“Yeah, well, maybe you should thank me!” she says meaningfully. “Who do you think arranged all this? Who do you think got your story into the New York Times, Lola?”
“Carty Carruthers, if I’m not mistaken,” I scowl.
Nance rolls her shoulders back, jutting her chin out imperiously. “Absolutely no one would have seen the story if it weren’t for me, Lola. I can’t believe you’re so ungrateful.”
“Fine, fine,” I sigh. “Thank you, Nance.”
“You’re welcome,” she sniffs. “Now why don’t you go talk to Judd? He could turn this into a movie, you know!”
“I don’t think we are ready for a movie, Nance. Let’s just keep that on the back burner for now, okay?”
She sucks her teeth in disgust and continues looking around, raising her champagne flute to various people when they catch her eye.
“Just try to smile, would you?” she says without moving her lips.
“I am smiling.”
“Y
ou smile like a cadaver,” she quips, then turns her body away.
But I do try, so at least later she won’t be able to accuse me of trying to sabotage her big night—and it really seems to be her big night, not just mine. I plaster on a big, movie star grin and try to act like this is just the most wonderful thing I could wish for.
She’s not entirely wrong, either. If you had asked me a year ago what my idea of the perfect night was, or what my idea of my career’s best-case scenario was, this is basically the situation I would have described. Ten thousand words in the New York Times, check. A book deal, check. A handsome man to share it with, check check check check and check.
“So, tell us how you got this story!” Marilyn Finkelstein says, sashaying over with a very handsome man right next to her. He looks rented. “Everyone is just dying to know, Lola. They can’t stop talking about it!”
“Yeah, I bet that’s a really interesting tale,” Nance adds cryptically, because I haven’t told her all the details yet. “How did you get this story, Lola? Did it just fall into your lap?”
“I guess you guys are just going to have to wait and read the book!” I chirp in response, laughing way too loud.
Everybody laughs along with me, and I have to admit that it doesn’t feel bad. I can see the guys out of the corner of my eye, rotating through the crowd. They don’t seem too uncomfortable, all except for Carty at the bar. Maybe this isn’t so bad. At least it’s only temporary.
“Well, I can’t wait,” Marilyn sighs dramatically. “I mean, everybody had heard rumors that they were still alive, but I just assumed that was all nonsense. But here they are! Real and in the flesh!”
“One hundred percent real!” I agree, smiling brightly.
“Like a bunch of fairytale princes, if you ask me,” Nance agrees, winking. “Practically just appeared out of thin air!”
I laugh along, taking careful sips of my champagne. I haven’t had a drink in weeks and I don’t want to get tipsy by mistake and end up falling off my glass slippers, as the fairytale goes. That would be just my luck.
“Oh, I don’t think they’re real,” comes a sneering voice next to me.
It takes me a moment to place the voice, but then I remember. I remember it all, and it makes my stomach lurch.
“Tucker?” I hear myself say as he pushes himself into the middle of the crowd. He licks his upper teeth slowly with his tongue as he stares at me from top to bottom, obviously undressing me with his eyes.
“Man, you are looking good,” he says too loudly. “You want to get out of here? This party is lame.”
“No, I do not want to get out of here,” I say irritably, somehow embarrassed that he is so rude. I don’t know why I’m embarrassed. I’m not the one being rude. But I notice people shifting their eyes away uncomfortably.
“God, I’ve missed you,” he says with a half yawn. “But I still don’t think they’re real.”
“You don’t think who is real?” I asked, confused.
He raises a hand with one finger extended and points at my chest, stabbing lasciviously.
“Those tits,” he crows. “No way those tits are real. Right? No way.”