California Girls(65)

Finola felt the judgment and slap all the way down to her soul. She wanted to run away but there was no escape and no one to protect her. She looked around, but most of the crew had disappeared and the other guests had left. These were the last two.

“It wasn’t my choice,” Finola said before she could stop herself. She knew there was no point, that she should simply thank them for coming and walk away, but she couldn’t seem to move. “Not the affair or the publicity. There are photographers stalking me. They found out where I live and they chase me in their cars, making me feel scared and unsafe. It’s a nightmare and it’s humiliating.”

She was saying too much but she couldn’t seem to stop. She wanted this woman to know that it was all Nigel. All him and that whore Treasure. Finola was the innocent party. She’d done nothing wrong.

She opened her mouth to say that, then shook her head. She was a fool. Whatever this woman thought of her was her business.

Finola forced herself to smile pleasantly at both of them. “Thank you so much for coming. I hope you enjoyed the show.” Then she turned and walked away, heading for the hallway where there would be people to make sure that awful woman didn’t follow her.

Behind her she heard the daughter saying, “Mo-om, why’d you say that? It was really rude.”

“She thinks she’s all that because she’s on TV.”

“She’s doing her job.”

“She chose this.”

Finola turned another corner and the words were lost. She made her way to her dressing room and went inside. Once the door was closed behind her, she leaned against it, as if keeping out everyone else.

Rochelle looked up from her laptop. “You okay?”

“Yes, of course. Just dealing with fans. You know how they can be.”

Rochelle’s gaze sharpened. “Did someone say something?”

Finola used her hand to flick away the question. “Do we have the segments for next week’s shows?”

“So that’s a yes.”

“It doesn’t matter. There’s no way to keep this sort of thing from happening. Everyone has an opinion, even if they don’t actually care about me or Nigel or even Treasure. Right now we’re interesting. Next week everyone will tune in to watch a surfing dog.”

“Do you know how many views you’ve had?” Rochelle asked softly. “Of that segment with Treasure?”

“Tell me.”

“Over two million.”

Finola collapsed on the sofa. “We’re just not that interesting. How can anyone care?”

She didn’t expect an answer and Rochelle didn’t say anything. Finola closed her eyes. “Isn’t it enough that we’ve had meetings discussing what segments we can and can’t do on the show? My agent yelled at me when she found out. She reminded me that when anything like this happened, she was my first call. The producers all huddle together and stop talking when I walk by.” She opened her eyes and stared at her assistant. “I’m not the bad guy.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Let me get you some tea.”

Because Finola couldn’t go home yet. She had fittings for the next quarter’s wardrobe and after that she had to work out for two hours to stay thin enough to be on TV and be attractive so people wouldn’t think Nigel had cheated on her because she was a hag.

“Thanks,” she said gratefully. “I swear I’ll get this figured out and quit whining.”

“You’re not whining,” Rochelle told her as she stood. “Finola, you’ve been through a lot. You’re dealing and it’s damned impressive.”

“Thank you.”

Finola told herself she would hang on to the kind words of support. She would stay strong and get through this, whatever it took. And when things were sorted out, she would—

Honest to God, she had no idea what she would do, but she was determined to be stronger than she had been. Honed by fire or whatever the phrase was. Because she was so tired of feeling broken.

*

Midmorning Ali finished the semiannual inventory of Mustang parts. The process controls she’d suggested a few months ago had turned out to make a big difference. She had a few more ideas she was going to discuss with Paul once she got her thoughts down in writing. As she made a few notes to review later, she thought about the possibility of going to college.

She hadn’t—after Finola and Zennie had gone, her parents had told her there wasn’t any money. She didn’t have a burning ambition to do anything specific, so she hadn’t really minded. Now it occurred to her she should have protested a little more than she had. Both her sisters had four-year degrees and she had nothing. They both had well-paying careers and she worked in an auto-parts warehouse. Yes, she’d moved up, from stocking to shipping to inventory control, but did she want to do this for the rest of her life? Didn’t she want to grow and be challenged and maybe contribute more than making sure there were plenty of headlights in stock? Not that she didn’t pride herself in her work, but was this where she saw herself in twenty years?

She knew her restlessness was as much about her breakup as her job. She was in transition and that was never easy. Even good change was stressful. So fine, if she didn’t have direction, she would figure it out. In the meantime, she could go to community college and start taking her general education classes. At least she would be moving forward instead of standing still.