I laugh, my face hot. I don’t think he said it loud enough for anyone to hear, but still.
We stop again, and a few more people get out, and when the elevator doors close again, a tentative voice says, “Phil?”
Before I even look up, my blood freezes. I don’t know why. It could be anyone. But Iknow.
The older-middle-aged woman is the only other person left in the elevator. Her dark bob is neat and chic, and her clothes and jewelry are classic, if boring. She doesn’t look like the kind of person who’d stab an effigy of me and then deliver it to my door.
In fact, she looks kind of nervous.
Griff steps in front of me, shielding me with his bulk, suddenly seeming a lot bigger, and Mary—because it can’t be anyone else—backs away.
“No, please—I’m not going to hurt you,” she stammers, even as Vivi barks.
“I don’t believe you,” Griff growls, pulling out his phone. He doesn’t call 911, though, just sends a text. “Stay over there.”
“No, really. I’m so sorry, Phil. I… My name is Mary Yeates, and yes, I sent that horrible doll to you, but I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean it like it seems. I’m just… It’s just… I don’t want to be old.” Tears begin to roll down her face. “Margaret Haywood is a beautiful, stylish woman, and I can buy clothes that look like hers and b-be b-beautiful and s-s-stylish too, but—” A sob cuts her off. “Now she’s wearing clothes like you design, and they look so different from what I wear, and that means I’m an old f-f-f-frump and—” She dissolves into hacking, gasping sobs, covering her face with her hands.
I’d feel sorry for her—I kind of do—but right now I’m so anxious that I can’t talk and have to concentrate on my breathing to keep from passing out… because of her.
Griff’s phone vibrates in his hand, and after glancing at it, he inches toward the elevator control panel and hits the button forthe garage. We ride back down in silence punctuated by Mary’s tears.
When the doors open, I’m surprised to see four hotel security guards waiting.
“Mr. Pevensy?” one of them asks.
Griff nods. “I’m Griff Pevensy. This is Phil Marchand, and this woman identified herself as Mary Yeates, who’s been harassing him. Detective Spears with the LAPD?—”
“Yeah, he’s already called, and so have the LVPD. Someone’s coming to take Ms. Yeates into custody until Detective Spears arrives. Ma’am, come this way, please.”
Mary’s still ugly-crying as they guide her away. Griff waits until she’s well clear of the area before he draws me off the elevator and wraps an arm around me.
“Are you okay?” he murmurs, and I nod, then shake my head. I need some quiet time.
“The police will want to take your statement,” the security guard says. “Would you prefer to use one of the meeting rooms, or?—”
“Could you have them come to our suite?” Griff asks, and I tune everything else out. There’s just the security of his arm, the weight of Vivi in my arms, and my inner monologue counting to a thousand.
I haven’t even reached three hundred when Griff’s arm moves. Looking up, I realize that he’s brought me back to our suite and is holding out my headphones.
“It’s over,” he promises. “I’ll take care of the police. It’s over now.”
EPILOGUE
GRIFF
MARCH
“Are you nearly done?”I ask Elise even though I can see that she is. Mostly I say it to prompt everyone else to be ready.
“Sure am,” Elise replies, knowing exactly what I’m doing. She doesn’t take her gaze off Margaret’s mouth, to which she’s painstakingly applying lipstick with a brush. A moment later, she passes Margaret a tissue. “Blot.”
Margaret’s an old hand at this and obeys without smudging anything. Elise sets her lipstick with translucent powder, touches it up, then applies gloss over the top. “Katie, do you have her clutch?”
Katie races forward to take the gloss and lipstick, while Elise sprays Margaret’s whole face with the kind of setting spray that’s used by synchronized swimmers. It’s basically hairspray, and not really necessary, but Margaret hates touching up anything more than lipstick, and this will ensure that her makeup doesn’t budge. I never thought I’d learn so much about makeup when I became a stylist, but it’s an important part of a lot of ensembles.It’s not enough for me to just point to an inspo photo or tell the artist what colors my client is wearing.
The same goes for hair, which Trey comes to touch up while Elise fans the setting spray dry. I can pick a hairstyle to suit what my client is wearing, but it doesn’t mean my client’s hair can do that style. Working collaboratively with the hairstylist and my client gets a better result every time.
Elise steps back, and Trey gives me the nod. I smile at Margaret. “Ready?”
