“When the cameras are on, you two shine,” Sterling confirms.
Whack. There it is. The truth.
“When the cameras are on...”
None of this is real. I have to remember that.
When the luscious-looking, three-tier seafood platter arrives on a bed of ice, we all dig in.
I’ve never tasted fresh crab leg before, and I experiment by dipping it first in butter, then trying it with a squeeze of lemon.
Just when I’m about to take a bite of lobster, a woman’s voice cuts through the multi-lingual conversations around us.
I turn to see a voluptuous lady approaching our table. Her blazing orange cover-up accentuates her long, dark, lustrous hair and considerable curves.
“Sam! I was told you’d be here,” she says with a strong, lilting Italian accent.
Sam? This woman knows Slayer from his Sam days?
My mind flicks back to our first encounter at the noodle place, where Slayer introduced himself as Sam.
He stands, and I watch as they embrace in recognition. “Valentina? My God, it’s been years.”
The music cranks up, making their conversation impossible to hear, even if I strain my ears.
Who is this Valentina? She’s at least thirty—maybe even older.
As I observe them side by side, I’m struck by their tall, dramatic, pseudo-vampire looks. Though they are different nationalities, their vibe is the same.
“Sterling,” Slayer says to the record mogul as they return to our table. “I’d like you to meet Valentina Vanelli, an old friend. Valentina, I’m sure you’ve heard of Sterling Records. This is Maxwell Sterling—he owns the label.”
I watch as they exchange greetings. Sterling calls to the waiter to add an extra chair.
But you hired me to play Slayer’s girlfriend, I feel like shouting.
Nonetheless, I remain silent as my rock star boyfriend blatantly flirts with this Italian vampire hussy. She slides into the new chair beside Slayer before anyone can object.
I glance at Milo, hoping he’ll notice and put a stop to this, but he’s too busy savoring the fresh lobster.
Valentina’s eyes finally settle on me, curiosity evident in their dark depths. “And who is this?” she asks.
Is it my imagination, or is she looking for a vulnerable part of my neck to sink those white teeth into?
“Bix Bismark,” Slayer says, his hand returning to my shoulder. “My girlfriend.”
Girlfriend. He could say the word with more conviction.
“Charming. American?” She’s looking at me like a pet, asking the owner its breed.
“Yes,” I manage.
“Valentina and I are old friends,” Slayer explains to the table. “She was an exchange student at my high school.”
“The only Italian girl in Connecticut.” She laughs. “It was torture. Though Slayer made it bearable, didn’t you?”
He looks at her a bit oddly, and I sense a history here I don’t understand, an undercurrent to their interaction that makes me feel like an outsider.
Then it hits me—Valentina was his first love. He said she never gave him the time of day in high school. That seems to have changed.
