I walked in the direction of his table, exuding confidence, my failed-inspection card burning a hole in my Louis Vuitton handbag. All I had to do was get him to ask me upstairs. According to his wife, it wasn't unusual for him to drink too much and just rent a room here in the W Hotel instead of making that long, dangerous drive through the canyon.
Overdrinking husband and frequent hotel stays in the same city he inhabits? No wonder she hired me. That would sound fishy to anyone.
Walking into an assignment location is a lot like walking onto a brightly lit stage. Poised and ready to perform in a play in which the main character's name is Ashlyn. But to the outsider, and soon to Daniel Miller as well, Ashlyn would not be a character in a play. She would be real. Just another girl in a bar.
I took a deep breath, reminded myself of the exact role I was to play tonight, and stepped onto the stage, walking slowly as I passed Daniel's table in my usual attempt to capture the attention of my chosen audience.
But tonight my audience was distracted. And despite my slow, purposeful stride and my carefully selected outfit, Daniel Miller barely even blinked as I walked by.
So I stopped about a foot in front of his table and looked down into my purse, feeling the sudden urge to check for something that might be missing, and as a result, buying more time in front of my distracted audience. And after verifying that everything seemed to be in place I continued walking. Daniel Miller, however, still did not look up.
That's when I knew that I had to pull a shameless maneuver, one that I rarely ever have to resort to. But I conceded that tonight would just have to be one of those rare times. After all, it's not like I could go back to my car, change into a miniskirt, and walk by his table again, hoping his preference for legs would cause him to finally turn his head.
No, I would have to trip.
So I did.
And not surprisingly, I fell right into the man sitting alone in the back booth. And he caught me.
"Oh!" I exclaimed as I used the top of the booth to steady myself. "I'm so sorry!"
"Are you all right?" the man asked, helping me regain my balance.
"Yes," I replied, obviously embarrassed at the incident. "Thank you." Then I pointed down at my shoes. "They're new."
Daniel nodded his understanding and laughed politely. "It's no problem at all."
I was just about to walk away when suddenly a small trace of recognition happened to wash over my face. "Hey...haven't I seen you down at the marina?" I asked.
Reference: Section 2a of the Daniel Miller biography. He has a boat docked at the marina.
Daniel's distressed mood seemed to change slightly with the mention of the marina, and his lips curled into a humble smile. If he didn't know any better, he might have thought that this beautiful young stranger somehow knew exactly what would cheer him up and get his mind off of less fortunate things.
But that, of course, would be impossible.
"Probably," he replied. "I'm there a lot. I have a boat docked there."
I scrunched up my forehead and bit my perfectly glossed, bottom lip as if attempting to solve a very difficult logic problem, when suddenly the name of a sailboat hit me. As if it had been swirling around in the back of my foggy memory and I was just able to grasp it as it flew by. "The Five Winds," I said, nodding my head proudly.
Reference: Section 2b of the Daniel Miller biography. His boat's name is The Five Winds.
These words cheered him up even more. "Yes! You know my boat?"
I smiled brightly. "Oh, of course! It's one of the nicest boats down there, a 2000 Morgan Classic sloop, forty-one feet with a thirteen-foot, ten-inch beam, cutaway forefront, fin keel, skeg-hung rudder. I bet that thing can be sailed at 35 degrees off the wind."
Reference: Page 3 of the 2000 Morgan Classic sloop electronic sales brochure available on most sailboat Web sites.
Daniel nodded, thoroughly impressed. "Wow, you certainly know your sailboats."
I shrugged modestly. "My dad taught me all about boats. I go down to the marina a lot with my family. I knew you looked familiar."
He stretched out his hand. "I'm Daniel."
I shook it eagerly. "Ashlyn."
"Nice to meet you,"
"Thanks. You, too," I said, standing awkwardly and glancing off in the direction of the bar, apparently wondering if I should go up and order myself a drink or continue standing there, talking about boats.
At this point I had to make it appear that I truly wanted him to ask me to sit down but that I was too much of a lady to ask myself. So I decided to look bored.
And to my surprise, he did, too.
Daniel checked his watch. "Well, I better be getting home. It's late and I have quite a drive in front of me." He scooted out to the end of the booth and offered me his hand again. "It was nice meeting you, Amy."
"Ashlyn," I corrected as I stood quite dumbfounded in front of him and slowly shook his hand.
"Right, sorry. Well, maybe I'll see you down at the docks," he said, pulling a large bill out of his wallet and dropping it on the table.
"Yeah, maybe you will," I replied softly.
I stood speechless at the back of the bar as my eyes followed Daniel Miller making his way toward the archway that led into the main hotel lobby. As soon as he disappeared from sight, I followed a safe distance behind and watched him with great curiosity, like an animal researcher who has just witnessed a dolphin walking on dry land. He exited out the front door of the hotel and never came back.
He was really gone.
He had actually left.
To everyone else in the bar it probably looked as though I had just bumped into a celebrity, and like any star-struck American obsessively continued to stare at him as he walked out. In fact, upon following my unwavering gaze, some of the other bar clientele turned curiously and watched Daniel leave as well, wondering why they hadn't recognized him as someone famous when he walked in.
But I knew quite well that Daniel Miller was nobody famous. You wouldn't see him on the front page of Us Weekly magazine, or even on some random page in the middle. You wouldn't catch a thirty-second blurb about him on the next edition of Access Hollywood, and you certainly wouldn't hear him plugging his latest album or blockbuster movie on one of L.A.'s top radio stations.
But after tonight, Daniel Miller would now and forever be a celebrity in my mind.
WHEN I got home the first thing I did was run to my nightstand. And when I say "run," I mean it. I literally threw my bag down on the sofa and raced across the living room and into the bedroom like a child running outside to catch the ice cream truck. I knelt down beside my nightstand, and with the same anticipation and excitement normally reserved for Christmas morning, I opened the bottom drawer and removed the box.
I held it in my hands, stroking the soft wood with my fingertips.
This was my timeless moment. The equivalent of hearing the song that's been stuck in your head all day suddenly come on the radio, your favorite food listed on the specials board of a restaurant, the accomplishment of fitting the last puzzle piece, the exhilaration of the first kiss, the smell and touch of hot laundry, fresh from the dryer, the quiet peacefulness of three A.M.... all wrapped up into this one little, seemingly insignificant box.
The only thing I held sacred.
I removed the key from the velvet lining in the drawer and turned the lock.
This time, I didn't just look. Because this time would be one of those rare moments when I would actually be able to do more than look.
When I would be able to contribute.
I reached inside the box and pulled out a small piece of paper and a black fountain pen.
This was my list.
It had exactly nine names on it. I read them aloud slowly one by one as I ran my fingertips over each. And then I rested the piece of paper against the top of the box, pulled the cap off the pen, and delicatel
y wrote the name Daniel Miller at the bottom of the list.
Daniel was my number 10.
The tenth reason to believe that love is possible, despite everything else that goes on in the world.
Despite the thousands upon thousands of reasons not to.
And I had a feeling...it was exactly what I needed right now.
The pen had cost me five hundred dollars. I bought it in one of those fancy stores that sells pens to business executives who would later gift them to special clients and employees. I had never in a million years thought I would ever spend five hundred dollars on a pen. Or even step into a store like that. But I felt that it was appropriate, given the nature of this ceremony.
Needless to say, there was still a lot of ink left in it.
After taking a few moments to bask in the initial glory of the newest name that would now run through my head at least five times a day during my internal battle of good versus evil, I strolled back into the living room, giddy as a lovesick schoolgirl, and picked up my bag from the sofa where I had hastily flung it on my way in. I fished out my unused black inspection card and stared at it. If I were a lovesick schoolgirl, then this would be the forbidden love letter passed to me during second period.
I opened the trash compactor in the kitchen, took one last glance at the card, and silently ripped it into as many pieces as I physically could. And then I watched them fall gracefully into the garbage, like a rainstorm of broken doubt.
And in slow motion they came to rest on top of an empty cereal box and a banana peel.
Exactly where they belonged.
I slid the trash compactor closed and flipped the switch. It came to life with a soft hum as it started on its only quest in life – to compress all trash into one unrecognizable lump of waste.
I returned to my bedroom and changed out of my work attire and into the comfort of my Victoria's Secret pink silky pajamas. I liked the way they felt on my skin. And deep down inside, beneath the fear, beneath the anxiety, beneath all the other garbage I had compacted over the years, I suddenly felt very good about the world around me.
Fidelity Files Page 28
