Changing Scenes (Changing Teams #2) (2 page)

Chapter Three

Astrid

The credit card offer that was a sure thing? The one that was going to magically transform my life by way of balance transfers and low interest rates? They denied my application, said I had too much “revolving debt.” Whatever. I blamed American Express for airing our dirty laundry in public. Stupid, classless credit card.

But that wasn’t the end of it, since my agency still hadn’t booked me for anything that would make up for the three thousand dollar shoot I’d walked out on. I had other gigs booked through the end of the year and into January, but my current finances had a major, pride-shaped hole in them. To top it all off, I’d forgotten that Visa Number Two was set up to automatically withdraw its minimum monthly payment from my checking account, a stipulation that had reduced my interest rate by one half of one percent. And, Visa Number One was calling me so often, and from so many different numbers, they were using up all my talk minutes.

To sum things up, all my lines of credit were tapped out, bill collectors were hounding me night and day, and my checking account balance was negative eighty-three dollars and twenty cents.

To say that shit had gotten real would be an understatement.

Since desperate times called for desperate measures, I sent my cousin Michael a text, asking if he knew of anyone hiring for cash jobs. Michael had always lived well, mostly because he’d been spared the infamous Janvier pride—probably because his blood was diluted with DuFresne—and would work for anyone that would have him. Since graduating high school he’d been a bouncer, editor, floor polisher, and escort, sometimes all within the same day. Officially, he was an artist; unofficially, he did whatever work he could so he could continue to afford art supplies. Based on his recent showing and all the excellent reviews he received, all those odd jobs had paid off.

My phone buzzed; Michael had called instead of texting me back. “Hey,” I greeted.

“Hey back, sugar,” he replied. “What sort of job are you looking for? A modeling job?”

“An anything job.” I sighed, and explained, “I walked off a shoot, and I’m out three grand because of it.”

Michael whistled. “Let me guess, and now John’s punishing you by holding back all the good gigs.”

“Pretty much, and I’m broke.”

“Sugar, did you have to reject him so harshly?” Michael asked. “And on social media?”

Michael was referring to John’s and my only date, and it was only a half date since I’d thought we were having a business meeting. When he tried kissing me at the end of the night, I turned the other cheek, literally. After John’s mouth ended up on my face, I thanked him for dinner and fled inside my building, hoping that would be the end of it. Then pictures of he and I talking over dinner had turned up on the trashy gossip site
If The Shoe Fits
along with the headline:

Successful Model Dates Agency Executive.

I immediately emailed the site to set the record straight. John hadn’t liked that, not one bit.

“It wasn’t a rejection,” I replied. “All I did was tell the truth.”

“That’ll get you in trouble every time.”

“No philosophy without liquor,” I said. “You know of some jobs or not?”

“Hmm. This job you want, it has to be cash?”

“I’d prefer cash,” I replied. “That way I can have something on hand before the bill collectors steal it.”

“Mm hm. What won’t you do?”

“Michael Julian DuFresne, what exactly just went through your mind?”

“What went through
your
mind? I meant jobs like cleaning or phone work, dirty-minded girl.”

I laughed, and said, “All right, I apologize. A makeup gig would be cool, or any behind the scenes work at a studio.
Clothed
behind the scenes work, that is.”

Michael grunted. “I’ll see what I can do, sugar.”

With that he ended the call, and I stared at the phone in my hand. He had better not give my name to an escort service.

My phone buzzed again, this time flashing Britt’s number. “Hello, girlfriend.”

“You busy?” she asked. “I have to go to Connecticut and check out a wedding spot. Want to come with?”

“Connecticut? Um, sure. What’s all that noise?”

“I’m driving to your place.”

“Britt, it’s illegal to drive while talking on the phone.”

“Oh, right. Be there in ten.”

She hung up and I looked down at myself. I’d been trying on outfits for my next party, not that I had any way of funding one, and was wearing a navy and white striped maxi dress topped with a denim jacket. Since Britt’s arrival was imminent, I swiped on some mascara, put on boots and a scarf, and went downstairs.

I was standing outside my building, trying to keep the wind from destroying my hair, when a shiny black sports car pulled up to the curb. The passenger side window rolled down, and Britt grinned at me from behind the wheel.

“Hop in,” she said, so I did.

“Sam let you borrow the Beemer?” I asked as I buckled up. “I didn’t even know you had a license.”

“Of course I have a license,” Britt said, a bit defensively, if you ask me. “Patrick made sure I got it, back when he thought I’d be commuting from the big house back and forth to college.”

Patrick was Britt’s stepfather, and the occasional bane of her existence. “Who commutes from New Rochelle to NYU?” I wondered aloud.

Britt gave me a devilish grin, one that I imagined did wonders to that fiancé of hers. “He didn’t know about my scholarship, or the trust fund. At least, not until I moved out. Hey!” Britt swerved right and laid on the horn.

“You sure about that license?” I asked.

“Jerk cut me off,” she muttered.

“Maybe you should look before pulling out into traffic,” I said.

“What was that?”

“So we’re going to Connecticut?” I asked. “Of all the places in the world you two could get married, why there?”

“I know, I’m getting married in the land of polo shirts and yacht clubs.” Britt giggled. “But since it’s a given that Sam’s parents will fly out, we wanted someplace convenient for my mom and dad. And, you know, whoever they’re bringing.” She glanced at her GPS and took a right. “It’s also how we wound up with this place—it’s a Daughters of the American Revolution property. Historic and such.”

“And such,” I said. “Are you going to have a red, white, and blue wedding?”

“No,” she replied, “but Jorge did mention that my dress will have red accents.”

“You’ll be the hottest bride in Connecticut,” I declared. “About your parents, do you think this will be weird for them?” I knew that Britt’s parents hadn’t seen each other since long before Britt’s twin sisters were born, which was over two years ago.

“Yeah. Probably.” She chewed her lip for a moment, then added, “Then again, we’ve never exactly been a normal family. Maybe a little weirdness is what we need. Did I tell you that my mom is writing again?”

“You did not.” Britt’s mother, Cynthia Sullivan—back then she went by Cin Cavanaugh—used to write a weekly column in a free local newspaper about being an artist and young single mother. Her column was so popular a publishing house picked it up, and she put out three books. Her writing career had effectively ended when she married Britt’s stepfather. “Same topic?”

“No, she’s working on a novel,” Britt replied. “It’s probably about a princess trapped in a tower with the wrong prince.” Britt looked at me and grinned; I wished that girl would stop taking her eyes off the road. I am too pretty and too fabulous to be hurt or maimed in a car wreck; what’s more, I didn’t have any health insurance to pay for patching me back up. “See? Weird was just what she needed.”

I settled back in the leather seat and called up the banking app on my phone and checked my account balance. Still negative. “Maybe it’s what we all need.”

***

The wedding venue was exactly how Britt had described—big, snooty, and expensive. Although they did dial back the snooty a bit on our account; it seemed that Sam had plunked down a hefty deposit to secure the soonest date possible, all because he just couldn’t wait to get married.

In addition to the well-appointed staff, the place was gorgeous. It was an old Victorian mansion set far back from the road, high on a hill and surrounded by gardens. The gardens were beautiful even in late fall, with clipped hedges and sunken fountains. They even had a bird sanctuary out back complete with walking trails, though I for one would not be doing any birdwatching in the middle of winter.

“You guys really want to get married in February?” I asked as we walked back to the car. “It’s going to be freezing.”

“Jorge said he’d make me a dress edged in fur,” Britt gushed. “Maybe he’ll make matching hats, or fur muffs. Would you wear a muff?”

“Me?” I blinked. “What, in my Russian ice princess fantasy?” I asked as we got in the Beemer.

“No, as my maid of honor.”

“Oh.” I blinked again, this time against the tears welling up. I mean, Britt and I had been close for years, but I never expected this. “You really want me to do that?”

“Of course I do,” she replied. “You’ll do it, right?”

“Like I’d be anywhere else than with you that day,” I said, and we had our cheesy girlfriend moment and hugged over the gearshift. Then we laughed, and Britt grabbed a flyer that was tucked under the visor.

“So, while we’re down here there’s something else we can do,” Britt said. “You know how Patrick likes to control everything? He’s trying to control my wedding.”

“I thought Sam and his millions were paying for this,” I said, trying to hide the envy in my voice. I didn’t even know if Sam had millions. “How can Patrick control anything if he’s not paying for it?”

“Sam is paying for the wedding and reception, but Patrick wouldn’t let up about paying for something,” Britt replied. “So we agreed to let him pay for the rehearsal dinner. It’s his wedding gift to me and Sam.”

“Huh. I’d have thought he’d be shocked and appalled that you two were getting married so quickly.”

“Patrick couldn’t care less about my happiness,” Britt said. “He’s spinning this into a PR win. Anyway, I know what he likes to eat.”

“And?”

“And he likes bland, boring food. Whenever he goes out he orders things like boiled potatoes and overcooked steak. He used to drive Chef Aggie nuts, and I’m scared to find out what kind of menu he put together.” Britt plugged an address into her GPS, and pulled out of the parking lot. “Let’s see if we can convince the restaurant to make us a dinner that doesn’t suck.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said, not that I was in a position to dispute. “Let’s go talk to the food people.”

***

It took us about thirty minutes to get to the restaurant; if Britt had known how to read her GPS it only would have taken us fifteen, if that. But we got there just the same, an unassuming bistro called Thirty-Nine and Twelve that was situated right on the docks. Britt parked in front of the restaurant’s huge picture windows, and we went inside to talk to the people in charge.

“Good afternoon,” the hostess greeted. “Two for lunch?”

“Actually, may I speak to the manager?” Britt asked the hostess. “And maybe the chef?”

The hostess’ brow wrinkled. “May I ask why?”

“Oh! Of course.” Britt turned on her thousand-watt smile, the one that had gotten her most of her gigs. Pity she didn’t really want to be a model; with a smile like that she could write her own ticket. “My rehearsal dinner is booked here in February, and I wanted to talk about the menu. I called earlier, and Ms. Koeppel said it would be all right if I stopped by today.”

The hostess beamed. “Britt Sullivan, I take it?”

“That’s me,” Britt replied. “Is she free?”

“She is, because I’m her,” the hostess—Ms. Koeppel—replied. She set her menus on the podium and beckoned us to follow. “Come on, we can sit in the bar and have Donnie—that’s our head chef, Donato Coehlo—make us a tasting menu. He’ll love it.”

From the way she said that last bit, I imagined Chef Donnie was a cranky old man, about as likely to spit in our soup as whip up a culinary masterpiece. The three of us sat around a table in the bar area, then Ms. Koeppel called over a waiter and murmured a few instructions. The waiter nodded and wandered off, and Ms. Koeppel turned to us and flashed a smile that rivaled Britt’s.

“Now, Ms. Sullivan, we have a few options,” she said.

“Britt, call me Britt. And this is my maid of honor, Astrid Janvier.”

Another smile, this one a million watts. At this rate I’d be blind before Christmas. “And you can call me Christa,” Ms. Koeppel—I mean Christa—said. “Tell me, Britt, why did you pick Thirty-Nine and Twelve for your rehearsal dinner?”

“Well, we’re getting married at the Daughters of the American Revolution mansion in town,” Britt said, “and my stepfather insisted we hold the dinner here. I’ve never eaten here, but you guys have great reviews.”