Picture Perfect (18 page)

“I need to speak to you,” I say into the metal box, doing my best to keep the quiver out of my voice.

Rebecca doesn’t respond. Instead, her gate opens, the hum of electric motors churning as I pull through.

“Lauren,” Rebecca says, her tone grave, when she opens the front door.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I sputter between sobs. “I don’t know why I’m even here.”

“Come in,” she replies, her voice no less icy than normal.

I follow her into the grand marble foyer of her home. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a gilt mirror hanging over an ornate table topped with a crystal vase filled with red roses. With my eyes smudged with mascara and eyeliner, and my hair sticking out in every direction, I look like an emaciated panda in a fright wig. Only fitting that my outsides should match the mess that I am on the inside.

“I just made a pot of tea,” Rebecca says, stretching her hand out in front of her, leading me past her elaborately appointed living room. A giant crystal chandelier hangs over an antique furniture set that looks like it was imported directly from Versailles. We move into the large kitchen, a showpiece the likes of which Martha Stewart might slay her own daughter to cook in, with a chef’s oven, farmhouse sink, subzero fridge and even a wood stove in the corner.

She leads the way to a banquette tucked inside a bay window, overlooking a lush green canyon. She scoops her fluffy Maltese, Muffin, from the cushions and sets the miniature dog on her lap as she settles into the seat. I slide in opposite her. Two cups and saucers are already laid out, as if she was expecting someone to join her when she put the kettle on. A plate of blueberry scones rests tantalizingly next to the ceramic teapot still steeping. The scent of raspberries wafts out of the pot when she lifts the lid, and my mouth begins to water.

No matter what state I am in, I can always manage to eat.

She pours the steaming liquid into each of our cups, and offers me sugar cubes and cream, which I accept. I pluck three of the sweet squares for my tea, while she only takes one. I should have known she would exercise restraint. She never eats a morsel at our Monday meetings. She probably thinks I’m a glutton.

Rebecca proffers a scone at me and I eagerly scoop one up, breaking off a large chunk and stuffing it into my mouth.

“Tell me, Lauren, what has brought you here today?”

I swallow, the scone sliding down my throat in one big lump. “It’s Alan,” I say, with a sigh.

Rebecca swirls a small spoon in her cup. “And what about him?” She taps the utensil on the rim and sets it on the saucer.

I pick up my teacup, and blow on the piping hot liquid. “He said something about you. Something that I just have trouble understanding. Believing.”

“Me?” she replies. Her tone is strange, almost defensive. As if I’ve accused her of some egregious act.

“Yes. He said—” I begin to explain, but she cuts me off with a wave of her hand.

“You mustn’t listen to Alan. He’s been very irresponsible of late. Frankly, I am deeply disappointed in him.”

“So, when he said that you told him to marry me, that wasn’t true?”

Rebecca takes a sip of tea, her eyes locked on the delicate rose pattern in the tablecloth before us. She replaces her cup on its saucer, clearly unwilling to answer me.

“Rebecca, did you?” I ask with just enough sharpness to let her know that I’m not going to drop the subject.

“Of course not,” she replies succinctly.

“Then why would he say that?”

“What happened to your hand?” she asks, noting my bandage.

“I cut it on some ridiculously sharp crystal award of Alan’s. But don’t change the subject. Why would he say you told him to marry me if it wasn’t true?”

Rebecca sits back in her seat with a sigh. She drums her fingers along the edge of her cup, like she may be contemplating revealing some dreadful secret.

“Rebecca,” I say, totally disregarding the fact that questioning my superior like this is wholly inappropriate, “you’re silence is not helping the situation. What is he talking about?”

I rip off another piece of the scone and shove it in my mouth. Rebecca’s upper lip curls, as if she’s repulsed by how aggressively I masticate the pastry.

“I simply told him that I thought you would make a good match for him. That you were worthy of him.” She paused, then added, “I didn’t know he wouldn’t be worthy of
you
.”

***

“He threatened me, Justine, threatened to destroy me,” I blubber into the phone.

“Oh, girl,” Justine sighs. “Hasn’t this gone on long enough?”

“Huh?” I say, sucking back a sob as I kick off my shoes and drop my bags at the foot of my bed.

“How badly do you need the money? I mean, you don’t, do you? You make more money than he does anyway.”

“It’s not about the money. It’s the principle,” I reply, my tears drying suddenly.

“Look, there are innocent people being murdered in Darfur. Homeless living in filth on Fifth Avenue. Toxins in our food and water. Polar Bears are disappearing from the earth.”

“What’s your point?” I demand, knowing full well the picture she’s painting. But belittling my grief in comparison to much bigger woes only makes me more irritated. Don’t I have a right to my pain?

“You know exactly my point. You got your heart broken. It happens. But, in the scheme of things, what have you lost?”

I realize now that turning to Justine for comfort was probably a bad idea. She breaks hearts almost monthly. Usually, just so their owners don’t have a chance to break hers first. She has little sympathy for the lovelorn.

“How could you understand? You’ve never loved anyone. You don’t know what it’s like—this disappointment. It’s
crushing
.”

“You have to be strong, Lauren. You’re tough. You’re one of the top producers in the TV biz. You can get through this.”

“I’m tired of being strong,” I say as I collapse onto the bed. “I’m not made of stone, you know. Sometimes I just want to cry…and maybe get a little sympathy from my best friend.” The last of my words barely make it out as sorrow grips the back of my throat and I choke back another sob.

“I know. I’m sorry. I just feel that you could end this really quickly and relatively painlessly if you just signed the divorce papers. Be done with it and get on with your life. And your new man.”

“As if,” I snort. “Nothing is that simple, Justine. Life, unfortunately, is not nearly as black and white as that.”

“Maybe life isn’t, but this is. You don’t need the money. You don’t need him. Show him that. Sign the papers.”

Justine and I share a few more words before hanging up. I sink further into my cushy pillow-top, rolling onto my side and hugging my knees into my chest, not wanting to follow her advice, but knowing that she is probably right.

The afternoon light is beginning to fade and the weight of the last two weeks bears down on me, coaxing my eyes closed. But the moment I begin to drift off, my iPhone rings, and, startled, I answer it without looking at the caller ID.

“It’s me,” Jack says. “I’m downstairs.”

“Jack?” I bolt upright. “What are you doing here?”

“Tell the security guard I can go up in the elevator, will you? He’s giving me a hard time.”

Chuck, the building’s overly cautious (and probably rightfully so) security guard, comes on the line. “Ms. Tate, I got this fellow here who says he knows you.”

“Yeah, I know him.”

“You want me to let him up, or should I toss him out?”

I ponder this for a second. Chuck is six-foot-four and about two-hundred-fifty pounds. If anyone could toss Jack out, it would be Chuck. And I should have him do just that. But the part of me that pays no attention to logic and reason says, “Let him up.”

I cast a glance in my full-length mirror to assess the damage the day has done to my appearance. Raccoon eyes, mussed hair, wrinkled attire. A complete mess. I hurry into the bathroom and dab a wet cloth under my eyes, run a comb through my hair, and powder away the tear stains on my cheeks.

Vanity never takes a break in my world.

I yank off my jeans and wrinkled shirt and slip into a pair of designer yoga pants and a knit blouse that Giles procured for me specifically for Sunday afternoon lounging. I top off the outfit with a colorful wrap, and, noting my transformed guise in the mirror, I almost look like the picture perfect image of a woman who has everything under control and not a care in the world. But clearly, not everything is as it seems.

“Why do you keep running away from me?” Jack asks moments later as I swing open the front door. “And when are you going to learn that I will always find you?”

His tone is bemused and playful, but I am in no mood for it. I motion him in with a wave and notice that beneath the motorcycle helmet he has tucked under his arm, he’s carrying a bag of groceries.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“I’m going to make you dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“Well, I had a whole romantic evening planned for last night, but you skipped town on me. So, I’m bringing it to you. Where’s the kitchen?”

“Jack—”

“Don’t protest. It’s a meal, Lauren, not a marriage proposal. It isn’t going to change your whole world.”

“Follow me,” I relent, fairly certain that he’s wrong. In my fragile state, it is entirely possible that this one dinner will change my whole world. I’m definitely not of sound mind after my confrontation with Alan, Rebecca and Justine. It’s very likely that this simple romantic gesture of his will send me down yet another emotional rabbit hole.

I flip on the lights as I lead him through the apartment, setting the place aglow.

“Cozy,” he says, sweeping his gaze from the living room to the dining area. “Nothing like that white box in Malibu.”

“Yeah, well, that was Alan’s doing. I prefer comfy over slick any day.”

“Like your office. A tropical garden in the middle of a concrete block. Although this place has more of a Martha Stewart vibe to it.”

“Glad you like it,” I say mindlessly as we enter the kitchen.

Jack finds the light switch and sets the bag of groceries on the counter. He empties the contents: pasta, tomatoes, olive oil, basil, oregano, bread, mozzarella, a wedge of parmesan, and a bottle of Chianti. All the ingredients for a romantic dinner for two. The mere sight of those pantry staples shines a glaring light on how deprived I’ve been. How few of life’s simple pleasures I’ve enjoyed in the past six months. And probably a lot longer. Spending all my time and energy trying to secure my position at Timeless, in Hollywood. Sacrificing so much for so long, only to have everything unravel because Alan decided he didn’t want to stay married. 

“What’s wrong?” Jack asks, aware before even I am that I’m crying. “Oh, babe.”

He wraps his arms tight around me, and I press my ear to his heart. In my bare feet, he seems so much taller than me. He strokes my hair until the tears finally cease, and I lift my head off his chest. 

“Why do you keep showing up? Being Mr. Wonderful?”

“Because I’m a good person. And because I like you.” Jack takes my hands up in his, discovering my bandaged palm. “What’s this?”

“Nothing. I cut it on some stupid crystal thing in Alan’s den.”

“What were you doing in his den?

“Trying to save my reputation. And yours. Looking for evidence of his infidelity. He’s determined to ruin me.”

Jack twists his mouth into a grimace. “Ruin you?”

“It takes so little in this town to break a person. Just a bit of scandalous behavior, and you’re done. Especially if you’re a woman.”

“Scandal, huh?”

“Scandal.”

Jack shakes his head. “I’m sick of that guy treating people like we’re his playthings, discarding us when he’s done having his fun.”

“
Us?
” I question, but he doesn’t hear me.

“You really don’t know how many people he’s already hurt, do you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean before you met him. What do you know about his past? His family?”

“His family?” I think for a moment, trying to recall what little he’d shared with me over the years. “He was adopted as a baby by a wealthy older couple from Pasadena. They’d both passed away before I met him. He has no siblings or anything.”

“That’s it?”

“He didn’t talk about his family much. Or life before Timeless, really, other than his stint as an actor. Why?”

“I think he’s hiding something.”

“Hiding what?”

“Listen, I’m going to have to postpone our dinner,” Jack says, suddenly switching gears and putting the cheese in the refrigerator.

“Uh, Jack? What’s going on?”

“Nothing for you to worry about.” He grabs his helmet and heads out of the kitchen. I follow behind him like a lost puppy.

“But where are you going?”

“I have to check something. A hunch. It’s been nagging at me ever since that night we went to your place in Malibu. If I’m right about it, and I can prove it, I’m pretty sure I can put a stop to all of Alan’s bullshit.”

“What hunch?”

He gives me a quick peck on the forehead. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says. And before I can protest, he’s out the door.

Chapter 14

“Congratulations, I guess,” Jennifer says from the door of my office. “You win. Everything.”

I cock an eyebrow at her. “Everything?”

She sucks in her lower lip, and I can see that tears are threatening to flow from behind her designer glasses. I motion for her to have a seat in my guest chair.

“Rebecca fired me,” she blubbers the moment her ass hits the soft leather. “Just like that.”

Sally pokes her head in, and I wave her away, giving her a look that lets her know I can handle things. I shove a box of tissues at Jennifer. She takes one and dabs at her eyes, giving me a look of gratitude that I almost think is genuine. Almost. I know Jennifer isn’t just here to drown her sorrows. She’s after something.

“You took a risk,” I say with a measured touch of warmth. I have absolutely no sympathy for this girl, but I can play at make-believe just as easily as she can. “This is a tough business. But you’re young. You’ll bounce back.”