“I apologize,” Heather said. “It’s that kind of day.”
“We should be going,” Diana said. “We’ve taken too much of your time.”
“I have a few more questions, if you don’t mind.” Heather reclaimed her seat, elbows on her knees. “So you’re the face of Anita Topaz. But Paris Ellison does the writing.”
Paris nodded. “Is that a problem for you?”
Heather’s expression was thoughtful. “It’s unorthodox.”
Diana said quickly, “My goal was to get her through this meeting and keep the door open on the idea of a feature film. That was one of the agenda items.”
A sharp knock on the door made Heather snap, “What now?”
The receptionist meekly poked her head in. “I’m sorry Ms. Reynard, but the hospital is trying to reach you.”
Going pale, Heather patted her pockets until she found her phone. She glanced at the display and said, “Damn.” She appeared to have forgotten anyone else was in the room as she put the phone to her ear.
The conversation was short and Paris knew what the news was before the phone slid out of Heather’s hand.
Whatever her feelings about Reynard were, she knew too well what Heather was feeling. The numbness, the desperate wish to turn back the clock, and the unfounded hope that somehow it was all a mistake. They’d called the wrong person, they’d mixed up the patients. Then the splintered acceptance that it was true and irrevocable.
“I have to call Artie,” Heather said through stiff lips before dissolving into tears. “Why did he make me come here today?”
“I’m so sorry, Heather. So very sorry.” Paris wasn’t sure how to offer comfort or if it was even wanted. She snatched a couple of tissues from the box on the coffee table and pressed them into Heather’s hands. Heather clasped them to her eyes, but they didn’t muffle the keen of grief. She slid out of the chair onto her knees and would have folded into a fetal ball had Paris not offered a shoulder for support.
She heard Diana behind her telling the receptionist to keep people out for a few minutes. Heather was rocking in Paris’s arms. Paris pushed back her own memories of grief and focused instead on Heather’s labored breathing. She gave every appearance of being a strong woman, but even strong women were once little girls who had loved a parent unconditionally.
It was a few minutes before Heather abruptly collected herself. She pushed Paris away and mopped at her face with fresh tissues. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
Heather gathered herself up enough to shakily return to the chair, head in her hands. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I let him talk me into coming here. I wasn’t there.”
Paris squeezed her hand. “You were doing what he thought mattered. I lost my mom suddenly, but I know it’s useless to say now that you’ll be able to move on.”
“I know that and I don’t believe it either.” She tried for a smile but it didn’t make it to her eyes. Turning her head away she said, “Where’s my phone?”
Paris found it on the floor and handed it over. Heather grabbed her hand and held on tight. So she perched on the arm of the chair and tried not to listen, which was impossible. It sounded like a prerecorded greeting.
“What a time to go to voice mail. It’s—” Her voice shook as she said after the beep, “It’s bad—have a look at the news. Don’t call back, just come to my office. As soon as you can.”
The door opened to admit an older woman even shorter than Diana. Her short kinked hair was beautifully white against her black skin and she had eyes Paris immediately compared to lasers. She glanced at Diana, then at Heather’s hand clutching Paris’s. Her expression said, “Who the hell are you people?” as she approached Heather protectively.
“Is there something I can do for you, Heather?”
Heather swallowed hard. “I guess—our shares are going slam down in the morning. Could you get someone into the press office to set up a twenty-four-seven liaison chain? Priority response to any financial reporter, business as usual, no major changes in store. You know the drill.”
“Already done.”
“Sorry. Of course it is. Thank you. This is Paris Ellison. She was at lunch with us yesterday.” She squeezed Paris’s hand but didn’t let go. “You know her better as Anita Topaz.”
The woman nodded an acknowledgment. “Claudia Lewis, corporate finance.”
“Sorry,” Heather said again. “I’m not tracking.”
“You don’t need to. Leave the worry about the stock price and financial news to me. Worry about more important things.” Claudia glanced again at Heather’s grasp on Paris’s hand.
Paris wasn’t sure what the long silence meant, then Heather took another tissue and wiped her eyes. “Would you find my assistant and send him in here. And I need you to personally tell security to let Artie into the building. There are…new rules.”
“As you say.” Claudia’s eyes sparkled with sudden tears. “It will be my pleasure.”
After the door closed behind Claudia, Heather rested her head against Paris’s arm. Her breathing still had a ragged edge. “Huh.”
“Did you need something?”
“So this is what freedom feels like.”
Paris hadn’t a clue what Heather was talking about so she looked to Diana for an explanation.
Diana was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The genuine need to visit the water closet was primarily why Diana had quietly stepped out of Reynard’s office. The hush over the outer office area was immediately noticeable, and a little creepy. The ceaseless chiming, chirping, and buzzing of phones nearly drowned out murmuring voices.
An ashen-faced woman silently pointed her toward the ladies’ room where she used the toilet, delaying as she washed her hands, tidied her hair, and added a touch of lipstick. She couldn’t make herself leave.
This much was true—Paris was a better person than Diana would ever be. No matter how Paris felt about Reynard, she had offered human comfort to his daughter when Diana had mutely stood there, trying not to show that she didn’t care that the man was dead. She hadn’t wanted him dead, but she couldn’t find a tear to shed about it. He’d pawed her and leered, and used his company as a hunting ground for women. How many other women had found him on the doorstep of their hotel rooms uninvited? What did it say about her as an actress that she couldn’t even pretend basic courtesy?
It wasn’t as if anyone had looked to her for a response, though. Heather had looked only as far as Paris.
It was that image of Paris and Heather that kept her from going back. They shared some kind of communal world, and had, somehow, recognized each other in a way Diana didn’t understand. She could only envy it as she stood outside looking in.
She didn’t realize she was crying until the tears spilled down her cheeks. She didn’t know why she was crying, either. Was this what desire and affection and attraction meant? Those were supposed to be good things—so why was her heart twisting in her chest?
The mirror was merciless. There was no escaping her increasingly red nose and puffy eyes. Like she had yesterday, after the final realization that she was deeply, wholly attracted to Paris, she searched her face for some kind of recognition.
Anita Topaz stared back at her.
Anita’s mascara was starting to run.
There were no witnesses as she worked the Anita Topaz wig off her scalp and scrubbed away the glue. Wouldn’t it help to see herself without the mask? Paris would never look in the mirror and not recognize herself, would she? She knew who she was. Heather knew who she was. That funny bartender Lisa absolutely knew who she was. All Diana knew how to do was pretend to be other people.
The wig went into the trash, followed by the false eyelashes and blue contact lenses. She scrubbed her face with the rough brown paper towels until her freckles stood out.
Not that she looked any less a stranger when she was done. What on earth did she have to offer Paris? Good sex? Endless anxiety? S
ooner or later the former wasn’t going to be enough to make the latter worth it. Diana was a trigger Paris should avoid. That didn’t add up to anything that could last.
A highlight reel of the numerous activities of last night and this morning ran through her head. She wanted all of that, again. Plus that moment this morning—only this morning—when she’d opened her eyes and saw Paris smiling at her, and smelled coffee, and felt a lingering satisfaction in every tranquil muscle and bone in her body. And thought that she was home, even though it was a strange hotel room in a country not her own.
She’s good for me, but I’m not good for her. She was going to end up being another curse that broke Paris’s spirit, another shadow in what should have been happy, carefree eyes. What use would Paris ever have for someone who had no training in anything except a sport she could no longer perform? Who dabbled in acting, and stole things because she’d found a way for two wrongs to make a right?
Another long, unhappy look made her turn her back to the mirror. She had no reason to linger. The play was over. The bubble was going to pop now or later.
Now was better for Paris.
She fished out another of the blank note cards they’d bought this morning and found a pen. In the reception area she took a seat long enough to use a magazine as a writing surface. The words were inadequate and so was the sorry she added at the end. With the envelope addressed to Paris care of Heather, she gave it to the distracted, frantic receptionist.
“I’d appreciate it—when Ms. Reynard is available. My friend is helping her and I need to leave.”
“Surely.” Any other day the receptionist might have realized that the woman in the red linen suit didn’t look the same, but she hardly glanced at Diana’s face.
The big city street was an assault to her ears. This morning she’d felt at home with her Anita Topaz mask providing armor against the furious waves of lorries and cars, buskers and tourists. What had Paris called it? A Storming the Office Building quest? She had nothing left for it now.
By the time she reached the hotel she felt battered and bewildered. This morning’s bellman didn’t recognize her, but when she offered up the claim tickets he released her bags. She was grateful that ordinary Diana was apparently quite forgettable.
She sat down in the lobby long enough to rifle through her carry-on for her passport and iPhone. She had no reason to care now about anyone being able to track her whereabouts. She thought for a long moment of simply moving uptown to a new hotel and hiding out from the world and herself for a few days. But that would be impossible. Her mother would not forgive her for missing her final dress fitting and the rehearsal dinner. William and Millie didn’t deserve her to go No Show. There was a wedding and a life waiting.
A half-life. A life where she spent most of her time plotting out her next adventure. She would leave because staying in one place and getting to know the stranger in the mirror was hard work she didn’t want to do.
It was the only life she had to go back to.
She took the train from Penn Station to JFK and searched for a flight to Heathrow. She ignored the days of built-up communications and notifications on her iPhone, eager to update her about events and news. None of it really mattered. There were a couple of shorthand texts from her brother and sister, a typically imperiously loving text from her mother and an email from the trustee of her grandmother’s estate wanting a signature at her convenience. She sent a group message to the family that she was on her way home and would see them by morning. Oh, and she was so happy to be joining the pre-wedding fun.
The high, arching terminals at JFK were echoing and cold. At every commotion or sound of hurried footsteps she looked up and of course it was never Paris. It would never be Paris. She’d said she was sorry in the note but Paris wasn’t going to forgive her for running away.
She was running away because she was scared and useless and at the end of all her dreams she was never quite worthy of the magic almost in her grasp. She’d been on the edge of glory before and she didn’t need the pin in her shoulder to remind her how quickly dreams turned into devastation. Piling on top was the brutal assessment that Paris needed and deserved more—and better—than Diana could ever offer her.
* * *
She had taken the first available seat of any kind, and was hardly unhappy that it was in Business Class. She pushed her seat into sleeping position, turned her back to the cabin and lay awake for the entire flight trying to stop the voice in her head repeating the same questions over and over: She was doing the right thing, so why did it hurt so much?
Clearing customs was simple. She hadn’t even found the pecan candy Millie liked, so she had nothing to declare. The private car service the family used was waiting at the usual place. The sun was coming up as they left the parking garage. Paris was probably home by now unless she’d had a reason to stay another night in New York. Maybe Heather had asked her to stay over for moral support—that was really unlikely, but it didn’t stop her brain from making it seem possible.
If Paris fell into Heather’s social circle there would be many eligible women interested in her, starting with Heather. That other women would find Paris attractive—now that was wholly plausible. Paris would easily find someone else. Paris would forget all about her. It was for the best.
She was going to arrive home with horribly red eyes at this rate.
Traffic on the M25 gradually thinned. Thankful to be heading away from London during the morning commute, she tried to doze, but instead gazed out the window at passing familiar sights. The signs of spring grasses and plowed rows along the hills of Surrey should have made her glad to be home, but even the thought of real English peas and local Albury carrots didn’t lift her mood. She even forgot to press her nose to the window as they passed the turnoff to Maidstone Studios. She always looked, just in case there was someone famous going in or out. The familiar and loved landscape seemed unreal to her and she felt like a tourist in what was supposed to be her real life.
She’d felt this way since the broken shoulder had taken away the Diana she thought she’d been born to be. She’d tried to fill the emptiness with acting and repatriating small artifacts, a life that allowed her to refuse relationships more than a teaspoon deep, as if that lack of depth was a chosen necessity and not who she was.
It wasn’t until they took a sharp turn off a roundabout onto the narrow country lane she knew by heart did she finally feel as if she really was home. It would be easy to pretend nothing in New York was real now. She could put on her makeup, don the tweeds and cashmeres of country life, and enjoy luncheons and teas and card games at the club. There would be boating on the Len and all of the wedding preparation.
If she threw herself into the role of dutiful daughter and devoted sister, she could forget Paris.
Gravel crunched under the tires as the driver carefully circumnavigated a tree surgeon’s crew taking down a dead dogwood just inside the gates. The meadow garden was full of cowslip in bloom, and the bright yellow clusters moving in the breeze eased some of the knots in her shoulders.
Mote Hall, Diana’s home for the nearly twenty-five years since her mother had remarried, was solid and unchanged. The original saltbox estate house had long since expanded to include wings, and her mother had converted the stables to an expansive greenhouse. The solid Georgian brick, always tidy and never changing, was comforting to see. Even the scaffolding that was slowly circling the house to aid in roof repair and structural renovation was a symbol of home.
“Continue around to the back, please. I’ll get out there,” Diana told the driver. It was much easier to bring in luggage from the back of the house. She really didn’t want to go in the front like a visitor. It was quarter past eight, which meant Mrs. Cotton, the housekeeper, would still have some coffee and toast on the sideboard.
As though her thoughts had conjured her up, Mrs. Cotton appeared at the top of the rear steps and was opening Diana’s door by the time the car stopped. The carefully coiff
ed white hair and round apple cheeks were the same as they had been for the five years she’d been the estate’s house manager. “Welcome home, Miss. Your mother is still at table and expecting you. The tea is fresh.”
Diana kept her red eyes focused on the driver’s receipt she was signing. “Thank you, that sounds wonderful. It was a long night.”
Knowing that it would have been a simple matter to go upstairs and change out of her crumpled red suit, brush her hair and wash her face, she instead went directly to the breakfast room.
Her mother was reading the morning Times. She would turn fifty at the end of the year, Diana realized, which hardly seemed possible. The chestnut hair she proudly kept long and unbraided was lustrous and thick, and her bone-china skin was softer and smoother than Diana’s would ever be. Her mother hadn’t heard Diana’s arrival, or she’d have taken off the reading glasses perched at the end of her narrow, hawkish nose. Whatever she was reading had made her smile. As she had all of Diana’s life, she radiated calm and strength.
“Hullo Mum.”
The reading glasses were immediately removed and set on the table. “Diana, I thought you’d be along—You look terrible.”
She spread her arms in an attempt to shrug. In moments she was wrapped tight in her mother’s arms.
“Are you hurt? Are you sick? No? Then it will be all right.”
Diana let herself believe it, at least for long enough to be fed and shooed off to bed.
To her surprise, she slept.
Chapter Thirty
Paris lifted her suitcase up the steps to her door not a hundred hours from the time she’d left home on Friday. So much had happened she supposed she ought to feel numb.
She was a long, long way from numb.
Heather’s girlfriend Artie had arrived about thirty minutes after Paris had noticed Diana had gone. At the same time the receptionist brought in an envelope for her. Only then had she understood Diana hadn’t merely found something else to do. She’d left. She wasn’t coming back.
My Lady Lipstick Page 19
