“Grief’s a terrible thing,” I said, concentrating on writing.
“All he does now is get into other people’s business.”
I put the pen down. “How does your eye feel now? Still good?”
She nodded, seemingly disinterested. “He lives in a huge house in Beverly Hills.” She threw me a look.
How, I wondered, did a caretaker afford to live in Beverly Hills? Then it dawned on me. Arthur probably bought the property back when land was affordable.
“Is your tetanus vaccine up to date?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
“Yes. Got it last year. Apparently Arthur’s house is exactly the same as when his wife was alive. He hasn’t touched a thing. Even their bedroom looks the same. Her makeup is still there. Her hairbrush.” She cringed.
“He’s still grieving,” I said. “The moment you let go of your loved one’s things you’ve admitted to yourself they’re really gone.”
“Or it’s laziness.” She raised her chin high.
“Grief is horrible.”
She stood up. “So you fancy yourself an actress then?”
“Heavens, no.” I strolled over to the door.
“Huh, well what were you doing on Stage 9, trying to act opposite Jamie Hale?”
My hand slid off the knob and I turned to look at her.
“Do they allow that sort of thing?” Her top lip curled into a frown. “Taking advantage of your position here?” She took in the room with disdain in her stare.
A wave of panic hit me.
“Using your job,” her gaze roamed up and down my uniform” parlaying this into an acting career?”
“That’s...not...”
She closed the gap between us. “What’s this rumor about you asking Jamie to take you to the Oscars?”
Stunned, I wondered where she’d heard such twisted gossip.
“This place is like a small village,” she said, as though reading my mind. “There are no secrets here.”
“You never had anything in your eye, did you?” I said calmly.
“Stick to nursing, Piper.” She reached for the knob and turned it. “Stop embarrassing yourself.” She slid past me and out into the corridor.
I stood frozen, terrified that Sarah would tell others about my interloping on Resident Hero.
Adam appeared in the doorway. “She’s gone.”
I looked at him, though didn’t really see him. My mind was too busy piecing together what had just happened. Reeling with the possible fallout of Sarah’s threat.
“The FBI were really cool,” Adam said. “They knew you confused them for actors. They thought it was funny.”
“Thank goodness,” I said, having replaced embarrassment with panic that my job was on the line. Moving over to the sink, I placed my hands under the faucet and washed them.
“What was wrong with Sarah?” Adam asked.
“Foreign body, left eye.” I lathered my hands with soap.”Apparently.”
“You know she’s Gregory Gemstone’s girlfriend, right?”
I shot him a look.
“He’s a senior executive. In line to be head of the studio.” He scrunched up his nose. “That’s how she got a part in Clooney’s film.”
After drying my hands with a paper towel, I threw it into the trash, trying to understand why a girl who was so privileged would go after me.
I was upset that Jamie had shared with anyone that he’d invited me to go with him to the Oscars. I’d been so wrapped up in finding a dress I’d not even considered how others may react.
“It’s best to keep well away from her,” Adam said.
We swapped a look. My way of saying without words I’d worked that out for myself. Together, we headed back into the front office reception.
I knelt by the chair and reached into my handbag, pulling out my iPhone to check for messages, more out of habit than anything.
“Le Fleur?” Adam pointed at the logo on my paper bag. “Someone’s been shopping.”
“It’s for a special occasion,” I said. “I want to hire your tailoring skills. I’ll pay top dollar.” I smiled, easing the paper bag out from under the chair.
“I’d love to,” Adam said. “You trust me with your dress. I’m flattered.”
“I’ve seen your awesome shirts.”
His face lit up with pride. “What’s the event?”
“I’ve been invited to the Oscars,” I said, still in disbelief.
“For reals? That’s fantastic.”
“I know, right. I still can’t wrap my head around it.”
“Who invited you?”
“Jamie Hale.” It sounded more like a question.
“Well who knew he had such great taste.” Adam folded his arms across his chest in amusement. “You’ve been here two weeks and already the talent is chasing you.”
“I’m kind of reluctant.” I reached in and pulled out the dress. “Out of my depth, comes to mind.”
He looked confused. “You want me to fix it?”
Staring at the gown, feeling all color drain from my face, I was shocked to see a rip in the material tracking all the way down to the hem.
Lost in confusion, everything moved in slow motion. I felt like I was underwater, and I mentally retraced my steps. Recalling Le Fleur’s changing stall, my mirrored reflection showing off a flowing satin skirt and gorgeous beaded bodice that fit just right, I remembered the gown was flawless. Minutes later, in Gemstone’s parking lot, carefully removing the dress from its bag and handling it reverently, it still remained undamaged. Then here in the department, I’d slid the bag beneath the corner chair to protect it from any hazard that might somehow catch against my precious dress.
“You didn’t buy it like that, did you?” Adam looked confused.
“No.” Slowly, I raised my eyes to look at him, saying faintly, “I needed it hemmed.” Tears stung my eyes.
“Oh God,” he said, realizing, his steady gaze on mine. “I promise I didn’t touch it.”
“I know,” my voice was quiet, distant sounding.
I steadied my hands, or tried to.
Adam came closer, hesitating to reach out and touch me as though nervous I’d snap any second. His voice wavered with dread. “You don’t think it was...”
“Sarah Thompson.” My voice found me again and my unsteady feet made their way over to the corner chair. I slumped into it. “Who else could it have been?”
“She was the only other person in here,” he said. “Other than the FBI.”
Again we shared a look. Words were not needed for us to confirm who we both believed had done it.
“That’s it then,” I said. “The decision’s been made for me.” I shoved the dress back into the bag.
“Girl, don’t you dare give up like that.” Adam pointed at me with a long, perfectly manicured fingernail.
I gave a shrug. “Can’t afford another one.”
“This is Hollywood. There’s more than one way to skin a cat. And by cat I mean Sarah.”
“We could never prove it.” I peered into the bag again as though the dress would magically mend itself. My gaze slid over to a large pair of scissors sticking out the top of the pen holder and not stored in their usual place in the second drawer of Adam’s desk. Sarah hadn’t even tried to hide the evidence. Had she wanted me to know it was her? Had Jamie’s invitation that I’d so innocently accepted somehow pushed Sarah over the edge?
I tried to fathom why anyone would be so cruel. “It’s not like we can go after her. She’s dating the head of the studio.”
“Not the head,” Adam said, “but close enough.”
The bag slipped from my grasp and landed on the floor, tipping over.
He knelt and righted it. “There must be something we can do. She can’t be allowed to get away with it.” He placed it on the desk and stared at it, his mouth as glum as mine.
“She already has.” I leaned back in the chair and wrapped my arms around myself in a hug. I stared off, unable
to fathom what had motivated Sarah’s behavior. After all, if she knew I’d been on Stage 9 then surely she knew it was me who helped save her life during her allergic crisis.
“That girl needs therapy,” Adam said.
Sucking in my sorrow and trying to suppress this knot in my stomach, I tried to shake off the shock of what had just happened. I had a shift to work and the only way to get through it was to put my game face on and focus my attention on anyone but me. Bury this gut-wrenching sadness and try to see the bright side.
And that dress had been so incredibly pretty.
CHAPTER 14
Resident Hero - Day 58 OF 60
Call Time: 11:00 am
Shooting Call: 11:45 am
Weather: Sunny
Location: Stage 9
The promise of a comforting cappuccino and soothing slice of carrot cake couldn’t reverse the damage Sarah had done to my dress, but it would certainly take my mind off it. Right now I couldn’t focus on anything else other than making it to Gem’s Cafe for my well needed sugar trance. The kind that leads to forgetting, if only for a moment.
I was caught somewhere between anguish that Sarah had hacked at my dress and a lingering relief I now had an excuse not to go to the Oscars. Yes, the gown I’d bought was lovely and expensive to say the least, but the idea of being compared to all those iconoclasts on national television was unnerving. Merely the thought of it made my stomach churn.
Choosing a drink, my taste buds tingled when I settled on the vanilla iced latte instead of the cappuccino.
My gaze settled on the back of the man waiting in line in front of me. There was something familiar about him. He turned his head to the right and stared out the glass wall, his gaze lingering on the people sitting outside.
I froze in terror.
Shaking out of my startled state, I darted toward the back of the store, holding my breath as though the mere act of breathing would give me away. I grabbed an Alfred Hitchcock mask from the wide selection of others, including the uncanny likeness of Greta Gabo, Clark Gable, and Gary Cooper, all made from rubber and all hanging on a line of hooks along the back wall.
Easing it over my head, I pretended to be seriously mulling over its purchase. All the while hiding from him.
George Clooney was now reading the cafe’s back wall chalkboard, seemingly choosing from the numerous teas and coffees listed. Surely, I reasoned, his assistant should have fetched it for him.
Several patrons ahead of him in line were offering to give up their place so he could go on ahead of them, but he waved this off, showing that he too was capable of the amazing feat of waiting his turn for a beverage.
I switched to wearing a Marilyn Monroe mask, trying to keep my movement fluid and not draw any attention. I’d once read in Science Today that society’s obsession with fame was linked to our primeval cerebral wiring. A subconscious survival instinct that drives alignment with a famous individual, a beloved member of the tribe as it were, which furthers our chances of survival. Basically, it meant more cake for George meant more cake for his friends, so it wasn’t just his dashing good looks and magnetic personality which drew us to him.
Proving the science article right, the blonde barista blushed wildly and batting her eyelids at George as she told him in a flirty Valley girl accent, “his coffee was on the house.”
Despite all attempts George made to pay, the barista would have none of it, and in the end he gave up. He dropped five dollars into the tip jar and left with his freebie in hand, seemingly embarrassed.
I felt nothing but gratitude for the flirty barista who’d done a marvelous job of keeping George occupied and distracting him from perusing Gemstone’s merchandise of t-shirts, magnets, posters, toys and masks, one of which I was still utilizing. Peering over a stack of Gemstone coffee mugs, while noting they were currently 50% off, (which was quite a good offer) I breathed a sigh of relief that George had exited the cafe.
And reached for a mug to consider purchasing it. I felt a tap on my shoulder.
I let go of the mug and spun round to see actor Jimmy Stewart behind me, or rather, a tall, slim man wearing a Jimmy Stewart mask.
“Well hi there, Marilyn,” he said in a flawless Jimmy Stewart accent, “Well, then you can swallow it, and it’ll all dissolve see, and the moonbeams would shoot out of your fingers and your toes and the ends of your hair...” He removed the mask. The voice belonged to Grayson, and he was smiling at me.
“It’s a Wonderful Life,” I said, recognizing the lines from my favorite black and white film.
“Your scrubs gave you away,” Grayson said. “I wanted to thank you for that chat you gave. The class wouldn’t stop talking about you and insisted on playing doctors and nurses for the rest of the day.”
Realizing I was still wearing the mask, I eased it over my head, catching a few stray hairs in its band.
Grayson reached out and loosened one of the strands. “There you go.”
I turned away from him and slid the mask back along its rack, hoping to buy a few seconds and gather my thoughts well enough to think of something clever to say. “Your class is adorable.”
“They’re a rowdy crowd,” he said, “But there’s nothing like putting life into perspective when you see it through their eyes.”
“It was the most fun I’ve had in ages,” I admitted, half distracted by that sweet smile of his.
He looked delighted and then leaned in close, stepping past me to slide his Jimmy Stewart mask back onto its hook. He turned back to face me. My words lingered just out of reach, grasping for an expression of warmth that might subtly reflect how lovely it was to see him.
Silence filled the space between us. The lose track of time kind.
“Well I best get back,” he said, “or I’ll have thirty four-year-olds running loose, trying to hunt me down to read Goodnight Moon to them.” He arched an eyebrow. “And it won’t be pretty,” he said in a Jimmy Stewart accent. His smile reached his deep brown eyes, lighting up his face.
I threw him a wave goodbye and watched him through the glass wall as he tucked both his hands into his trouser pockets nonchalantly, strolling back to work. Still staring, even when he had disappeared from view, I felt the wake of his presence. He radiated a kindness and a genuine nature, and it dawned on me how rare that was in this town.
Still thinking about him, I purchased a coffee and that well overdue slice of carrot cake and found an empty table outside Gem’s, close to the fountain.
With my first taste of cake came that lovely soothing sensation, a party in my mouth, a lulling of my fretting. The sweet crumbs melted on my tongue. I wondered if I’d somehow sabotaged myself with my negative thinking. Ellie believed our thoughts affected the world around us. Maybe she was onto something. Had my reluctance to accept Jamie’s invitation caused a ripple in the universe and somehow forced Sarah Thompson’s hand? Was I ultimately responsible?
But having saved her life, surely that was meant to instill gratitude and not a full on attack. Weren’t there cultures where the individual whose life had been saved repaid the favor by dedicating their own life to the one who had saved them? Not in L.A. apparently. I slouched, realizing I’d have to get a message to Jamie to let him know I wasn’t going to be his guest after all.
“Piper.”
I squinted into the sun. “Hey Arthur,” I said, happy to see him.
He sat in the chair opposite. “You just missed our resident hero.” He winked.
I took a sip of coffee.
“George Clooney.”
“Would you like some?” I offered my cake.
“No thank you.” He narrowed his gaze, seemingly trying to read me.
I feigned fascination with the design of my coffee lid, pretending to be checking its seal over the paper cup. Feeling the heat from the drink, I let go and rested my hands in my lap.
Arthur was still staring. “You’re a funny one, Piper Day.”
“That’s me in a nutshell.”
�
�So how’s our new nurse doing?”
“Good.” I cheered up. “This job is everything I could hope for.”
“I hear you’re settling in well.”
“Yes.” I paused. It was my turn to try and read him. “Who told you that?”
“I have my sources.”
“I’m still finding my way around but I’m getting there.” My gaze drifted to a notebook poking out of his jacket pocket.
Arthur tapped it. “I’m working on my memoir. Writing down everything I can remember about my time here.”
“That’s wonderful.”
He pointed to the fountain. “Marilyn Monroe skinny dipped in there after a party.” Arthur arched an eyebrow. “Of course those were the days before the paparazzi.”
“It all seemed so innocent back then,” I said. “I know you guys had your problems though. Prohibition, the great depression...”
“How old do you think I am?” He waved off my remark, smiling.
I pulled my mouth into an apologetic frown.
Arthur gestured with enthusiasm. “My first car was a 1925 Isotta Fraschini Tipo.”
“Ooh.” I made a mental note to Google it.
“She ran like a dream.”
“I have a Beetle,” I said. “I love that car.”
“You never forget your first,” Arthur said. “It’s a bit like love.” He pointed at me. “Choose wisely. Matters of the heart should not be rushed.”
“Writing your memoir is a lovely way to remember your wife.”
Arthur shot me a look of surprise. “I never told you I’m a widower.”
He was right, and I’d been wrong to bring it up. My gaze drifted over to Gem’s cafe and I searched for a way to ease the moment.
“Who have you been talking with?” Arthur said.
“Sarah Thompson mentioned it.” I lowered my gaze.
“I see.”
“She brought it up,” I said, hoping to defend myself. “I’m not the gossiping kind.”
Sarah had played me. She knew I’d discuss what she’d told me with Arthur. Fearful of encroaching on patient confidentiality, as Sarah had shared personal details about Arthur during her own private visit, I hesitated to say any more.
Piper Day's Ultimate Guide To Avoiding George Clooney Page 13
