by Peg Cochran
Gigi tried not to look as interested as she felt. “What did Mr. Simpson say about that?”
“He told her it was high time she changed managers no matter how much history she and Mr. Bartholomew had.”
• • •
As Gigi pulled out of the parking lot, she thought about the word history and wondered what Madeline meant by that. Romantic history? Business history? Family history? She suspected a combination of the two former. She needed to learn more about Don Bartholomew. Alex Goulet, Felicity’s leading man, came to mind. He’d been on the soap almost as long as Felicity had. But what pretext could she use to see him, let alone engage him in conversation?
She thought about it as she drove along aimlessly, turning this way and that, enjoying the bright colors of the leaves and the crisp autumn smells coming in her open window. But, as the old adage had it, “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
As Gigi drove, her mind turned toward the new recipe she was working on for Branston Foods. That’s when the idea struck her, and she nearly hit the old elm tree on the corner of High Street and Beacon Road. She would ask Alex for dinner under the pretext of having him sample her new recipe and giving an unbiased opinion. Sort of like a one-person focus group.
Gigi pulled into the nearest driveway and dug out her cell phone. She saw the lace curtain in the front window of the house twitch and braced herself for some homeowner to come out and ask her what she was doing. She punched in the number of Felicity’s house and was relieved when Anja answered on the second ring. It took a couple of precious seconds to explain to Anja that she wanted to speak to Alex, who was, by last account, still staying at Felicity’s house.
Alex finally came on the line, and Gigi outlined her proposal. She could tell by the slightly oily tone of his voice that he thought she was coming on to him. What have I gotten myself into? Gigi thought as she reversed out of the drive just as the front door opened and an older woman emerged. She gestured at Gigi, but by then Gigi had the car in drive and was pulling away.
Chapter 12
Gigi stood in her kitchen amidst a stack of notebooks, cookbooks, magazines, notes and all sorts of other things. Normally her kitchen was her retreat, the place she went when she needed to be soothed or wanted to relax. But this time it wasn’t working. She failed to take comfort in the sunlight spilling through the window and casting a rainbow of colors on her glass cabinet doors, or the faint scent of herbs and spices that perfumed the air.
She slumped at the kitchen table, a mug of lukewarm tea in her hand, and wondered for the second time what on earth she had gotten herself into. Inviting Alex Goulet to dinner? What was she thinking? Women threw themselves at him wherever he went. He probably thought she was doing the same.
Gigi straightened her shoulders, put on her most stoic face and went back to her recipes. She was slightly behind in recipe development for Branston Foods, and this was a wonderful opportunity to preview one of her dishes and get some feedback. She tried to concentrate on that thought as she scrolled through the dishes she had already created.
Men usually liked a meal that felt substantial even if it was low in calories. That usually meant meat, preferably beef. With the colder touch to the air, a stew would be a welcome entrée. She would use a very lean cut of meat, plenty of vegetables to bulk up the stew, and plenty of fresh herbs, particularly thyme, for a real blast of flavor. She would give Alex some crusty bread to sop up the gravy since he wasn’t actually on a diet, and she’d make a fruit compote for dessert. Alex could have his over a slice of angel food cake.
Gigi got busy and within minutes had forgotten all about her attack of nerves. She measured, stirred and sautéed her heart out. Finally the stew was bubbling softly on the stove, and she leaned forward and took a long, deep sniff. She could smell the earthiness of the mushrooms, the freshness of the thyme she’d picked herself from a pot on the windowsill, the richness of the garlic and onions. She closed her eyes in rapture. If this didn’t win Alex over, nothing would.
The clock struck five, and Gigi realized she had barely enough time to dash into the shower, slap on some makeup and get dressed. She would take Madeline a container of the stew and compote for her dinner and then race back to be ready to greet Alex.
As Gigi lathered up in the shower, she auditioned ways she could broach the topic of Don with Alex. They all seemed contrived. She would have to hope for on-the-spot inspiration. Like those lightbulb moments in the comics.
• • •
Gigi made it back to her cottage as the clock ticked over to six. There was no sign of Alex’s sports car, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She fiddled with the table settings and momentarily wished she’d asked someone else to join them. Sienna and Oliver, for example. But would that have been worse? Would it have looked more like a dinner party and less like a strange sort of gourmet focus group? At any rate, it was too late now.
Gigi had fallen asleep and was slumped comfortably in her old armchair when the bell rang. She glanced quickly at the clock. It was already after seven P.M. Alex was very, very fashionably late.
Gigi pulled open the front door and took a step backward. Alex was clutching a bunch of tissue-wrapped flowers. He wore a black velvet smoking jacket with a paisley print silk ascot. His costume put Gigi in mind of that line from countless old movies, uttered by the leading femme fatale: Let me slip into something more comfortable. There certainly wouldn’t be any of that tonight, no matter what Alex Goulet had in mind!
Things started out well enough. They enjoyed a drink in the living room, Gigi on the sofa and Alex in her armchair, his long legs stretched out in front of him, drink balanced on his flat stomach. He was actually quite interesting and knew a lot about theater history and a fair amount about cooking. Gigi suddenly became nervous about the meal she’d prepared and had to remind herself that she hadn’t really invited Alex for his opinion.
Every time she thought there was an opportunity to introduce Don, Alex would veer away onto a different topic. Gigi refilled his glass twice before it was time to serve her stew.
Alex tucked the linen napkin into the open collar of his shirt and prepared to dig in. Gigi ladled out steaming bowls of heavenly smelling stew and cut them each a chunk of crusty French bread.
“Butter?” She pushed the dish across the table toward Alex.
“Oh, this is delicious.” He closed his eyes in delight. “Absolutely delicious. You did say this was low calorie?”
Gigi nodded. She could feel the grin spreading across her face. No matter how much cooking she did, she still relished compliments.
“I can’t believe you can cook like this and”—Alex looked around Gigi’s tidy cottage—“you don’t have a man hidden somewhere.”
Gigi cursed the blush that rose automatically to her face.
“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, you know.”
Gigi hastened to change the subject. “What’s going to happen on the show in light of Felicity’s . . . death.”
Alex tore off a piece of bread and swiped it across his now empty bowl. “Felicity will be written out. And Vanessa will be written in. They’ve been waiting forever to do that as it is. Felicity’s fans are the only thing that have kept her alive.” He paused for a moment. “No pun intended.”
Gigi cleared her throat. This was it. Her big opening. Time to go for broke. “Isn’t it up to her agent to see that she keeps her job?”
Alex stretched. “How about we take the rest of that excellent Bordeaux you’ve been plying me with and get comfortable in the living room?”
Gigi’s first thought was to scream No, but she reined in that impulse and grabbed the bottle of wine instead. Alex took her glass and his, and she followed him meekly into the other room. He sat down on the sofa, extremely close to the dividing line between the two sides and waggled his eyebrows at Gigi.
She thought of the expression “Think of England” and plopped down next to him but still as far away as she could
manage.
Alex held his glass out for a refill. Gigi obliged and he held it by the stem, twirling it around and around between his fingers. “Don and Felicity go way back,” he began. “Before she met Mr. Wall Street, Jack Winchel.” He made a face. “They were starting out together, and you could almost say they made each other’s careers. But Felicity got bigger and bigger, and Don effectively went nowhere. He was content to tie his string to her kite and ride the air with her instead of looking for more clients to develop to beef up his stable.” Alex took a sip of his wine. “He did sign a few people here and there, but none of them could hold a candle to Felicity.” He stopped for a moment and stared, lost in thought. “Until Vanessa.”
Alex shifted in his seat, and Gigi remained still and silent, not wanting to break his train of thought. He seemed to have forgotten she was there.
“The faster Vanessa’s star ascended, the faster Felicity’s descended. Poor Don.” He laughed. “He was being pulled in two different directions. He wisely decided that Vanessa was the way to go and somehow managed to talk her into an affair.” Alex rubbed his chin. “Although I’m sure there was something in it for Vanessa as well. That girl doesn’t do anything that doesn’t benefit her in one way or another.”
“But he still represented Felicity?” Gigi put her wineglass down. She needed to keep a clear head.
Alex nodded. “He wasn’t going to give up until the bitter end.” He looked momentarily startled, as if he’d suddenly realized what he’d said. “But his heart wasn’t in it. Personally, I thought he got Felicity a bum deal with this last contract. She still had a strong fan base; he could certainly have done much better by her.”
“Did Felicity realize that?”
“Hell, yes.” Alex sat bolt upright. “She was furious with him and threatened to fire him.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how he convinced her not to. Maybe she looked around and realized the pickings were slim. She’s not . . . I mean she wasn’t the star she used to be.”
Gigi thought about that for a moment. Maybe Don had felt the only solution was to murder Felicity and cash in on that policy?
Gigi suspected she’d gotten about all she was going to get out of Alex and looked around for a way to gracefully end the evening. Alex was permanently settled on her sofa, his long legs stretched out, his posture completely relaxed, his wineglass still half full.
Gigi feigned a yawn. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”
Alex looked startled. “Of course, you’re absolutely right.”
Gigi breathed a sigh of relief that her not-so-subtle hint had hit its mark.
“What you need is a back rub.” Alex sat up straight and put down his wineglass. “Turn around,” he commanded.
Gigi wanted to protest, but some part of her, probably the part that went to Catholic school and was used to taking orders, obeyed without her consent and she found herself receiving a back rub from soap star Alex Goulet. It was a position many women would give their all to be in. Unfortunately, Gigi wasn’t one of them.
It did feel good, though. She found it hard not to relax under his strong but soothing touch. She allowed herself to enjoy it for another minute before squirming away.
“It is getting late,” she said as firmly as she could.
“True.” Alex winked, and Gigi watched in alarm as he slid out of his jacket and untied his ascot.
“What are you doing?”
“Don’t you think it’s time you slipped into something more comfortable?”
“What!” Gigi was surprised to find Alex echoing the very words that had run through her mind earlier. “No!”
“Surely you know how these scenes play out.”
“What do you mean?”
Reg must have recognized the tone of Gigi’s voice because he gave a low, serious growl.
“It’s like this, darling.” Alex put his hands on Gigi’s shoulders. “We smooch for a few minutes, and then we walk arm-in-arm toward your bedroom . . .” He glanced around as if trying to ascertain where that was. “And then the camera focuses in on our two wineglasses sitting companionably side-by-side on the table, and then”—he made a circular motion with his finger—“fade to black.”
“Unfortunately this isn’t a movie or a television episode,” Gigi said as she wiggled away from his embrace. “It’s real life.”
Alex lunged toward Gigi, and she couldn’t help it, she let out a scream. That set Reg barking in earnest, and he managed to knock over a lamp just as the front doorbell rang.
Alex and Gigi stared at each other for a moment. Alex shot his cuffs and picked up his jacket and ascot. “I guess I’ll be going,” he said stiffly as he followed Gigi to the front door.
She yanked it open to find Detective Mertz standing on her doorstep.
He and Alex stared at each other for a very long minute, then Alex sidled past Mertz and hotfooted it down the path to his waiting sports car.
Mertz watched him go, then turned on his heel and took the same path—only he headed toward the spotless Crown Vic parked neatly at the curb.
Gigi stood at the door until both cars had departed, kicking up dust in their haste down the street. Then she slammed the door so hard that the picture of Nauset Beach on her foyer wall jumped off the nail and crashed to the ground.
• • •
Gigi spent another fitful night and woke with dark circles under her eyes and a headachy feeling that might have been from the wine, but she suspected it was more from tossing and turning all night long.
She made herself a good breakfast that left very little cleanup—a ziplock-bag omelet loaded with chopped onions, mushrooms, peppers and shredded low-fat cheese. Everything, along with two eggs, went into the bag, which she then sealed carefully and plunged into boiling water. By the time she was out of the shower, it was ready, and she rolled a delicious-looking omelet onto her plate. She had put together a second batch—this time in a bag especially created for use in the microwave—which she would deliver to Madeline at her office. All Madeline would have to do would be to put it in the microwave for a mere two minutes, and she would have hot, fresh eggs for her breakfast.
Gigi had another, singularly unpleasant task ahead of her this morning: letting Winchel know that his check had bounced and needed to be replaced.
She thought about it as she dropped off Madeline’s breakfast and then turned the car toward Felicity’s house. She didn’t relish the upcoming confrontation. She was a little afraid of Jack Winchel. He had that effect on people, and she was quite certain he worked hard to cultivate it. She remembered reading about him in the gossip columns when he first started dating Felicity. He’d been burned by his first wife’s desertion, and speculation was that he wanted a trophy wife spectacular enough to wipe the smirks off his competitors’ faces. He’d certainly found that in Felicity. She’d been younger then, and even more beautiful, and she was a well-known actress to boot. At one time or another, almost everyone had seen at least one episode of For Better or For Worse.
Gigi passed the Book Nook, and her thoughts turned to Sienna. She and Sienna were the same age—they’d been roommates in college and had stuck together all four years since neither had elected to join a sorority. Gigi couldn’t afford it, and Sienna was too independent. If Sienna was considered a dinosaur when it came to maternity, then Gigi was from the same era. And she didn’t even have a man on the horizon. Well, actually, she had two. But one had already announced himself as being after nothing more than a good time, and while the other seemed more the marrying type, Gigi still had no idea how he felt about her. Which left her back at square one with her biological clock ticking and no appropriate man in sight.
Gigi turned into Felicity’s driveway and pulled up in front of the house. Anja answered her knock. She gave Gigi a timid smile and stood aside as Gigi entered.
“What are you doing here?” Anja said.
“I need to speak to Mr. Winchel,” Gigi said as she pulled off her gloves.
Anja rai
sed an eyebrow. “He is on the phone,” she whispered. “I would suggest you wait in the kitchen. He does not like to be disturbed when he is making important calls.”
How did Anja know it was an important call? Gigi wondered as she headed down the hall. She supposed all of Winchel’s calls were important.
At first she thought the room was empty, but then she noticed that Vanessa, Felicity’s costar, was behind the open refrigerator door. Her hands were full, and she pushed the door shut with her hip.
“Good heavens,” Gigi exclaimed. “What are you making?”
“A protein shake,” Vanessa answered succinctly. She carried her load to the kitchen island and dropped it somewhat unceremoniously. A bright red Gala apple rolled down the counter and stopped short of the edge.
The top was off the blender, and Vanessa had obviously already added some sort of powder to the container. Gigi assumed it was protein powder.
Gigi hoped Alex was safely out of the house somewhere. She couldn’t imagine why he didn’t go back to New York and his own apartment. Had Mertz forbidden them to leave?
Gigi was at the kitchen table when Don burst into the kitchen.
“I knew you were here!” he exclaimed. “I recognized that little car of yours in the driveway.” Don stood squarely in front of Gigi, his feet slightly apart, arms at his side, fists clenched. He was wearing a pair of gray slacks, a cream-colored turtleneck and a sport coat. The ensemble went a long way toward hiding the spare tire around his middle, and Gigi wondered if he had chosen it for that reason. His rather fleshy face was bright red, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.
He was toe-to-toe with Gigi. She backed up, but he took another step forward. The absurd tango continued until her back was against the Aga, which was throwing off an uncomfortable amount of warmth.
“You had to go around asking questions about me, didn’t you?” Don asked, his face inches from Gigi’s.
“What?” She temporized, trying to inch away from Don’s bulk.
