My Lady Lipstick

by Karin Kallmaker

  The car arrived at Mona Lisa’s and Diana led the way into the bar. It wasn’t crowded yet because the official invites were for half-seven, and that was twenty minutes away. Even so, a raucous cheer greeted them.

  “You look amazing,” she told Lisa, and it was an understatement. The red velvet dress had a retro-fifties silhouette. The chunky heels and bright beaded jewelry turned Lisa into one hundred percent pinup.

  “So do you—putting the va in va-voom.”

  “Thanks. Can’t go wrong with a little black dress.” The high waist made her look taller as did the Steve Madden CFM pumps that she was going to take off at the soonest possible moment.

  “Is that your real accent this time? You sound like a royal.”

  “I actually do talk like this. Prep school and all that.”

  Lisa was smiling benignly as she watched Paris chat with the regular barflies. “You should be aware,” she said to Diana conversationally, “that my best friend knows how to bury unwanted things under glaciers.”

  “How inter—wait, what?”

  Lisa gave her a bland look.

  “You’re quite frightening.”

  “You think so?” The curve of her lips was worthy of Lady Macbeth, “Good. Because I get very, very unhappy when things I care about are damaged.”

  “Duly noted,” Diana managed. She groped for Paris’s hand while giving Lisa a bright smile. So she was on probation with Lisa too? Well, she was happy that Paris had such staunch friends, wasn’t she?

  As Paris turned away from her conversation Lisa gestured at the TVs, all tuned to the same channel and presently on mute. “We’ll be ready to roll when the bigwigs show up.”

  Paris seemed content to hold hands and stay close. It was the first time they were giving their agreement a try. Choosing the warm, familiar surroundings of the bar had seemed like their best foot forward. Diana had already spotted the reporter. She nodded in that direction to Paris who was finishing a long, steadying breath. “Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  Diana put on her best party face and led the way. “Betty Johns? From The Globe?”

  “You must be Anita.” The slender blond shook hands and then looked curiously at Paris.

  “Actually,” Diana said, “we are Anita Topaz.”

  “We’re a team,” Paris added.

  “I think I have my first question already,” Johns said as she scribbled a note on her tablet. “Reynard Media said there would be some surprises.”

  “We’ll try to keep it interesting.” Diana took the chair closest to the reporter and waited until Paris had settled next to her to continue. “Ellis does the writing and I do the rest. We play to our mutual strengths.”

  Paris’s hand patting the arm of her chair was out of the reporter’s sight. “I’m camera shy. Whatever you think that means, times a million.”

  “Are you fielding a lot of media these days?”

  Diana answered smoothly, “Definitely. We’re thrilled that Reynard Media is willing to take a chance on a romantic comedy.”

  “The box office can be unpredictable.”

  “We believe that Hands Off the Merchandise has everything rom com fans could want, and plenty of intrigue.” Diana had all the lines down, following the RMG talking points item by item. “We’re going to Toronto next week to meet with the screenwriter.”

  Johns leaned forward, her gaze taking in Paris’s suit and tie. “You can answer this off the record if you want. But is the writer of the Anita Topaz romances a lesbian?”

  “It’s not off the record,” Paris said. “The answer is yes.”

  Johns scribbled a note. “Why do you write straight romances?”

  “It didn’t occur to me I had other choices. Not when I developed Anita Topaz’s voice and story style.”

  “Is there a message behind the fact that the recent press releases don’t call them bodice rippers?”

  “It was always meant ironically,” Diana answered. “We quite like the ‘Smart is the New Sexy’ campaign for the next novel and the movie.”

  Paris chimed in once or twice, and they’d covered all the important topics by the time the bar grew too loud for them to hear each other without shouting.

  A commotion at the door was probably the VIPs—bigwigs, as Lisa had called them.

  “Is that them?” the reporter asked Paris, who had stood up to see.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m on it. Thank you both.” With that Johns grabbed her notebook and recorder and sliced her way through the crowd toward Heather Reynard. Newly confirmed as the CEO of Reynard Media Group, Heather was newsworthy and then some. Some people said she was now one of the most powerful women in the world—and she’d introduced the world to her partner of a decade by way of announcing their wedding plans.

  Diana spared a kind thought for her mother. By removing Diana from her father’s influence, Diana had never been in Heather’s position of enforced conformity and divided loyalties. What a life it must have been. Paris had told her that Heather’s partner hadn’t even been allowed in the corporate headquarters. Plenty of people were saying that Heather should have given her father the finger and come out years ago. None of them had stood to lose hundreds of millions of dollars and the position that Heather now held. Heather had sent a gracious thank-you note to Paris for being there when the news came. After an obsessively perky marketing intern had left another message asking Paris to make a personal appearance, Paris had written back. Heather had listened, proposed a compromise—and here they were.

  Paris put her arms around Diana and they relaxed into each other.

  Lisa arrived with a drink in each hand. “Iced tea,” she said. “This one has Grey Goose Citron in it.”

  “I’ll take that,” Diana said.

  “I thought you would. So how did it go?”

  “Pretty well,” Paris said. “I never got to say how good Diana is at challenging my storyboards and making me work harder for a better story. The reporter didn’t ask many questions about the writing itself.”

  “So I knew most of the answers,” Diana finished.

  “Gotta go. Looks like showtime.” Lisa merged with the crowd. A few moments later she was sitting on the bar facing the televisions.

  It was amazing—the place fell silent. The woman knew how to hold a room, Diana thought. She kicked off her shoes and Paris helped her up onto her chair so she could see.

  “We all know why you’re here. Free drinks. Let’s all say thank you to Reynard Media Group for a swell party that’s just getting started.”

  “Thank you Reynard Media,” the crowd echoed.

  “Let’s also say thank you to our own Anita Topaz for making it happen.”

  “Domestic drinks only,” Diana called out. “Nothing imported.”

  Amid laughter, the crowded chanted, “Thank you Anita Topaz.”

  From her high position Diana could now see how crowded the bar was. It looked as if Heather had brought the RMG publicist who had video chatted with them last week and several other people as well. She waved eagerly at Grace and Adya who had found the seats that Paris had asked Lisa to hold for them.

  “Pipe down in the back.” Lisa winked at Diana. “So now you’re going to listen politely to our VIP guest, Heather Reynard.”

  The crowd did exactly as instructed, and Heather—wisely—kept it brief.

  She was one of the tallest people in the bar and her voice carried easily. “Fresh from our production team, you’re about to see what no one else has. It’s the first trailer of Hands Off the Merchandise based on the book by Anita Topaz, and it reveals the star who will play Demi Moran. Let’s roll it.”

  The TVs exploded with techno runway music. Diana was so excited she forgot she was standing on a chair and had to clutch Paris’s shoulder to keep steady. They both cheered with everyone else when the fresh-faced local girl who’d grabbed a supporting actress Oscar last year appeared. She would make an excellent Demi, Diana thought.

 
Heather was eventually free of the reporters and edging toward them. She paused to answer a few questions for the local gay newspaper. Diana was only beginning to appreciate how much the community resembled an iceberg. Parts of it were visible to anyone, but a lot remained hidden from a casual glance. Now that she’d learned to see it, Diana saw how far and wide it spread.

  Diana felt Paris jump when a flash went off. It was no longer possible to hide her from cameras. That was the trade-off of a high profile event like a movie deal. The RMG publicist had assured them that once actors were named, no one would care about the writers. For Paris’s sake, Diana hoped that was true. It was also true that she didn’t invite the limelight for herself either.

  Heather had finally reached them. “How are you holding up?”

  “Okay,” Paris said. “On the phone you said you had more personal news.”

  “I do. Legal backtracked through some of the email you had saved. Too many women are still terrified out of their careers and silenced on social platforms that hide behind a pretense at neutrality. There’s no moral neutral ground about rape and death threats. Several of the accounts that sent you threats led to real people. If you want to sue for damages they can be made an example of—no financial outlay for you. RMG has very, very deep pockets. Vivid examples of not getting away with brutalizing women online are needed.”

  Paris took a deep breath. “Can I think about it? It’s—a walk in a cesspool.”

  “I understand.” Diana believed that Heather actually did understand. “Can you get back to me in a week? The attack dogs are ready.”

  Paris nodded. “How are you holding up?”

  Diana was surprised to see a glitter in Heather’s eyes. “The father I could respect and the man he was can’t be the same person. But they are. I don’t know that I’ll ever reconcile that.” Her jaw tightened and for a moment she looked like Diana’s mother when she’d decided something needed fixing. “I can run a different company with a different culture.”

  When Heather and her entourage left the bar, Paris muttered, “I feel a little bit guilty about it.”

  “By ‘it’ do you mean an antiquity now in California being authenticated and restored?”

  “Yeah. I think given time, if someone asked her, Heather would have donated it.”

  “You could be right.” Diana squeezed her arm. “But it’s a long, weary job, waiting for some people to do the right thing.”

  Paris kissed her and Diana went back for seconds. A satisfying minute later Paris asked, “Why don’t we blow this Popsicle stand?”

  “What are you offering?”

  “I might be convinced to make brownies for breakfast.”

  “Nothing I’d like better. For breakfast.” She tugged Paris in the direction of the door. “If we start thanking everyone now we might be home by midnight.”

  It was at least an hour before they made their way out to the street. “Gosh, it has not cooled off out here. I’m glad the car is on its way.” Diana regarded Paris, her smart, brave, delectable Paris, with a proud smile. “You must be floating.”

  “I am. It was an out-of-body experience.” Paris mopped at her brow. “It’s actually real. It’s going to happen.”

  “Thank your agent—she’s a dynamo.”

  “Thank you.” Paris pulled her close. “You were terrific. I think the partnership is going to work out.”

  Diana looked into Paris’s eyes and saw a shimmering reflection of herself, brown hair, brown eyes, freckles and all. Nakedly herself and wrapped safe in her lover’s arms. “You do?”

  Paris was cast in green and orange neon from the bar’s signs. Her cocky haircut had been refreshed and she wore the suit and tie like a second skin. Diana realized that there was very little left of the woman who had reminded her of a wary dog, certain that every hand was an enemy. “I do.”

  “So do I.”

  She relaxed into Paris’s arms. Home.

  Bella Books, Inc.

  Women. Books. Even Better Together.

  P.O. Box 10543

  Tallahassee, FL 32302

  Phone: 800-729-4992

  www.bellabooks.com