The Elizas: A Novel(82)

Dorothy frowned, then followed her gaze toward the bar. Dot knew she only had seconds before her aunt’s attention returned to her. Luckily, they both had drunk about the same amounts of their stingers—or else Dorothy had ordered another. A few quick movements, and it was over.

“That looks nothing like him at all,” Dorothy said, turning back to their table. “And believe me, I know.” She cupped her hands around her drink, seeming none the wiser. Dot almost felt bad for her. She’d just pulled the oldest and possibly stupidest trick in the book on her aunt, and she’d fallen for it.

“You do know,” Dot said, leaning forward on her elbows salaciously. “Didn’t you say you used to party with him?”

Dorothy’s eyes twinkled. “Darling, do I have a story for you.”

Dot sat back to listen. All she had to do now was wait. And try not to inwardly combust.





ELIZA


I CHASE DESMOND’S car for a block, yelling his name. He drives right past my house, but he doesn’t stop, making a right at the dead end and looping around the other street in the neighborhood. I can hear the Batmobile’s engine growling, but houses block my view. I slap my arms to my sides, baking on the lonely sidewalk. My face blazes with anger for Andrew’s petty little stunt. I trusted him—and for what? I haven’t yet gotten the information. There probably is no information. I was probably blathering on at the Shipstead to myself. Except it’s not a tumor that made that mischief—it was just me.

An engine hums behind me, and I turn. A limo is waiting at my curb. The driver leans out the window. “Eliza Fontaine?”

“Y-yes.”

“I’m Sal. From Dr. Roxanne. I’ve been calling.”

I look at my phone, and yes, there are four missed calls from a 310 area code I don’t recognize. I can feel sweat running down my back. There’s no way I can do Dr. Roxanne. I have to cancel. I consult my phone, readying myself to call Laura, who will be furious, and Posey, who will probably start crying or go into spontaneous early labor as a result of her distress. Only, almost comically, my phone is at 1 percent battery life. As I’m looking at it, the thing shuts down.

The car’s engine purrs. Sports radio plays softly out of the speakers. “First time on the show?” Sal asks. When I don’t answer: “First time on any show?”

I make a small squeak of confirmation.

“It’ll be all right. Believe me, I’ve picked up tons of nervous guests in my day. Way more nervous than you—and they do great.”

I take the bait and look up. “Anyone I’d know?”

He smiles mysteriously. “I’ve been sworn to secrecy. Now, you ready to get inside?”

He gets out, opens the back door, and gestures me in. I peer at the interior. Leather-on-leather. An open bottle of Perrier rests in the center caddy. There’s a bunch of trashy magazines in the seat pocket.

I do as I’m told and sit stiffly. I don’t bother to buckle my seat belt. Maybe we’ll get in a crash. Maybe I’ll perish. Though unbidden, the incident at the bar with Andrew runs in my head on a continuous loop. I open my palm and realize that the earring Andrew gave back to me is still there; I’ve been clutching it so hard it’s made an impression in my skin. Shakily, I thread it through the hole in my ear. My throat starts to close, and I shut my eyes, wondering where Desmond has gone. If he’s ever going to speak to me again. Why I’m always such an asshole. Why I couldn’t have just let it go for one day.

“So, you an actress?”

I meet Sal’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “An author.”

“Yeah? What sort of book? Self-help?”

God, I don’t want to talk right now, but his grandfatherly voice gets to me. “Fiction, actually.”

“No way! I’ve always thought I have a book in me. What’s it about?”

I poke a finger through a hole in my jeans. Hopefully they’ll have clothes for me to change into at the show. The show. My chest clenches again. Why am I going through with this?

“Love,” I manage to answer. “And having to rewrite your entire past.”

“Hey, now I know that firsthand,” he says as he merges onto route 5. “My first wife? Cheating on me through our entire marriage. With—get this—my freaking brother.” He chuckles. “All this time I think she’s crazy for me. And I think when she says she’s got a headache and doesn’t want to have sex, she’s really got a headache. Now I gotta believe there was no headache. She was just sore from banging Nico. Excuse my language.”

I shut my eyes, which the driver interprets as a quick attempt for a nap, for which I’m grateful. When we stop, I look around. Dr. Roxanne, I was told, is shot on the CBS lot, but we’re in a completely different part of town. Sal puts on his blinker and turns up a long, pretty driveway. The Magnolia Hotel, reads an old-fashioned sign that’s nestled between a jungle of blindingly green palms.

The hair on the back of my neck rises. “What are we doing here?”

“She’s shooting on location this week. You ever been to this place? Pretty swanky.” He glances at me in the rearview. “Honey, you need some water? You’re looking kinda piqued again.”

“I’m fine,” I think I say, though I can’t be sure, because everything has gone muzzy. It’s the tumor, I desperately want to think, except I can’t think that anymore because it isn’t true. Yet this place is awakening parts of me I didn’t know were there. I have no knowledge of ever being at the Magnolia Hotel in my life, but somehow I know that the road will bend at the top and two valets will leap out from behind an invisible post—and they do. I also know that when I step out of the car it will smell like orange blossoms—and it does. I know that the valet who greets me—bulbous nose; bristly, wheat-colored hair; trim in his uniform—will have a deep, cranky voice with a slight accent from somewhere in the middle of the country. And look. There he is.