California Girls(55)

“I’m sorry it’s so ugly,” Finola told her.

“It’s fine. No one is going to notice me. If the photographers are who we think they are, you’re the story. Now let’s put the jean jacket over your shoulders.”

Finola swung it into place, then stood to look at her reflection.

She looked good. Fit and chic. The sunglasses would hide her wide-eyed stare. She relaxed her face into a neutral expression that showed no emotion. That was her goal. To stay neutral. Pretty, confident and not the least bit upset by what was happening. When there was nothing left to do, they walked toward the studio exit.

“Want me to ask about a back way?” Rochelle asked. “I could get my car and drive around to get you.”

Finola managed a genuine smile. “You think they haven’t staked out the other side of the building?”

“Oh. Good point. Are you ready?”

Finola nodded because she didn’t have much choice in the matter. “I’ll walk directly to my car. You do the same. When I pull out, get right behind me. I doubt I’m someone worth following, but just in case, you can block the exit for a few seconds while I blend into traffic.”

“Are you all right?”

Finola raised a shoulder. “I’ll get through this.”

She was so focused on getting away, she didn’t have time to think or feel anything else. Probably for the best, she told herself. She had to remember that while she could ignore questions, pictures were forever. She sucked in a breath, then opened the studio door and started directly for her car.

The photographers were on her instantly. The whirring clicks of their cameras were nearly as loud as the questions.

“Finola, when did you find out about the affair?”

“Are you too old to have kids? Is that why your husband’s doing this?”

“Have you been in a three-way with Treasure?”

“Does it bother you that she’s so much younger?”

“When did your husband stop loving you?”

The questions hit her like poison darts, each more painful than the one before. She kept walking, her head high, her stride confident. She could see her car right up ahead of her. Neutral face, she chanted to herself. Neutral expression so no one knows what a bitch this was. She would get through it because she didn’t have a choice.

She reached her car. As she touched the door handle, the car unlocked. She slid into her seat, hit the door lock button, then started the engine. The photographers got close, but they didn’t crowd her and none of them raced for their cars. Thank God she’d been right—she wasn’t that interesting. Just interesting enough. Because of Treasure. If he’d slept with nearly anyone else, none of this would have been news.

She drove out of the parking lot with Rochelle right behind her and merged with the heavy traffic on Ventura Boulevard. She took the long way home, making plenty of unexpected turns, causing other drivers to honk at her. She wove through a quiet neighborhood, even stopping in front of a house for three minutes. No one else drove on the street. Only then did she allow herself to breathe.

She called Rochelle. “I don’t think anyone followed me.”

“I didn’t see anyone after you. Finola, I’m so sorry about all this.”

“Me, too.”

“It’s going to be everywhere by tonight. You’re going to have to deal with it at work.”

Not anything she wanted to think about. “I know.”

“How can I help?”

“I’m not sure, but I’ll be in touch.”

“Do you want me to get you a hotel room?”

Finola swore silently. Of course—because she probably couldn’t stay in her house. Not now.

“Let me figure out my next step,” she said. “I’ll let you know. And Rochelle? Thank you.”

“Of course. You know I’m on your side.”

Finola allowed herself a second of self-congratulation. She’d chosen well when it came to her assistant. As to her husband—not so much on the choosing.

She pulled away from the curb. Twenty minutes later her car was in the garage and she was on her laptop. She logged into the TMZ website, then swore when she saw the headlines. News of Treasure’s new lover was everywhere along with pictures of the singer with Nigel. Worse, there were clips from the interview on the AM SoCal show, showing a very shell-shocked Finola. At the time people had assumed she’d merely had an off show. In hindsight, everyone would know she’d just been told the news and was having to deal on live TV.

Humiliation and anger fought for dominance. Damn Nigel. Why had he done this to her? She hadn’t done anything to deserve it. He was a total asshole, but hers was the life that was destroyed. Nobody cared if their plastic surgeon had an affair with a singer. But she was all about home and family. Her brand was smart and fun, without any kind of edge. Her viewers would wonder, much like her stepfather had, how she was to blame.

Her phone started chiming as text messages came in, then it rang. She glanced at the screen. She didn’t know the number, so didn’t answer. She put it on silent, then watched as it buzzed as if it were being electrocuted.

She needed a plan. It was only a matter of hours until the press found out where she lived. The deed was in both her and Nigel’s names, so hardly secure. She really didn’t want to go live in a hotel. That would be too depressing and she would feel too vulnerable in such a public location. Anyone could knock on her door.