“I know!” She bounced up to the desk, setting down an overnight bag that probably cost as much as Jean’s last car. “It’s like old times.”
That was not Jean’s first thought. “What are you doing here?”
“It felt like you were all hanging out without me, so I decided to join the fun.” Propping both arms on the counter, her unexpected visitor leaned in. “And I’m hot on the trail of a story, so two birds, one stone.”
Hildy Johnson was many things: college student, niece toone of the most powerful men in media, and an aspiring magazine editor who was hopefully one day going to permanently hire Jean’s best friend Libby as her star reporter. And possibly send a steady stream of illustration work Jean’s way. She was also a champion meddler, a quality Jean both recognized and respected, though she didn’t necessarily want to get roped into one of Hildy’s schemes at this precise moment in time.
“Should I book you a room?” Jean asked.
“That can wait.” For someone who had just flown across an ocean, Hildy was buzzing with energy, her skin practically giving off sparks. “Don’t you want to know what it is? My big lead?”
Jean surreptitiously checked the time. “Totally,” she lied. “Although that’s really more Libby’s department.”
“Which obviously I stopped there first, only apparently, she’s off ‘taking pictures of birds’ with her lover man,” Hildy said, adding index-finger air quotes.
“I don’t think that’s a euphemism. That is what they’re doing. Since Jefferson is a wildlife photographer.”
“Mmkay,” Hildy said doubtfully. “Super inconvenient for me, but don’t worry. I’m already working on Plan B.”
Jean felt a prickle of foreboding. She thought of texting Charlie to tell him she’d be late, but there was still a chance she could make a quick exit. Quick-ish. “Good for you.”
“Right? It hit me on the way here. Since I wasn’t going to invite myself to stay at your apartment.”
“Not if you aren’t current on your tetanus shots.”
“Plus this way I can be right here with you, in the thick of it. Honestly, you’re in an even better position to help. Hashtag silver linings.”
“Because you need an artist, or is this a hospitality emergency?” Jean would happily toss a pile of towels at Hildy on her way to Charlie’s.
Hildy glanced over both shoulders before answering. “Is there somewhere more private we could talk? Ideally with a bar.”
The revolving door spun, spitting Pauline into the lobby to take over for Jean on the concierge desk. Clearly the universe was bending itself to Hildy’s will. Sighing, Jean sent a quick text to Charlie.Need to take care of something. Be there as soon as I can. Sorry.
She’d make it up to him later. Stepping around the desk, she grabbed Hildy’s bag. “Right this way, mademoiselle.”
“It’s a missing person,” Hildy confided when they were seated at a secluded two-top near the terrace bar. She glanced down at the menu. “Which as you know is totally in my wheelhouse.”
“You’re not talking about yourself, are you?” A few ratings cycles ago, Hildy had been the subject of a media firestorm after briefly getting lost in a snowy wilderness, an experience she’d managed to parlay into a choice internship with her uncle’s company. Despite her general bias against nepo babies, Jean admired the gamesmanship.
“This is a way bigger story,” Hildy assured her. “Majorcelebrity.”
Jean racked her brain for someone famous who’d disappeared lately. She hadn’t exactly been keeping track of the latest gossip, especially since Charlie came into her life. “I give up.”
“Adriana. Asebedo.” Hildy gave each of the pop star’s names the weight of an asteroid crashing down from the sky.
“Adriana Asebedo is missing?” Jean really had been out of touch, living her sexy cottage era. “And you think she’s stayinghere?”
“Uh, no. There’s no way she could travel without a security detail. I’m talking about someone Adriana Asebedo–adjacent.” Hildy danced her perfectly sculpted eyebrows up and down, like that should be a big enough hint.
“The Beatles?” Jean guessed.
“No, silly. Her ex. Who she wrote the song about.”
“You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“‘The Lost Weekend.’ Her ‘silent storm’?”
“No shit. Seriously?” That song was legendarily horny, with a hooky melody and tinge of melancholy that basically said, ‘I had the best sex of my life but now my lover is gone, and I’ll never stop yearning for their touch.’ It wasn’t just a hit; that song was a cultural phenomenon that had spawned its own catchphrase: the Lust Weekend.
