Eyes on You (17 page)

“I was wondering if you had any leads yet,” I said.

“I’m afraid we don’t at this point,” he responded. “The test on the foundation will take a few more days. And unfortunately, the surveillance videos weren’t helpful.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s no camera directed at the area immediately outside your office, so it’s impossible to see who left the doll. We
were
able to view the makeup room traffic, but that place is like Grand Central. The talent goes in and out of there, but so do plenty of other people.”

I thought for a moment, picking my words. “Something occurred with Vicky Cruz on Friday that I think you should be aware of.” I described the encounter.

“Interesting,” he said, his face neutral. “But the comment could have been perfectly harmless, just an expression people use.”

“Her tone was threatening.”

“Robin, I don’t want you to get worked up unnecessarily. As soon as we have a lead, I will let you know.”

“I saw you coming out of Vicky’s office earlier,” I said. “I thought there might be a development.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I simply found an excuse to stop by, chat and observe. As I said, I’ll be in touch with you as soon as we learn something.”

His tone had turned patronizing. And I didn’t like what he’d just told me. Vicky was smart enough to know that someone like Oliver didn’t simply drop by for a “chat.”

“Since the video cameras have turned out to be a bust, what do you plan to do instead?” I asked.

“We’re taking steps. But I’d like to keep those under wraps for now.”

“You make it sound like I’m being pushy,” I said sharply. “I hope you can see things from
my
point of view. I feel like a sitting duck around here.”

“I assure you, Robin, we view this very seriously, and I guarantee we will find out who’s behind it.”

On Tuesday I felt even more agitated. Each day that something didn’t happen made it worse. On the show that night, during the rescheduled segment about baby divorcées, I lost my train of thought completely for about five seconds. As I glanced around the table, trying desperately to figure out what had been said, I could feel myself starting to sweat. Had Carter asked
me
a question? But he wasn’t looking at me; he was looking at the marriage therapist, waiting for a response. A second later, she began to rattle on about the value of “I” statements over “you” statements with your spouse. I took a breath and forced my brain to reengage.

That can’t happen again, I told myself.
Ever
,
ever
,
ever
.

As soon as I was back in my office, I called Carter.

“You were in a real hurry to leave the set tonight,” he said.

“I hate playing this waiting game, wondering what’s in store for me next.”

“Tell me how I can help.”

“You can lean me over a table again and have your way with me.”

He came to my apartment this time. We had sex by candlelight, the sandalwood scent filling the air. For that hour, at least, I felt bold, in control. I didn’t want it to be over.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Carter said afterward.

I hesitated. “I was thinking how nice your butt looks by candlelight.”

“I mean what’s on your mind? Come on, let me in, Robin.”

“I thought that was what I’d been doing for the past hour.”

“Very funny,” he said, smiling. “Look, I’m just trying to help. I can tell this whole thing is wigging you out.”

“What do you mean?”

“You seemed a little distracted tonight on the show.”

“Oh, thanks,” I said. I shoved the sheet off, thrust myself out of bed, and yanked my robe down from the back of the closet door.

“Don’t take it the wrong way,” Carter said. “I’m concerned for you.”

“Well, it’s a little hard to be at the top of your game when someone is gunning for you.”

He climbed out of bed. “Are they any closer to figuring this out?” he asked.

“Not as far as I can see.”

While Carter slipped on his pants, I recounted my recent run-in with Vicky.

“That does sound threatening,” he said. He pulled me to him. “Look. Don’t be annoyed about what I said a second ago. You’ve been a total trouper about this whole thing. And I promise I have your back.”

“Thanks,” I said, relaxing a bit.

“Tell you what,” he said. “I’m going to bring you a little surprise tomorrow. I guarantee you’ll like it.”

“Not a Lionsgate watch, is it?” I said, teasing. I needed to change the mood. If I turned into a shrew, this would be over.

“No. Not a regift, I swear.”

After he left, I paced the apartment. He’d been right. The cracks were showing, and I had to superglue them closed. Then my phone rang, making me jump. It was almost midnight.

“Sorry to call so late, darling,” a woman said when I answered. Bettina.

“Is everything
okay
?” I asked.

“I wanted to give you a heads-up. My news director called me tonight and told me we’re posting an item about you. Don’t worry, darling, it’s all very flattering. But it may ruffle feathers. It’s about a survey the network did.”

It had to be the one Potts had mentioned.

She promised to email me the link, and a minute later, after signing off, I read it on my laptop:

Oh, fucking brilliant, I thought. Someone in management at the network must have leaked it. It would surely infuriate Vicky. And what would Carter think? Hopefully, his ego was big enough to take it in stride.

I couldn’t sleep after that. Potts had mentioned the survey to me. Would he think
I
had tattled? He couldn’t. After all, he’d told me so little about it. At around four, I finally drifted off. When I woke, I felt totally ragged, my body humming with low-grade panic.

I called Ann as soon as I’d showered, but she didn’t pick up. At about ten, as I stared at my computer screen in the office, she followed up. “I assume you’ve seen the post,” she said.

“How did this get out, for God’s sake?”

“I have no clue. More than a few people were given access to the survey, including Tom. You didn’t say anything to anyone about it, did you?”

“Of
course
not,” I said. “Do I need to do any kind of damage control?”

She didn’t say anything.

“
Ann?
”

“I’m thinking. It should be fine. I’m waiting to see Potts about it. I’m sure he’s irked, but I’ll make clear there was no way it came from you.”

Later, in the rundown meeting, people seemed subdued, awkward. They’d all seen the item. Were they thinking I was going all diva-like? Carter met my eyes once but quickly glanced away. I told myself he was being careful, but as we all filed out of the room, I sensed a chill coming off him.

A half hour before I was due on-set, I locked my office door and headed down to makeup for a touch-up of extra concealer for the expanding circles under my eyes. I flinched as Stacy brushed it on.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ve been double-checking your makeup each day.”

When she was done, I flew back to my office. I felt drained, desperate for a few minutes alone to jumpstart my energy. I opened the door to the anteroom and froze. In the black wire basket on the door to my private office, where packages were sometimes left for me, was an object wrapped in a white napkin. I stepped closer, wary. With one finger, I lifted the edge of the napkin. There was a huge chocolate brownie nestled inside. Written on the napkin in pen: “I thought this would make you smile. C.”

Okay, I thought, relieved. Carter had said last night that he had some kind of treat for me. This meant he wasn’t annoyed—though it had been stupid to leave the note out in the open this way. I carried the brownie into my office and devoured half of it, careful not to smear my lipstick. The caffeine and sugar seemed to kick in almost instantly.

“Cutting it a little close today,” one of the crew said when I rushed onto the set five minutes later.

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s your fault,” I whispered to Carter as I took my seat.

“What do you mean?” he asked. His tone was challenging and his eyes cool. I didn’t get it.

“The brownie you left,” I said. “I was so busy savoring it, I lost track of the time.”

“I didn’t leave you a brownie,” he said, and looked away.

Everything in the room seemed to soften, go mushy, as if there weren’t any outlines anymore.

“Are you just teasing?” I asked him. “Because you—you said you were going to bring a surprise.” My tone sounded plaintive, almost desperate, and I knew I had to buck up. Our mics were on. People could hear.

“Nope, wasn’t me,” he said. “Maybe your buddy Dave Potts left it.”

He was rifling through a stack of notes in front of him, not bothering to meet my eyes. It was because of the item that morning. I’d been called the secret of the show’s success, not him.

But who had left the brownie? I could feel panic flooding me, making my arms and legs limp. C., I thought. Who was C.? Charlotte? There was no way she would have done anything sweet like that. Stacy? No, no, what was I thinking? Her name started with an S. I felt loopy suddenly, listless.

“One minute,” the director said in my earpiece.

I needed water. I reached beneath the table for one of the bottles kept there. My hand touched the cap, but I knocked the bottle over, and I could hear it roll away. I looked down, searching for it.

“Thirty seconds . . . Robin, what are you doing?”

I started to answer, but then Carter was talking to the camera. Fragments about the fall TV lineup and the number of new shows about serial killers. We were live. I stared at him, clueless. When he turned and asked me a question, I didn’t understand what he’d spoken. Just say
something
, I thought.

“I bet—I bet you love serial killer shows, Carter,” I said.

“Oh, really? Why do you say that, Robin?”

“I mean, you’re a guy, right?” My words sounded slurry, and I urged myself to slow down. “And jeez, guys, they love that stuff. All the blood and everything. Gore, gore . . . gore. Blood everywhere. What is it with guys and gore, anyway?”

“Not
all
guys are like that, are they?” he said. “Some of us even like schmaltzy stuff occasionally.”

“Nah, you just
say
that, you know. Tryin’ to seem sensi—I don’t know. Maybe some do. I knew a guy who shwore, I mean
swore
, he loved
Little Mermaid
.”

“Jesus,” someone said in my ear. “Cut to Carter. Carter, just
fill
. We are going to a commercial in thirty seconds.”

I touched my hand to my head and closed my eyes. I couldn’t think anymore. Then someone was by my side, taking me by the arm and leading me off the set. I stumbled. My arms and legs felt as floppy as rubber bands. What was happening? Was I dying?

“Find Will—Will Oliver,” I begged. “
Please
.” I sank to the floor, my eyelids too heavy to lift open anymore.

After that, I was aware only of being laid down on a cushiony surface and then being lifted and jostled. The sound of car horns. Dreams about houses that had no doors. Then light nudging me awake.

When I opened my eyes, I saw that I was in bed, high off the floor in a pale blue room. A dull light seeped through venetian blinds. I tried to move my arms but couldn’t. For a terrifying moment I thought I was strapped in a straitjacket. But then I discovered my arms were just wedged between the sheets. I wrestled them free.

“Hello,” I called out. My voice was hoarse. I tried again, but no one answered, though I could hear noises outside the room, hospital ones—echoing footsteps, the squeaking and rolling sound of a trolley. I twisted around and found a call button and pressed it once, then again. And again. A few moments later, a nurse appeared. She was about forty, Latina, dressed in blue pants and a smock top.

“How are you doing this morning?” she asked, smiling kindly.

“I don’t know,” I said. My brain felt like a giant marshmallow. “I just . . . What day is it?”

“It’s Thursday, about nine a.m. You came to the ER here at St. Luke’s just before eight last night. Why don’t I arrange for you to have breakfast now? Some tea and a little food should help.”

As the nurse raised the back of the bed, I flung other questions at her. She told me that the doctor would be in shortly to discuss my condition and determine when I could be released.

I remembered a few snatches. Sitting next to Carter on the set. Trying uselessly to talk. Stumbling off the set. I’d been
drugged
, I realized.

“By the way, there’s someone waiting in the lounge to talk to you,” she said. “A Mr. Oliver. Are you up for that?”

“Yes, please,” I said. “I need to see him
now
.”

“Why don’t you use the bathroom first?” she suggested. “And then I’ll bring him in. Just so you know, people have called to check on you. Your friend Ann more than once.”

I wobbled as she escorted me toward the bathroom. I couldn’t believe my face in the mirror. My eyes were puffy, almost slits, and there was makeup smudged all over the lids. I used a paper towel to scrub off what I could. Two minutes after I’d returned to bed, Oliver entered the room. He nodded somberly and lowered himself onto the fake leather guest chair. “You’ve had quite a night,” he said. “We were all very worried.”

“Do they know yet what I was given—what made me pass out?”

“It appears you were under the influence of some kind of a tranquilizer or sleeping medication, though more than a normal dosage. The tox results should be in later today.”

I felt my eyes brim with tears, as much from anger as anything else. I pressed a fist to my lips and then pulled it away. “It must have been in the brownie,” I said.