His voice makes it clear that I haven’t quelled his suspicions.
“That’s the case,” I say.
I leave, still seeing the black dress in my mind—that hideous, hateful rip. Julie Larimore’s dress. Lisa’s.
The Interview
How does it feel to have caused this kind of commotion ?
How do I feel now that the black dress has commanded their attention? The fat girl, the haggard hag, the phony royal without a family? See how they run, how they worry, how they consider, for the first time, their own precious garments and the bodies that display them.
Even the reporter has taken note. She will sleep less smugly tonight. She will rise to tell her story in the morning. And she, along with the rest of them, will begin to reconsider.
Hear this plea, Santa Barbara ocean. Swallow the dawn and fold these secrets into your waves. It won’t be long now, and everything will be right again. Strong again. Strong and safe.
How do I feel? I feel vindicated.
SEVEN
Tania Marie
Word of the day:Supercilious:Arrogant, condescending, haughty
“Four frigging headlines for one frigging evening.”
Tania Marie piled the newspapers and their lies in the wrought-iron bistro chair beside her. Jay Rossi had brought the good news with him, driving up that morning in a black pickup she’d die before she set a foot inside. Virginia had to be out of her mind.
In the plus department, Rossi had a nice-enough face, more sneer than grin, and hair a soft brown color that only those who were blond as children possessed. Not that it mattered.
Strike one, he worked for Virginia, which translatedflunky.Strike two, he had short-man attitude to the max. Strike three, that horrendous truck he called “Blackie” was an accident waiting to happen. The passenger door wouldn’t even open. If she hadn’t been so upset about what happened at the party, she never would have subjected herself to the short ride down the street.
She’d known better than to have coffee with the supercilious punk, but it beat the hell out of dinner. Now, after poring over the stories, she never wanted to see another newspaper, or another bodyguard again. She took a final swallow of her latte—nonfat sugar-free vanilla, thank you very much—then got up and tossed the cup, cardboard collar and all, into the bin.
“Why do you read those stories about you if you hate them so much?”
“Why do you look when you pass an accident?”
He laughed, then cupped his espresso in both hands. Short man; short drink; short date.
“I can walk back to my apartment,” she said. “It’s been nice knowing you.”
“Same here.”
The prick stood up and pulled his windbreaker around him. “Not even Virginia has enough money in her coffers to put me though this crap.”
“I told you I don’t need a fucking bodyguard.”
He flinched. “And I don’t need to take any more lip from you.” And without waiting for an answer, “I’m not here by choice.”
“No?”
“Hell, no. I’m just trying to do a favor for your mother.”
He threw a bill on the table and started for the truck.
“How much did Virginia pay you for this gig?”
“Enough. I’d do it for nothing, just to learn from her.”
