My Lady Lipstick

by Karin Kallmaker

  It didn’t really matter what Diana’s reasoning was. Paris wished she were numb, but instead she was livid.

  “She probably lied about everything, every word was a lie, and that’s why she took off.” Still muttering to herself, she thumped her suitcase onto the bed and blindly tossed items into either a laundry pile or a dry cleaning pile.

  She could no longer ignore the extra weight in her suit jacket. Using a tissue, she drew out the hammer. It didn’t look any worse for its journey in her pocket, and she set it carefully on a clean towel. The white of the bone was almost luminescent. The obsidian hammer’s head gleamed in the overhead light.

  She’d stolen something from a dead man—it was inconceivable. Not something she would have ever thought to have done. Well, she hadn’t known he was dead when she’d taken it. She hadn’t felt it in her pocket until she was seated on the train to Boston and now it was really too late to take it back even if she thought she could do so without getting into difficulties with guards and Heather. Heather was not her father, true, and Paris had seen her at her most vulnerable. But there was no guarantee that Reynard Media wouldn’t be back wanting to throw Anita Topaz into the media maelstrom. She didn’t want to invite their notice in any way at this point.

  Plus, she didn’t have a state-of-the-art stethoscope or a handy digital Sissone or even ordinary lockpicks to make such things easy—that is, if she even knew how to use them.

  She could mail it back anonymously. Did she really want to do that? What if the hammer was what Diana said it was—something that belonged to another culture that Reynard never had any business possessing? Maybe Diana hadn’t lied about that.

  It sure would be nice to ask her, but she couldn’t do that, could she? Because Diana had left.

  She added her rumpled suit to the pile of dry cleaning and took comfort in a faded Overwatch T-shirt and well-worn sweatpants. There was nothing for it, though, and she stirred together a half-batch of brownies while her mind clicked back and forth over her decision to take the hammer and the lack of an opportunity to tell Diana what she’d done.

  If Diana had known that Paris had the very thing she’d wanted all along, she wouldn’t have left.

  No, she’d have taken it from you, and then she would have left, Paris told herself viciously. And she wouldn’t have received a lovely card as a keepsake.

  Parting is such sweet sorrow. I’m sorry. - Diana

  No phone number and quoting the most star-crossed lovers of all time. Typical. Just typical.

  The pan of chocolatey goodness went into the oven. She set the timer and carried it with her into the bedroom to turn on her computer. If she could calm down enough to edit her last chapter at least the extra day in New York wouldn’t have derailed her schedule for the week.

  Instead of being furious about Diana, she needed to remember that the trip was a success for Anita Topaz. She was free to write without worrying about publisher demands. Heather Reynard had understood. Wasn’t that a kick—honesty had resolved the matter amicably.

  She’d achieved exactly what she had steeled herself to do when she’d decided to go to New York, and using the one solution that would have never occurred to Diana. Why tell the truth when you can invent a lot of pretty lies?

  She pushed away the thought that it might have been a different outcome if Heather Reynard hadn’t recognized her and empathized with Paris’s plight. And if Heather weren’t now in charge of, well, everything. A part of her was aching with sympathetic grief for Heather but she had no illusions about what kind of man Reynard had been. The eulogies were only getting started—“titan of media” and “legendary promoter” would be endless. She’d have her mental image of him in the hotel room doorway, thinking he was about to notch another champagne bottle just as he’d done all his life.

  Her shudder of revulsion was about Reynard but she was left wondering if anything that had happened between her and Diana had been any cleaner. She closed her eyes to visualize dancing in Central Park. Diana hadn’t been trapped or coerced, and neither had she. Diana might be a liar, and unreliable, and a sneak, but her passion, at least, had seemed genuine. She hadn’t tried to use it for her own agenda, at least not in any way that Paris knew.

  If what they’d shared had been real, why had Diana run away?

  The ding of the timer roused her from a pointless exercise of trying to find the right word to describe the brown of Diana’s eyes. She singed her fingertips cutting one brownie to take back to her desk. The miraculous chemistry of butter, sugar, and cocoa sent her taste buds into a swoon. She’d eaten nothing on the train, which meant her last meal had been in that deli, watching Diana eat. Talking with Diana about nothing important. Like two women on a date.

  She’d thought Diana was dragging the meal out, as if she didn’t want it to end. Paris wanted to believe that, anyway. But she would never know.

  Her brain grew less foggy—brownies were medicinal that way—and she decided she was never going to get any peace if she didn’t at least try to put some of her uncertainties to rest. How much had Diana lied? Clicking her way to her browser, Paris started with a list of gymnasts representing England. A Google search later she was looking at the name on a list: Diana Beckinsale, Team Great Britain, Artistic Gymnastics, alternate.

  Another click and she was looking at a picture of a teenage Diana. She hadn’t changed a lot in the ten or so years since. There were more pictures, going back all the way to a pint-sized pixie in a red leotard standing next to a woman likely her mother. Paris quickly found more photos of “Evelyn Countess Weald”—she was very active in civic circles and often photographed. Evelyn looked like the kind of woman who would carefully enunciate the correct form “hashed browns” should she ever order them. It was easy to see where Diana got her eyes and cheekbones.

  She’s gone. I am abused, and my relief must be to loathe her. Not that Paris had any respect for Othello’s choices, but the sentiment for once made sense to her. So Diana hadn’t lied about her name, her family, or her competition background. It didn’t change the fact that she’d left without a decent word, and without a way to get in touch again.

  There were videos, even. Her mouse lingered over the play button. She should let it go. What good would watching Diana-the-Gymnast do?

  Her finger slipped—she hadn’t meant to click but somehow she did. The first video was in an archive from her gymnastics club and featured a floor exercise from a juniors competition. Diana was a twisting blur as she flipped and spun through a tumbling run.

  The next video was a demonstration event and Diana moved confidently the length of the narrow beam, cool and calm at twelve years old, even as she back flipped to a landing she couldn’t see.

  She fetched another brownie and set the videos to autoplay.Fascinated, she wondered how anyone could do a parallel bar routine without dislocating both shoulders. Diana was really very good at all of it, and had competed at an elite level. At no point did her face ever express anything but certainty that she would succeed. It was an expression Paris recognized from just that afternoon, when Diana had talked her way past the security guard.

  Paris thought how nice it must be to be wired that way—that any challenge could be conquered with determination and confidence. It didn’t hurt to be beautiful, white, and wealthy either.

  The next video began and she didn’t immediately realize what she was about to see. Diana ran toward the beam for her opening mount and it all went wrong. Her hands slipped, her shoulder cracked into the beam and she went down on the mat so hard her body bounced. Her hand over her mouth, Paris watched Diana get to her feet, walk back a few steps and attempt to restart the routine. Her shoulder was not in the right place and when she tried to give the beginning signal, one arm moved and the other hung at her side like wet laundry. Diana had looked down then, as if surprised. All at once her legs folded up and she dropped where she stood.

  So that was when Diana had fainted. From a broken shoulder. In front of hundreds
of people. She hadn’t even cried out.

  The next video began playing even as Paris took a shaky breath. Diana had spent nearly all of her life in pursuit of a dream and it had ended in a split second. Like the split second it took to press “publish” on a blog. Life as she knew it was over, even if it took years to understand that healed would never be whole. What was lost couldn’t be regained. There was only a future to build out of whatever scraps were left from the past.

  In a newer video, from someone’s wedding, an entourage of bridesmaids in teeth-jarring chartreuse dresses followed a satin-and-lace bride into a garden for photographs. There was a lot of good humor as the women posed and rearranged themselves several times for the camera. It had been recorded not quite four years ago. She could make out snatches of Diana’s voice mingling with the others. The camera zoomed in on the faces only once, and Paris paused when it got to Diana’s bright smile.

  At the time of this video, Paris thought, Diana had probably taken and sent to their homes at least ten artifacts. She had probably been planning another foray into crime while the picture was being taken.

  She made herself stop watching. She didn’t know that Diana. She knew the Diana who left without saying goodbye.

  The addictive nature of editing helped get her mind off the cannonball of hurt in her chest. She picked over sentences she’d written last week, deleted whole paragraphs and decided that Susannah had not expressed anywhere near enough rage at discovering Bryce had betrayed her. At least there was one thing in her life she had the power to fix.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “It’s the walking dead!” Her brother’s voice echoed through the sunny breakfast room.

  “You’re so funny.” Diana scratched her nose with her middle finger long enough to be sure William saw it.

  His greeting made the small gathering at the far end of the breakfast table turn to look: her mother, whose disapproving gaze went from the clock on the wall to Diana, her soon-to-be sister-in-law Millie who at least looked happy to see her; and the frosty-haired wedding planner who always seemed about to whack someone with her clipboard. Diana only went as far as the sideboard, where she poured herself a cup of tea, and piled toast on a plate.

  Before she could leave William’s bass voice rang out again. “We’re discussing which is more pretentious—using a quail egg, or thinking quail eggs are passé.”

  Stifling a smile, she faced the gathering. The three women were all looking at her expectantly, and behind them William mouthed, “SAVE ME.”

  “Care to join us?” Her mother made it sound like a question. It wasn’t.

  She set down her tea and toast and slid into the chair her mother indicated, knowing her rumpled blouse and jeans hadn’t escaped her mother’s notice.

  “Are you feeling better?” There was sympathy in Millie’s blue eyes. She was nicely plump and her simple shirtwaist dress was one of Diana’s favorite shades of blue, like a morning sky just before sunrise. Diana thought again that she was happy to have someone who seemed sane, smart, and sweet joining the family.

  “Yes. It was some kind of bug.” Nothing like an extended crying jag to provide bleary eyes and a stuffy nose as an excuse for taking her dinner last night en suite. “What is this about quail eggs?”

  “William was being amusing.” Her mother had a positive gift for saying something to mean the opposite. She sipped her tea and her heavy diamond wedding ring caught the light with a dazzle that made Diana blink. “We’re going over the rehearsal dinner schedule.”

  “You’re rehearsing for the rehearsal?”

  Millie crossed her eyes for Diana’s benefit, making her laugh into her tea. “There’s nothing spontaneous about a wedding.”

  “Not yet, anyway.”

  “Lady Diana Beckinsale, don’t even say that in jest.”

  “One minute, four seconds,” William announced. “That’s a record.”

  She glared at him, thinking that she was going to have to tease him about yet another new beard style, this time trimmed short with precise razor lines and angles that made him look like an animated Aladdin bad guy. “What?”

  “From arrival to use of full name.”

  Her mother’s lips twitched. “Shall I use your full name as well, young man?”

  “Please,” Millie said to her. “I need to learn how.”

  Diana was amazed that her mother actually winked. “We’ll practice later. Stops him in his tracks.”

  Diana grinned into William’s what-did-I-do-to-myself face. “I see that being a smartie is working out for you like always.”

  The wedding planner cleared her throat. It would have been more effective if her tightly wound white bun hadn’t reminded Diana of the unintentionally hilarious Deportment of Young Ladies lecturer from when she was at school. “I’m glad you’re back, Ms. Beckinsale. As a bridesmaid you’ll have some ceremonial duties that begin with the rehearsal dinner which we haven’t been able to discuss.”

  “I’m all ears.” She couldn’t help herself. “Not literally of course.”

  Her mother sighed as William went into a fit of his goofy, high-pitched giggles. “Diana, this is serious.”

  “I know, and I promise that on the day I will be serious.” It felt good to be able to laugh though it was an effort. Whenever she came home she slipped into all the familiar patterns—her family’s affection made it easy. But none of it was erasing New York. The subsequent discussion of appropriate dinner toasts for the groom’s side of the family didn’t drown out the many vignettes playing in Diana’s head. Some of them were sensual and feverish featuring Paris, but the most prominent were full of recriminations. The word coward was blazoned on the inside of her eyelids.

  Finally her mother admitted to needing time to get ready for a luncheon. The wedding planner gave the three younger people one last disapproving glance before leaving.

  “I’m staying until the weekend,” Millie said in response to Diana’s query. “Then it’s my mum’s final fitting and we all check into the inn. Bride and groom on opposite ends of the building, both with chaperones.”

  Diana laughed at William’s loud groan. “Seriously? Propriety at this stage?”

  William’s unhappy face was in full display. “I have been able to accept all the other edicts, but that one is going to be tough.”

  “Abstinence is good for the soul, or something like that.”

  “You’re better at that than I am,” William said.

  A hot flush washed up from Diana’s chest until the top of her head felt on fire.

  “Get out!” William sat upright. “Is that what you sneaked off to do?”

  “Sneaking? I wasn’t sneak— No. I’m not discussing my sex life with you.”

  “William,” Millie admonished. “She’s not going to kiss and tell.”

  “It was way more than a kiss.” William’s eyes gleamed with mischief, making Diana wonder why she liked him when he enjoyed tormenting her. “Why the big secret? Some revolutionary bloke that’ll make Mum pop a vein?”

  “No, it didn’t go well. We didn’t have any way forward.”

  “Piff. Is he married or something? Hashtag undesirable?”

  “No.” Diana shot a glance at Millie. Though she liked her well enough, Diana wasn’t sure how much personal revelation a sister-in-law wanted. “We met under really poor circumstances.”

  “So did Millie and I.”

  “You met at a wedding. That’s totally romantic.” Even so, Millie was nodding in agreement with William.

  “Mum arranged it. We were a setup. We had a great time and I didn’t call her because I didn’t want to give Mum the satisfaction. Millie called me.”

  “You were very lucky I did.”

  “Best thing that ever happened to me.” William smooched her on the cheek while Diana made cat-with-a-hairball noises.

  Millie tousled his thick hair. “I felt the same way he did—you know how it is. Constantly being pushed toward matrimony. So your brother and I
have agreed that our first date was the one we chose to have. Everything started then.”

  “So,” William said as if he’d cured cancer, “have a second date with him.”

  “Her.”

  “Oh.” They both said in unison.

  William blinked. “Well, that’s new, isn’t it?”

  “Very. I’ll be the one to tell Mum, okay?”

  William nodded. “It’s kind of a surprise.”

  “Tell me about it.” Diana pushed her empty plate away.

  Millie was smiling at her. “My younger brother—Todd, you met him—he’s gay, you know.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “It’s totally cool with me.” Millie hastily added, “Not that you need my approval to be who you are.”

  William looked half-serious, half-teasing. “So are you bi, or all lesbian, or what?”

  “It’s not like I think about a guy and want to—” She made the cat-hairball noises again. “I’m just…meh. But now I notice Paris…” Damn, she hadn’t meant to name names. “I think about women now and they’re beautiful and mysterious and familiar and exotic and wonderful all at once.”

  William scoffed. “You just figured that out?”

  Millie poked him in the arm. “Yes, Mr. Superior Lover Man reinforced in every way all of his life to like girls which worked out well for him because he does, in fact, like girls.”

  “Girls are awesome.” William’s salacious grin turned into a gulp as he glanced at Millie. “One girl is awesome. You are awesome. Just you. Awesome.”

  “You need to work on that,” Diana warned him. She sighed. “Girls—women are awesome, and so I’m thinking I’m on the all-lesbian all-the-time channel.”

  Millie pointedly gazed down into her empty teacup and William immediately went about refilling it. “You figured this out in Paris?”

  “Paris is a person. A writer in Boston whose mum liked Romeo and Juliet.”

  William laughed. “So much better than Tybalt.”

  Diana laughed with him. “Exactly what she says.”