The woman’s suntanned face took on a tinge, and for the first time, she spotted something more than her job in it, maybe even something decent. “I’m no cop,” she said. “I don’t know what to do here.”
“For starters, please just get me out of that room.”
She did it, too, and in less than an hour. New room, new life, new message for Christopher at the front desk. Now here she sat on the same bed with its white, down-filled comforter, its wonderfullittle pillows, its room-service menu, or as they now called it, “In-Room Dining.”
Wine by the bottle or half bottle. She could use a drink. Maybe even some real food. She glanced at the menu. Farfalle, risotto, salmon. None was really that difficult to resist; she’d learned that when she lost her weight. It was all about choice; hunger seldom had anything to do with it.
She flipped the page of the menu. Temptation flashed past her. In two words, Dessert Menu. A cheesecake with chocolate chip cookies blended into it. A lemon tart. Bread pudding with apples and rum. Tiramisu made with coffee and marsala. Ice cream served in a brandy cup. Milk shakes, a classic hot fudge sundae, made with Häagen-Dazs, with additional hot fudge on the side. It was the additional hot fudge that got her.
God help her, she picked up the phone and ordered one of each. Just a bite, not what she used to do. She would have a bite of each one, and only that. After what she’d been through tonight, she deserved something sweet in her life. And desserts were cheaper than alcohol. This venture was more cost-efficient than a bottle of wine that would just puff up her face and make her look like hell tomorrow, anyway.
She picked up the phone and placed her order.
“You wanted the flan?” she called to an imaginary roommate. Then continued, “Yes. One flan, one crème brûlée, one lemon tart, one bread pudding, one California strawberry shortcake…” She continued down the list, all the way to the bottom.
“How many forks?” the voice on the other end asked.
“Why, one for each of us, of course.”
Fifteen minutes later, her order arrived. The server was a woman, her eyes still dazed from the earlier alarm. She stood outside the door with her large tray.
“Where do you want these?”
“My friend, Christopher, will bring them in,” she said. “We’re having a bit of a get-together. Our friends went back to their rooms to change.” The server didn’t alter her bored expression, and Gabriella realized she was talking too much. The young woman didn’t give a fig who ate this stuff; she just wanted to get paid. Gabrielle extended her room key. “Is your tip included?”
“Yes, and I don’t need your card, just for you to sign the bill here. You sure you don’t want me to carry this inside?”
“No. My friend can take care of it. We’ll leave the tray for you tomorrow.”
The girl’s expression softened. “Okay, then.” The princess accent. It worked every time.
Gabriella stood outside the door, head held high, as the girl walked down the hall and into the elevator.
Once she dragged the tray inside, she twisted the dead bolt and slid the double lock securely into place. Where did she start? The smells, the textures, the fruit garnishes, the tiny knots of whipped cream, the gravelly sprinkling of nuts so minuscule she’d have to taste them to identify their origin? No; there was only one place to start.
She looked at her finger, pale and white, a creamy contrast to her lilac-toned nails. Then, slowly, she dipped that perfect fingertip into the silver cup that contained the additional hot fudge for the sundae. As the heat of the chocolate consumed her flesh, she felt finally free of the night’s terror, and she reveled in the thought of what she would experience next.
Gabriella sat on the tile floor of the bathroom, head over the toilet, smelling the cool breath of the water in her face. Nothing more to expel, and probably nothing more to consume, if that act of human aberration were possible. She hadn’t done this, had she? Not after being in control for so long?
No one answered. The toilet bowl just sat there. Oh, God, had it come to this?
THIRTEEN
Gabriella
She woke up a little after five, hating herself. That was the worst part, how it made you feel about yourself. She’d be okay, though. She’d been okay a long time, in control. That’s what she needed to get. Back in control. Accountability, discipline, and for now, she needed to prove she was on the right track.
The hotel had threatened to crumble at her feet. She’d had to confront how alone she really was. But the health club on the fourth floor was open. On the treadmill, she faced the row of windows, shutting out the two or three other exercisers behind her on various pieces of equipment. She walked at a rapid pace, watching the dark hills against the light of the sky, only a few cars on Los Robles at this hour, and fewer still on Walnut. Safe-sounding streets in a city, a world, where it could all change just like that. How fragile our lives really are, she thought, despite how secure and indestructible we try to make them in our minds. Despite how we decorate them with desk clerks, elected officials, wedding vows.
Now here she was, absolutely alone, and having to face heaven knew what in only a few hours. Was it worth it, to risk her health? And based on what had happened back in her room, maybe more than her health? Maybe she should just accept Jesse McArthur’s offer.
Rikki
They are all here, the reporters and camera people, on Los Robles, as Bobby Warren cuts the ribbon on his new Killer Body location. That it’s a short, square building doesn’t matter. That the three women can barely look at one another doesn’t matter. That one of the reporters makes a crack about how he usually covers auto accidents matters even less.
“At least we’re still alive,” Bobby Warren croaks.
He is the true reason we’re here—Bobby Warren, the ultimate living fitness pioneer. Bigger than Jack La Lanne; bigger than Joe Gold and his gyms; bigger than Harold Zinkin, who started the whole thing when he became the state’s first Mr. California and, later, invented the Universal Gym Machine.
