“Remember what I told you about her?”
“That she’s--”
“Trouble.” Arthur folded his arms. “It’s not your fault. She’s a manipulator. Her ambition makes her ruthless.”
Thoughts of my torn dress came to mind, though Sarah’s gossiping about a widow’s suffering had easily topped that.
“I imagine she mentioned I still have my wife’s personal items at home.” Arthur shook his head in disbelief at her brazenness.
“How would she know that?” I said, my voice quiet, respectful, wary this was a sensitive subject.
He shrugged.
“It’s no one’s business,” I said. “I’m so sorry I brought it up.”
“Because you’re genuinely concerned. He removed the notebook from his pocket and waved it. “Once I’ve written it all down I’ll be ready to let... “ He took a moment.
“Arthur, I’m so sorry.”
If grief could reach out and touch another person, this was it.
“Time goes so fast,” he said. “We always think there’s so much of it, yet...” He tucked the book back into his pocket.
I wondered if it would look strange if I leaned over the fountain and plunged my head underwater for a few minutes.
Blah, I feel terrible.
“In my experience, women hit the carbs to console themselves.” He pointed to my cake.
“Oh,” I said, avoiding the reason for it. “It’s my Friday treat.”
Arthur looked serious. “Avoid Sarah at all cost.”
“I will. Apparently she’s dating a Gemstone executive. That’s how she gets away with things.” I leaned forward to better make my point. “No more riling her up, Arthur. Goodness knows what she’s capable of if you really upset her.” I pushed my coffee aside. “She could use her connection to cause all sorts of problems.”
He looked unfazed. “I have connections.”
“Her boyfriend’s Mr. Gemstone himself.”
“Gemstone junior.” He gave a thin smile. “Don’t worry about me.”
With a glance at my watch, I saw it was time to get back.
I left Arthur sitting by the fountain, hoping I’d not irretrievably damaged our friendship with my thoughtlessness. Sadness settled in my chest like the unwelcome visitor it was and threatening never to leave.
I headed along the paseo.
This day had started out so well. I’d spent the morning with Ellie shopping for a new dress for a spectacular event with Jamie Hale and the promise of a night in Hollywood. One I’d never forget. How naive I’d been. I’d maxed out my credit card until payday so buying another dress was impossible.
I was reluctant to tell Jamie, unsure how he’d react. Would he be angry? Offended? Or perhaps, I reasoned, I’d let him off the hook, since he asked me out on impulse. I couldn’t wait to get it over with.
Heading up the steps of the medical department, I bumped right into Natalie, who was coming down, the kit flung over her left shoulder.
“Perfect timing,” she said, throwing me the keys to the golf cart.
I caught them and followed her, jumping into the driver’s side and easing the keys into the ignition.
With a jolt, we were off.
“Valentino building,” she told me. “A young woman’s dizzy and close to passing out.”
Within less than a minute, we’d arrived and I grabbed the oxygen from the back of the cart and bolted after Natalie, who was making good headway.
Once inside, a lone security officer pointed to the elevator. We took the stairs, ascending swiftly to the second level where we were met by a wide-open office space separated by small cubicles.
Staff peeked over the tops of their cubicle. They were intrigued with the commotion in the far corner. A flustered employee met us halfway, leading Natalie and I down what seemed an endless route toward our waiting patient.
We eased inside her cubicle, squeezing between the desk and chair. A few photos of family members had been stuck to the wall. A Gemstone thermos rested on the desk next to a phone, and next to that was a printer with its lid open. The new ink cartridge laid discarded. She’d been changing her printer ink when she collapsed.
There, lying on the floor behind her desk, was a young woman. Her colleague leaned over her and talked softly. Other co-workers had gathered around her cubical, their faces full of concern.
“Let’s give her some space,” I said, politely telling the lookie-loos to step away and give our patient privacy.
Kneeling, I focused on the pale, twenty-something brunette, reassured to see her eyes open, thankful she was currently conscious and breathing.
With a gloved hand, I checked the pulse on her wrist. “I’m Piper, and this is Natalie. We’re both RNs and we’re going to take good care of you. Do we have your consent?”
The young woman gave it with a nod.
“She passed out a few minutes ago,” her friend told us.
Natalie looked up at the security guard. “Call 911. Tell them she’s in her twenties, she conscious, and breathing.”
“Got it,” the guard said.
“Tell us when they’re on their way.” Natalie removed the clipboard from the medical bag and pulled out a pen.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Bibi,” she said weakly.
“She’s been feeling sick all morning,” her friend added.
“Are you in any pain?” I asked.
“No. But I’ve be throwing up all morning.”
“Natalie.” The guard stepped forward. “An ambulance is on its way.” He moved back again, respecting the patient’s privacy.
“Bibi, we’ve called 911,” I said. “We’ll have you feeling better in no time.” I wrapped the automatic blood pressure cuff around her left arm and pushed start on the machine. The cuff tightened, preparing to take its automated reading. I placed a disposable thermometer under Bib’s left arm.
“Have you been ill recently?” I asked.
“No. This came on today,” she said.
“Any diarrhea?”
“No.”
“Are you on any medications?”
“Um, I took an Aspirin this morning. After I got up. For my throat.”
“Allergies?”
“No. I feel so hot.”
“Any chance you can be pregnant?” I whispered.
“No. Just finished my period.” She swallowed, flinching.
“Tell me about your sore throat? How long have you had it?”
“Two days.”
“Viral?” Natalie asked me.
“Maybe,” I said, glancing her way, and then focused back on Bibi. “Any dizziness?”
“Yes.” She turned to look at her friend. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be,” Natalie reassured her. “Everyone’s sick at work at some point.”
The blood pressure machine flashed: 140/90. I removed the thermometer from her armpit: her temperature was 103F.
“We have to cool her down,” I said.
Natalie popped two instant cold-packs and eased one under Bibi’s neck and placed the other on her forehead.
“Have you been abroad recently?” I asked Bibi.
She shifted to get more comfortable. “No.”
We offered words that we hoped would calm her. Bibi began shaking, her condition was worsening.
“Your body’s trying to cool itself,” I said, and looked up to see five paramedics heading our way.
Natalie offered a wave to them in greeting.
“You’re new,” the fire captain said to me, kneeling by my side.
“I’m Piper.” I gave a respectful nod.”This is Bibi. She began feeling unwell at her desk today....” I continued to share our findings, keeping my voice at a whisper.
After conducting their own careful exam, the paramedics decision was quickly made that Bibi needed to be transported to an ER. Two of the medics assisted her onto their portable gurney and wheeled her down the corridor toward the elevator.
When the doors opened it became obvious we weren’t all going to fit in there.
Natalie gave me the orange bag. “You go with them. I’ll meet you by the golf cart.”
Bibi was wheeled inside the elevator and I followed them in, joining the two other paramedics.
There came a flash of inspiration.
With the sliding doors closed and our privacy ensured, I faced Bibi and asked her, “Can I check your chest?” I peeled back her shirt and there it was, a blotchy, angry raised rash resembling a bad case of sunburn.
“A little too much time in the sun?” one of the medics said. “Sunstroke?” He glanced at his colleagues, looking for a nod of agreement.
Bibi looked surprised. “I don’t sunbathe. My dermatologist forbids it. Why?” She lowered her chin to view what we’d seen.
“You have a rash.” I buttoned up her blouse. “The doctors will know exactly what that is. I know you feel unwell right now but you’ll soon feel better.”
When we reached ground level, the elevator jolted to a stop and Bibi’s gurney was steered feet first out into the corridor.
I grabbed the arm of the fire captain. “I think she may have Toxic Shock Syndrome,” I told him. “Tell the ER doc to check for a retained tampon.”
“Seriously?” he said. “How can you tell?”
“She has the classic rash of TSS,” I explained. “As well as the fever, and her history of just finishing her period points to it too.” I raised my hand in caution. “It’s just an idea.”
“We’re taking her to Cedars,” the fire captain said. “I’ll pass it on.”
The gurney, with our patient lying upon it, was slid into the back of the awaiting ambulance.
With lights flashing and sirens wailing, the vehicle headed off toward the main gate.
I dropped the medical kit into the trunk of the golf cart.
Natalie caught up with me. “They picked up their speed. What happened?”
“I think she might have TSS.” I took the oxygen from her and placed that into the trunk.
Natalie’s gaze followed the ambulance. “Good catch if it is. We’ll follow up later and see how she’s doing.” She climbed into the driver’s side of the cart. “Good job, Piper.”
I sat next to her and reached for the handrail.
She turned to face me. “Ed wanted me to ask you a favor. Can you work Sunday morning for him? It’s his anniversary and he completely forgot and booked himself for a shift.”
I hesitated, realizing it was the day of the Oscars.
“You’d be doing him the most amazing favor. I’m covering the afternoon shift for him.” She nudged my arm. “He’s promised to repay us with a box of Dunkin’ Donuts.”
“Sure,” I said, doubting it was the right answer but wanting to help out Ed.
“Awesome. I’ll call him as soon as we get back.” She steered the golf cart away from the Valentino building.
My life felt like an Adele album.
CHAPTER 15
Resident Hero - Day 59 OF 60
Call Time: 10:00 am
Shooting Call: 10:45 am
Weather: Sunny
Location: Stage 9
Getting a message to a lead actor wasn’t going to be easy.
All morning I’d been practicing what I was going to say to Jamie, trying to come up with a good excuse and avoid mentioning the real reason so as not to alarm him and make things more complicated.
Strolling through the elephant door with the medical kit slung over my right shoulder, and my stethoscope flung around my neck, I hoped to convey I was actually meant to be here. When I headed across Stage 9, the staff merely gave me a passing glance. The lighting and rigging technicians, otherwise known as grips, pushed numerous dollies, tracks and cranes, revealing they were moving onto their next shot.
Although having only been at the studio for a few weeks, I’d quickly learned much of the industry’s unique language, such as calling the last shot of the day a martini. Apparently because the next shot was going to be a real martini out of a glass. If the director called out to an actor that he wanted a banana, he wasn’t actually asking the professionally trained artist to bring him a piece of fruit, but rather wanting him to walk along a curved path during a scene so as not to block the action behind. It felt good to understand the lingo. I too belonged to this secret club now.
Careful to avoid tripping over any of the many cables strewn across the stage floor, I headed toward the center of activity.
There, holding an open script and leaning casually against the back of an operating room table, was Jamie Hale. He was dressed in blue scrubs and a white doctor’s coat. He chatted away with P.A. Sally Graham. Sally broke into laughter, throwing her head back dramatically, and Jamie reacted with delight.
I hesitated, sensing this was a bad time.
Tension tightened in my throat. I’d unwittingly stepped into his line of sight. Slowly, I took a step backward, and then another, hoping not to be seen.
“Piper.” Jamie called out.
“Oh hello,” I said, stopping abruptly, compelled to call over to him ‘fancy seeing you here.’ Then I remembered this was his set.
Jamie jogged over to me. “Making a house call?”
I nodded. “Yes, all better now.”
He scanned the stage. “Someone hurt?”
“No, just minor.” I hated lying but the truth sucked.
“If Sarah’s having another allergic reaction to her latex gloves, let’s leave them on this time.” He beamed a cheeky grin.
My laugh sounded panicked. I went quiet and watched Jamie’s face to see if he’d caught my strange outburst.
“You’ve done something to your hair,” he said. “I like it.”
Actually I hadn’t, but the idea that Jamie Hale was interested in me enough to mention it gave me goose bumps.
Girl get a grip. He’s only an actor for goodness sake, not a war hero, or an advocate for the less privileged, or an Oscar winning superstar...
Like the one heading right toward me--
George Clooney was closing in. If he’d been a great white shark, his fin would have sliced through the water with astonishing speed, removing any doubt he was aiming for us. George’s face darkened with intensity. I spun around and ducked behind the first prop I saw, a large fake tree that could pass for real. My heart beat was so fast that it thundered in my ears. Kneeling, I pretended to be searching for something I’d dropped on the ground. I rested the kit beside me.
George started up a conversation with Jamie. From between the greenest leaves, I watched George hold up his script for Jamie to see. He pointed to a page. Jamie nodded in agreement to whatever George was saying, his head cocked to the side, listening. My radio squealed and I fumbled with the knob.
Braving to glance up, I saw Jamie peering down at me, his arms folded, his thoughtful face regarding me. To my relief, George headed off in the opposite direction.
Jamie knelt beside me, his left hand grabbing the base of the tree to steady himself. “Lose something?”
“There it is,” I said, feigning picking something up. “Pesky contact lens.” I winked several times as though peeking through one lens.
“Got a spare?” he asked.
“Spare?”
“That one’s been on the floor.”
I pretended to slip it into my pocket. “Still, I can see fine without it.”
“Then why have them?”
I pointed at him in agreement, struggling for my next sentence that was painfully out of reach.
“Have you decided about your hair?”
“Um...?”
“Up or down?”
I’d been so frantic about getting the dress, my hair hadn’t even crossed my mind. “Something came up,” I burst out. “I have to work now and can’t make it. Sorry.”
Jamie’s face fell.
“I know you’re going to have thousands of other candidates lined up around the block to go with you.” I swept
my hand through the air to better make my point. There, that was easy. Now all I had to do was get off this stage and get back to work.
I waved a show of thanks for his time and lifted my radio to my ear as though the chatter may pertain to something I needed to know about.
Jamie reached out, grabbed my arm, and guided me into an empty office.
To avoid Jamie’s intense stare that was locked on me like an Exocet missile, I looked around the room. The right wall was missing. Despite this the oak table, swivel chair, and bookcase lined with textbooks could have easily been mistaken for a real medical administrator’s study.
Jamie let me go. “Has someone told you something about me?”
“No,” I said, wondering if there was a big revelation coming.
I tried to reign in my imagination.
“The tabloids lie, Piper,” he said. “Please don’t tell me you believe everything you read?”
“I don’t read that stuff. I may glance at the covers when checking out at Rome’s, mainly because it’s so boring, but I don’t purchase them.” I paused with a thoughtful face. “Have you seen how many adverts there are in those things?”
He looked dumbfounded.
“I have to go now,” my voice wobbled.
Although I was only working the morning shift on Sunday, Jamie didn’t need to know that. I was such a bad liar thanks to my Catholic upbringing, with the ever looming threat of confession.
“Can’t you swap the shift?” he asked. “Surely someone will help you out. Piper, we’re talking the Oscars!”
“Impossible I’m afraid.”
He removed a pen from his top white jacket pocket and scribbled onto the corner of his script. “In case you change your mind.” He ripped it off and handed it to me. “My number.”
“I won’t change my mind.”
“You might.”
“You’d have found a replacement by then.”
His narrowed gaze settled on me. “Maybe I’ll go alone this year.”
I tucked the piece of paper into my scrub pocket. “You’ll have a slew of women to pick from. Why, your little black book is probably chock full of numbers.” I tilted my head, trying to prevent my expression from becoming an ugly cringe.
“I don’t have a little black book.”
Piper Day's Ultimate Guide To Avoiding George Clooney Page 14
