Cam shakes his head in admiration. He drinks me in from top to bottom and back again, that appreciative gaze operating at full wattage. Dressed in black pants and a bright purple shirt, he’s holding a worn paperback, and his grin is so wide he’s like a neon sign of Vegas waiting in the lobby for me.
Seeing him is like a hit, an inhalation, a relief. A faint drifting off to someplace else, where no sounds permeate my ears, where no sights invade my vision, where I take a drink of something blue and sugary a waiter brings me, and nothing in this heartless city, no boys, no blackmail, no mom, no naked men in halls, no affairs I didn’t want to know about, no secrets, no empty spaces, can ever touch me.
“Mmm. Perfection, Layla,” Cam says and hearing him say my name is like lightness, like a whisper that fades away into nothing. Into sweet oblivion.
He plants a delicious kiss on my cheek, and it feels as if he’s transmitting bionic powers to me, and they’re surging through my blood, turning me invincible.
“Mmm,” Cam says, taking a step back for another view. “I knew this dress would accentuate all the assets Mr. Stewart likes in a girlfriend.”
“Speaking of, anything I need to know about the job?”
Cam gives me the download. “He loves elephants. Okay? Elephants are his passion, and he is a huge supporter of Save Orphaned Elephants. He’s being honored as one of the Gold Level Givers. He has the head table and you’re his girlfriend. Anyone asks what you do, you’re a model. That’s all you need to say. You’re a model, you’re crazy for him, and you care so very deeply for the plight of the orphaned elephant,” he says, placing his hand on his heart.
My lips curve up in a conspiratorial grin. “I can do that.”
“I’ll be kicking it at the bar on the second floor. Nothing is going to go wrong, but just think of me as your buffer, if you need me.” He slaps the paperback against his other palm. “Now, you do your thing, I’ll do my thing. Because I just got to the good part in Bridget Jones’ Diary and I’m dying to see how it all plays out.”
“You’re reading chick lit?”
“It’s just a damn good story. Get your pretty ass upstairs. He’s waiting at the hotel bar and you’ll go up to the ballroom together. Arm in arm, baby. Arm in arm. You stay by his side all night long and make us proud, baby doll. Now, no more cheek kisses from me, because I don’t want you smelling like me, I want you smelling like a beautiful model who loves elephants.”
At five-eight, I tower over the squat and balding Mr. Stewart, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s hooked his hand possessively around my waist, and he taps my hipbone now and then, as if this is our longstanding little lovers gesture. We are at the front of the ballroom, near the stage, and we don’t have to mingle because everyone wants to mingle with him – the guest of honor and his model girlfriend. Black-tied waiters circle and offer sparkling drinks in champagne flutes. I politely decline. Mr. Stewart does as well, then returns his attention to a portly businessman next to him who’s discussing a recent news story about elephants. I nod thoughtfully as they chat, squeeze Mr. Stewart’s arm now and then, bat my eyes, and gaze adoringly at him like a proud girlfriend. I am giving it more than 110 percent and Cam will be thrilled with my report card, since Mr. Stewart is clearly besotted.
“It’s terribly sad, isn’t it?” the portly man says.
“That’s why we want to earn as much as we possibly can to save the African elephant from extinction,” my date says. “It’s so sad how close they are to being wiped out. It’s a genocide of animals and all for their tusks to be made into useless little trinkets and statues.” He turns to me. “Don’t you agree, my sweetheart?”
I nod wholeheartedly, bring my hand to my heart. “I want to live in a world where I don’t have to say to my kids someday, ‘This is where the wild things were.’ I want to say ‘This is where the wild things are.’”
“I couldn’t agree more,” the businessman says and wipes a small tear from his eye.
Someone clinks a fork against a glass and the sea of glamorously attired men and women in tuxes and evening gowns turns to the stage.
“Thank you so much for coming,” a woman in a modest black dress says after clearing her throat. “We are so grateful for all of you, and we hope you are having a wonderful time. Before we sit down to eat, we want to extend a heartfelt thank you to one of our most generous supporters, Mr. Stewart.”
The crowd claps and the chandeliers cast a warm glow around the cavernous ballroom as all eyes turn to the man next to me. He takes a quick bow, waves, and then slips his hand around my waist again. I plant an adoring kiss on his cheek.
He looks at me and smiles, a wide, happy, gooey smile that tells me I’ve earned that big-ass tip since he believes so thoroughly in the illusion I’ve created for him. I am his girlfriend. For tonight, I am absolutely his girlfriend.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Trey
When I reach the sixth floor, I race out of the elevator and down the hall, praying Michele is still here. I called her once, but it’s Friday night, so who the hell knows if she’s still working.
I yank open the door to her office suite.
“Trey,” she says with surprise. A black purse is slung over her arm, and she’s dressed in a pencil skirt and a sleeveless top. Weird – she’s not wearing her shrink uniform and it’s jarring to me to see her like this, as if I ran into a teacher at the mall, outside of her natural element. “What can I do for you? I’m just on my way to the theater.”
“What are you seeing?”
She flashes a quick smile. “Crash the Moon.”
“Oh. Cool. I’ve never seen it, but I heard it’s good.”
“It’s amazing. I’ve seen it several times. This will be my first time seeing it after it swept the Tony awards - best show, best director, best actress. But enough about me. What can I do for you? We’re going to need to talk and walk so I don’t miss curtain.”
“I fucked up big time,” I admit as we head back into the hallway.
“Then unfuck it up,” she says, as if that’s the easiest thing in the world. She hits the down button on the elevator panel.
“How?”
“Well, considering I don’t know what you did, the answer may vary. But it almost always starts with a heartfelt apology.”
On the ride down, I tell Michele what happened yesterday with Harley, how I freaked out when I saw the bag from Bloomingdale’s. “I didn’t even give her a chance to explain, but the fact is, she doesn’t have to explain. I believe her. I know I overreacted, because that’s what I do.”
We reach the lobby and leave the building together. “You need to work on that Trey. You have a lot of anger and you have some insecurity, but most of all you let fear of feeling control you. You can shut off and shut down, but none of those reactions are ultimately going to heal your heart. What will help you is speaking your truth. But don’t jump to conclusions. Don’t make assumptions. Say only what you know to be true,” she instructs me as I keep pace with her down Lexington Avenue. She looks at me as we slow at the crosswalk. “What is the one truth you most want to speak?”
A bus rolls to a stop, fumes pouring out and flooding the muggy June night. It’s sticky hot, and the nearby garbage can is overflowing, and this city makes me crazy, and I don’t even know if I want to be in New York anymore in the middle of all these piss-stained sidewalks and neverending garbage. But in spite of all that is ugly, there is her. Harley is what I want. She is the truth I most want to speak.
I tell Michele what I want to say to her.
“Good,” she says and smiles. “And now I want you to remember even if it feels scary to say that, I believe in you. I know you can do this. And don’t forget, we have a lot of other issues to work on still. So you better show up for your next appointment.”