"I... I think so." I tried wiggling my fingers, arms, legs. I stopped at legs. Pain shot up my left one making me yelp like a puppy. I slowly propped myself up on my elbows and looked down. The yellow sports car was hovering just over my lower half. It was so shiny-new that it was still minus license plates and had a bright chrome mustang attached to the hood. The only thing marring its new car perfection was the big ugly dent in the front fender.
I didn't even want to see what my leg looked like.
The Mustang's door flew open and the driver stepped out. Or, I should say, wedged herself out. I was fully ready to unleash the wrath of a sexually frustrated blonde who's had her nacho buzz ruined until I got a good look at her. She was at least 300 pounds and wearing a bright green and pink muumuu, Birkenstocks, and a shade of eye shadow that would make Marilyn Manson cringe.
I did a mental forehead smack.
Mrs. Rosenblatt.
Mrs. Rosenblatt was my mother's best friend, a five-time divorcee (always on the look out for Mr. Six) who talked to the dead through her spirit guide, Albert. I know. Only in L.A. Then again, I wasn't sure I should pass judgment so quickly. By the looks of the new car, the psychic business must not be doing all that poorly these days.
"Oh my word, Maddie, I didn't see you here, honey. It's this new stick shift thingie. I got no idea how to work it. You'd think a body pays enough for a car like that the thing would drive itself. Oh, lordy, your Mom's gonna kill me. I was on my way to meet her at Fernando's. Honey, can you move? Can you speak? Do you need a doctor? How many fingers am I holding up?"
I blinked. "Fifteen."
"She needs a doctor. Someone call a doctor!"
I let my head fall back on the pavement again while Dana dug a cell out of her purse and Mrs. R made me take deep breaths and count backwards from ten. I'm pretty sure that was the standard routine for someone who'd ingested too many margaritas, not a woman who'd been hit by a car, but that moment I wasn't in a position to argue. At least the counting kept my mind off the pain, now slowly spreading up my thigh and settling into a throbbing rhythm as the shock wore off.
Ten minutes later our little crowd had grown to include half the people in Beverly Hills, or so it seemed as the paramedics fought their way through the looky-loos and eyed my legs. I was infinitely glad that I'd shaved them that morning.
The taller paramedic, a dark haired guy with freckles, crouched down beside me and gingerly wiggled my left leg.
I saw stars and thought I might faint.
"This doesn't look good," Freckles said. "It looks like it could be broken."
Great. Some women cruise Beverly and go home with a pair of Jimmy Choos. I go home with a broken leg.
"Are you sure?" I whimpered.
"Not until we can get X-rays. Can you wiggle your toes?"
I concentrated on wiggling.
"The left toes."
"I am wiggling the left toes."
Freckles and the other paramedic shared a look, then he frowned down at my leg again. "Nope. Not good. We're going to have to cut this boot off."
"No!" I sat straight up. "I'm fine. It's getting better. Really. I'm okay. No need to touch the boots. Look, I can just unzip it here," I reached down and started to unzip. Bad idea. Pain shot up my leg and the crowd began to swim before my eyes. I dropped the zipper and took a deep breath, trying not to vomit my nachos all over the sidewalk.
"Ma'am, your leg is swollen. It could be broken. We're going to have to cut the boot off."
"Do you have any idea what you're saying? These are Gucci! I had to design three pairs of Disney princess water shoes to pay for these."
Freckles exchanged another look with his partner. "Ma'am, you're in shock. Please lie still."
"No, wait. I think I feel the swelling going down already. Just give me a minute. I'm sure I can get the zipper down."
"Ma'am, don't make us strap you down."
"Wait! Please, I... I... Dana?" I appealed to my friend, giving her my best helpless face. (Which, since I was currently pinned beneath a muscle car, wasn't all too difficult.)
Dana bit her lip. "Geeze, Maddie, it looks really bad. Maybe you better just let them cut it."
I thunked my head back down on the pavement. What else could I do? I shut my eyes, trying not to cry as I felt Freckles pull out a pair of scissors and desecrate my Gucci's.
* * *
"Three months?" I blinked at the on-call doctor in her white coat, thick glasses and messy ponytail. Praying I had heard her wrong. Unfortunately, since I haven't been to mass since last Easter, it was no surprise that God completely ignored me.
"Three months." The tight-lipped doctor nodded her head, consulting the manila folder in her hands. She was sans makeup and her thick, brown hair was pulled back from her face in a ponytail so tight it made her eyes crease. "You've got a tibial shaft fracture. You're going to need to wear the cast for at least three months to give the bones time to set. After that, we can discuss a regimen of physical therapy. Keep your weight off it and keep it elevated whenever possible to reduce swelling, especially in the first 48 hours."
I looked down at the big, blue, foam boot covering my left leg from my very unmanicured toes all the way to hemline. From the knee down I looked like a bloated Smurf.
After slitting my Gucci right up the middle, the paramedics had whisked me away in their ambulance to the nearest hospital of my insurance company's choosing. Mrs. R had insisted on riding along, seeing as how she felt responsible and all. (I didn't point out that's because she actually was responsible.)
After waiting a mere thirty-five minutes in a tiny white room at the back of the ER, a nurse had wheeled me to X-ray, where they'd twisted my leg into all sorts of uncomfortable positions to take black and whites. Then I'd been wheeled back to the sterile room to wait while the on-call doctor reviewed my films. Which had taken another forty minutes. All of them spent listening to the teenagers in the room next door puke their guts out after easting bad sushi at the Westwood mall.
That was about the point where I told Dana I was fine and she should just go to her audition. She argued a little at first (because I was clearly not fine), but I knew how much she wanted that street walker part. Besides, there wasn't anything she could really do to help.
Now, though, surrounded by Mrs. R's Birkenstocks and Doctor Ponytail's loafers, I was kind of wishing I had an ally who understood just how badly this boot was going to clash with my entire wardrobe for, apparently, the next three months.
"What about showers? Can she take the thing off to shower?" Mrs. Rosenblatt asked. "My fourth husband, Lenny, broke his arm once and he couldn't shower for two whole months. I tell ya', that sucker started smelling pretty ripe by the time they cut it off him. I think Lenny was starting to mildew a little."
I heard myself whimper.
"Baths would be preferable, and, no, no taking the boot off to bathe. You'll have to wrap it in plastic and stick it outside the tub."
I did another whimper.
"I'm going to prescribe you some pills for the pain," she continued, scribbling in my chart. Then she turned to a cabinet behind her and pulled out a pair of tall, metal crutches. "You'll need to use these to get around. They're a little awkward at first but trust me, you'll get used to them," she said, adjusting the height.
I took them, sticking one under each arm. Great. Not only was I a Smurf, now I was Tiny Tim.
The doctor looked down at my one good Gucci and a frown settled between her un-plucked eyebrows. "And I'd suggest saying away from high heels until the fracture stabilizes."
"Hold on!" I put one hand up. "What do you mean 'stay away from heels?'"
"Besides the difficulty balancing, the elevated position of the other foot puts too much stress on the injured leg. Flats only for the next three months." And with that Ponytail left the room, still scribbling.
I stared after her, my mouth hanging open, tears starting to form behind my eyes. No heels for three months? Could this day get any wor
se?
As if to answer my question, the door flew open again.
"Oh, my poor baby!"
I looked up to see my mother burst into the room, head down, arms out, tackling me for a rib crusher hug.
"Oh my baby, are you all right?"
"I'm fine." Sort of.
"I came as soon as Mrs. Rosenblatt called. Oh my poor baby, you could have been killed!"
"It's the damned clutch," Mrs. R said. "Too many pedals down there. I couldn't figure which one to press when. They need less pedals in them sports cars."
"Mom, I can't breathe."
"Oh, sorry," Mom stepped back. And for the first time I got a good look at her outfit.
I love my mother dearly, but let's just say I'm glad I didn't inherit her fashion sense. Today she was dressed in a pair of skinny jeans (clearly made for someone three sizes skinnier than her), a blouse covered in tiny white ruffles and a pair of black L.A. Gear high-tops formerly seen on M.C. Hammer circa 1989. She topped it all off with a shade of lipstick I could only describe as neon magenta and blue eye shadow that reached all the way to her plucked eyebrows. When I was fifteen I sent applications to Oprah, Ricky Lake, and Jenny Jones hoping one of them would take Mom on their "Please give my mother a make-over" shows. No such luck. These days, I usually just cringed in silence.
Mom looked down at my blue boot. "How bad is it honey?"
"Not that bad," I said bravely. Okay, fine. It wasn't courage, it was denial.
"You know, they make some very stylish sneakers these days," my mom said. I looked down at her high-tops. And felt tears well behind my eyes again.
"Ballet flats!" Mrs. R piped up. "They're all the rage. Last weekend I was doing aura readings down at Venice Beach and all the young kids were wearing them."
I sniffled back the tears. "You think so?"
"Sure. You'll be just as pretty as a peach in them."
I sighed. "Paris just won't be the same without heels."
"Oh, well there's no way you can go to Paris now," Mom said, still inspecting my boot.
"Whoa!" I held both hands up in front of me. Which, of course, made my crutches immediately slip out of my armpits and clatter to the floor. "I am totally still going to Paris."
"Maddie, you can't even walk!"
"I have crutches."
Mom looked down at the floor. Then back up at me, raising one eyebrow.
"What? The doctor said I'd get used to them."
"Maddie, you can't possibly go to a foreign country like this. Honey, what about your luggage? And traveling through the airports? And customs? How will you even get around?"
I bit my lip. "I'll manage." Somehow.
I'll admit though, she had a point. The more I thought about trying to navigate my way through LAX, let alone the French airports, while wearing Wonder Boot, the more my leg throbbed, my head started to hurt, and I really started jonsing for another comforting nacho platter.
But I was damned if one little Nerf boot was keeping me from Fashion Week.
"Look, I've already committed to do this. Jean Luc is counting on me. I'm supposed to fly out this weekend. There's no way I can back out now."
Mom pursed her lips, her arms crossing over her chest as she gave me a good long stare. "All right, fine."
I did an internal sigh of relief. "Thank you."
"Then I'm going with you."
"What?!"
"Maddie, there's no way I'm letting my baby fly all the way to Paris all by herself with a broken leg. If you're so intent on going, then I'm going, too."
"But, Mom-"
"Well then I'm coming too," Mrs. Rosenblatt piped up.
I tuned to her, my mouth falling open. "What?!" This could not be happening. Again I got that out-of-body feeling like my life was spiraling out of control into some late night TV farce.
"I feel responsible. After all it was my car," Mrs. R said.
"Besides," Mom chimed in, "I've always wanted to visit Paris. The museums, the shops..."
"The Eiffel Tower," Mrs. R added.
"Oh, the Eiffel Tower! Oh, think how much fun this will be, Maddie," Mom said, grabbing my hand. "It'll be like a girl's night out. Only in Paris!"
Last time Mom and I had had a girl's night out, she'd dragged me to a karaoke club where we'd spent the evening sipping watery tap beer and listening to overweight businessmen butcher Diana Ross songs.
"No. No, no, no, no." I shook my head, a sudden headache matching the throbbing in my leg. "Look, I'm a grown woman. I can take care of myself. I'll get a skycap to help with the bags. They have bellboys in Paris. I'll be fine. I'm an adult and I can take care of myself."
"Oh honey," Mom said, tilting her head to the side and giving me the same look she gave me when I was five and told her I was running away from home to join the circus. "Don't be ridiculous."
Mental forehead smack.
* * *
There are few truly unstoppable forces in nature. Tornadoes, hurricanes, an unexpected shift of the San Andreas fault line. And - you guessed it - my mother.
Which is why, one week later, as I hobbled through the front doors of the Plaza Athenee in Paris, France, I had a pair of awkward metal crutches shoved under my armpits and a pair of middle aged women flanking my sides.
"Oh my God, Maddie, would you take a look at this place?" Mom's mouth gaped open.
"It's like where them rock stars stay," Mrs. Rosenblatt said. "I bet Gwen Stefani stays here."
"I bet the queen stays here."
"I bet this is gonna max out my Visa."
They were right. The place was amazing. The floors were a pale taupe marble beneath a sparkling crystal chandelier that was larger than my bathroom. Bright red fresh cut flowers hung from tall pillars that flanked the lobby, and the walls were done in delicately painted frescoes of wildflowers and serene lakes. The entire place felt opulent, glamorous, and oh so very French.
Okay, so I was here with two postmenopausal chaperones. But I was here. In Paris. Despite the eleven hour flight, I couldn't help a goofy grin from cracking my face.
"Puis-je vous aider?" a man behind the counter asked as we approached. He was in his fifties, tall and slim with a large nose and receding hairline exposing a shiny dome of a forehead.
"I don't know what he said," Mrs. Rosenbaltt commented, "but he sure looked good saying it." She gave me a suggestive elbow in the ribs.
The dome went red and his eyes hit the floor. "Ah, Americans," he said quickly, switching to English. "And how may I help you lovely young ladies?"
Mrs. Rosenblatt snorted. "We're young ladies," she said to Mom. Mom giggled.
I handed over my credit card. "Maddie Springer. And entourage," I added, glancing over my shoulder.
"Don't mind us, we're just here to sightsee," Mom said, waving me off.
"You, ah, got any recommendations where two young ladies could have a good time there, Pierre?" Mrs. R licked her lips and leaned suggestively on the counter, her bright orange muumuu dipping down to expose a pair of breasts that gravity hadn't been kind to.
The clerk cleared his throat, going a deeper shade of crimson. "Pardon moi, mademoiselle, but the name is actually Andre."
"Really? 'Cause you look like a Pierre to me. Must be that sexy French accent of yours."
Andre suddenly became engrossed in his computer screen. "Ah, yes, we have two rooms on the 15th floor. Adjoining."
"Oh, this is going to be so much fun, Maddie," Mom squeaked, giving my arm a squeeze. "It'll be like one big slumber party."
"Uh, do you have anything maybe not so adjoining?" I asked.
But unfortunately Andre was currently hypnotized by Mrs. R running her tongue suggestively over her lipstick stained teeth. I admit, it was kind of like a car wreck - hideously unreal yet impossible to turn away.
"So, what time do you get off work, Pierre?" Mrs. R asked.
The clerk gulped. "Uh, rooms 702 and 704. Enjoy your stay." He quickly slid the card keys across the marble counter, then scurried of
f to help the next customer.
"I think he kinda liked me," Mrs. R said.
"I think you kinda scared him."
"Oh, Maddie, we're in Paris! This is going to be so fun!" Mom squeezed my arm again and steered me toward the elevators.
Visions of Karaoke in French flashed before my eyes.
Thankfully Mom and Mrs. R decided to take a nap in their suite before going out for an afternoon of sightseeing. I left them at their door, promising to call once I got safely to the site of Jean Luc's tent.
I slipped my keycard in the door, stepped into my room, and suddenly felt like I'd entered a dollhouse. A white, four poster bed sat in the middle, draped in bright yellow floral patterns and piled high with about a million pillows. Beneath the window sat a long chaise and on the far side of the room, a lovely antique bureau next to a small writing desk. The room was feminine, bursting with ruffles and had Paris written all over it. I loved it.
I immediately went to the window overlooking the city and craned for a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. But, while I could see clear to the mountains, there was sadly no tower in sight. Clearly not an Eiffel view room.
I didn't stop to unpack, instead quickly changing into a breezy red, spaghetti strap sundress I'd bought at French Boutique on Melrose, a white shrug sweater and red and white polka dotted ballet flats (okay, one ballet flat and one ugly blue boot) before grabbing my purse and heading out to find a cab to Le Carrousel du Louvre - site of Jean Luc's show. Fashion Week, here I come!
* * *
If you've never been backstage at a fashion show, there are few things in life that can compare to it. The excitement, the energy, the sheer chaos. And while Jean Luc's show wasn't scheduled for another week, as I neared the white tent with the words "Le Croix" painted in bold, black letters, the air was already electric with anticipation and the chaos was in full swing. Men in white coveralls converged on piles of lumber that in just a few short days would be transformed into runways the world would be watching to learn what they'd be wearing this season. Reporters with cameras slung around their necks stood in the corners, interviewing anyone who'd stand still. And models, tall, slim almost inhumanly beautiful creatures, were everywhere. Sipping water bottles, smoking slim, brown cigarettes, and strutting their impossibly long legs in impossibly beautiful couture.
Alibi in High Heels Page 2
