Bicoastal Babe (16 page)

“Well, hello, dear. That was a heck of a nap you took.” She smoothes back my hair and sticks a thermometer in my mouth.

“How long have I been here?” I mumble, trying not to crunch the thermometer.

“Not too long. Since yesterday early evening. It’s about eleven in the morning now, so about sixteen hours. You had a mild concussion and a mighty big bump on your head, so we gave you some codeine and you slept like a baby.”

She pulls out the thermometer and seems happy with the results.

“How are you feeling now?”

“Groggy.”

“Well, that’s normal. But after we check your vitals, if you seem all right, we can probably let you go home.”

She walks out of the room and it occurs to me that I don’t have a ride. My car is still at the beach. Did Danny bring me in here? Is he still here? I hope not. Where is he? I am so embarrassed.

Then it occurs to me that I’m supposed to be on a plane to New York right now, and I will have to once again explain to Jen why I’m not there. But I remember waking up and seeing her and Liz standing over me – was it real? It seemed real. Or maybe it didn’t. I can’t tell for sure.

Then suddenly all of these dilemmas are midgeted into a state of absolute non-importance as it occurs to me that right before I wiped out on the surfboard, I had felt an unmistakable rumble in my stomach that can denote only the worst of all imaginable bathroom emergencies. I shudder at the possibility of this happening in front of Danny Wynn. Particularly as I would have been unconscious at the time, and would have needed him to carry me to safety. I groan, not caring about the bump on my head, or even if I still have a head. The thought of it is so bad that I can almost bury it into the deep denial recesses of my memory. Almost.

The nurse walks back in. “Okay, dear. Let’s take your blood pressure.”

She pulls out my arm and begins to wrap it inside the blood pressure thing.

“Um… can I ask you a question?” I approach her timidly.

“Of course. What is it?”

“When I came in here, was I… well… totally…
clean?”

“What do you mean, dear?”

“I mean, was there anything… on my clothes, or… on me?”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Just… you know… anything?”

She is totally confused. “Well, you had just come out of the ocean, so you were a wee bit wet.” She picks up the medical chart and looks it over. “But other than that, it doesn’t mention anything on the chart. But then again, I wasn’t on shift when you were admitted.”

I stare at her blankly.

“But I’m sure if there were anything out of the ordinary, it would be written on your chart. So whatever it is, dear, don’t worry about it.”

I’m never going to know. Never. This is one of those moments where stress and panic have long been surpassed, and shock and horror don’t even apply. You just feel numb, as if the worst thing in your life has just happened – maybe – but you’ll never really know, and you will carry the uncertainty with you forever.

“I called your friend, and she’s on her way to pick you up,” the nurse mentions as she lays my clothes out on the dresser.

“My friend?” I sit up. “Which one?”

“Let’s see,” she picks up the chart again. “Liz Gordon?”

Oh, God. It wasn’t an illusion. Liz is here.
Why?
How did she find out? And how did she get here so quickly? And why is Jen with her?

The questions swim through my mind as the nurse pulls me into my clothes and hands me a copy of
Cosmo.
“Here’s something for you to read while you wait. She said she has a couple stops to make, so she’ll be at least a half hour.” The nurse smiles. “Can I bring you anything? Water? Juice?”

I shake my head.

She came all the way out to Los Angeles to fire me? A quick phone call would’ve done the job. And she brought Jen along to laugh and rub it in my face? Or maybe to scout out my replacement. I can’t believe I’m going to be pink-slipped and shipped back to Chicago before I can see Victor Ragsdale again. I wonder if Victor would come to Chicago to visit. Ha. By the time I make it back to New York again (if ever), I’m sure he won’t even remember me.

I notice a headline on the
Cosmo
cover that reads: “8 Ways to Salvage a Work Slipup.” I laugh at the irony of it and open the magazine. But of course, the “slipups” described in the article are just a tiny bit smaller than the atrocious mess I’ve managed to make of the last two weeks.

I flip the page to a section on trendy, summer-night hairstyles. “Old Hollywood Glamour,” it says, showing upswept twists and flowing, Veronica Lake waves. “Get the Blues” headlines the makeup section, showing an old photo of a seventies flight attendant, then updated looks using bright blue eye shadow on today’s models. I flip to the fashion section. “Summer Sundresses – Fifties Style!” shouts the headline, showing cute, colorful dresses with cinched waists and flaring skirts.

Wait a minute. Not one of these “trends” is new. Everything in here is a retread of a style from the past. I flip to the shoe section, which tells me that “Pumps Are Back,” then to the cosmetics section, which advises that the best way to moisturize sun-parched skin is good, old-fashioned Vaseline.

You’ve got to be kidding me. Has the whole industry completely run out of new ideas? I think of all the money that is spent on trend-tracking – even by Gordon-Taylor – and I wonder what the point is. Is there any real rhyme or reason to this? Or is the secret to staying trendy just to keep a stockpile of all your old stuff, then wait a few years for it to come back in?

But the magazine is suddenly lifted from my hands, and there she is. Liz Gordon, dressed to the nines, looking at me with a curious smile on her face.

“Let’s go.”

•   •   •

“How do you feel?” Liz asks in the car. “Let me guess. Your head feels like a frozen bowling ball and you suddenly understand how all these Hollywood twits get addicted to Vicodin in such a short time.”

“Something like that,” I mumble.

“Hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Thirsty?”

“No.”

“Well, I am. For a dirty martini from Elaine’s on Second Avenue. But this is L.A., darling, so why don’t you tell me. What should I be drinking?”

I look at my watch. Eleven forty-five in the morning. “Uh, orange juice?”

“How about a wheatgrass-carrot elixir from the vegan take-out place on Sunset? Rumored to have incredible healing properties.”

I wait in the car for Liz to return with the cocktails. She hasn’t mentioned anything about why she’s here, and her demeanor is strangely pleasant, if a bit stressed-out.

It’s a short ride back to the apartment, and Liz gets me set up on the couch with a blanket, some pillows, and a Baggie filled with ice cubes for my head. Then she hands me my wheatgrass-carrot juice and settles in.

“You must be wondering why I’m here.”

I nod. “I could be crazy, but I thought I woke up and saw Jen with you.”

“You did. Jen called me yesterday in a panic. We had a nice long talk, after which I decided that the three of us should sit down for an even longer one. So we both flew out last night. But I’ve given it a lot of thought, and this morning I decided to send her back to New York.”

“Wait – how did you know I was in the hospital?”

“There was a message on apartment voicemail from the surf place. You’d left the number as your ‘in case of emergency’ on the waiver. Which struck me as a bit insensible.”

“I didn’t think there would actually
be
an emergency.”

“No one ever does, darling. But it worked out. And now you’re home.” There it is. That word again. “So let’s get to it.”

I close my eyes and thank God that I am partially drugged for this conversation. The pain will be duller, and if all goes well, I’ll probably forget most of it by the time I’m fully coherent.

“Lindsey, I know what’s going on with you and the newsletter. Jen told me everything.”

I take a sip of my juice and try hard not to let Liz see me come close to gagging. Wow, this vegan stuff is nasty. How do people subsist on this?

“
The Pulse
is supposed to ship in a few days, and I don’t need to tell you that this issue is going to be disastrous.”

Here it comes.

“My first thought, obviously, was to can your ass, put you on a plane, and invoice you for the money that the agency’s wasted on this endeavor.”

I nod. It makes perfect sense. I’d do the same thing.

“But I hired you based on a strong gut feeling that you could do the agency proud, and my instincts have never been wrong before. So I need to ask you, Lindsey. What happened?”

I feel the tears welling up in my eyes, then streaming down my cheeks. At this point, there’s no use in pretending anything.

“I’m so sorry, Liz. I thought I could do it too. But I jumped into it so fast, and I really don’t know what I’m doing at all. I don’t know how to track trends, and I have nowhere to start.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before it was too late?”

“Because I was so excited about it, and I wanted so badly to do a great job. I kept thinking that I would wake up and suddenly get it, and then I could catch up and everything would fall into place.” I am full-on sobbing now. “I’m so ashamed of everything. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

She hands me a Kleenex and I honk my nose into it.

“I’m just so embarrassed, and I am so, so sorry for everything.”

Liz finishes her wheatgrass-carrot elixir, slurping the straw at the end. She sighs and takes a long look at what has to be the most pathetic sight she’s ever laid eyes on (that would be a sniveling, puffy-eyed me, with an enormous, swollen gash on my head and snot running out of my nose).

“Well, good. I’m glad you understand my position. Because if I’m going to be here working with you for an entire week, we have to be on the same page about things.”

I look up from my tears. “Huh?”

“I’m going to give this a second chance, Lindsey. I’m staying here in Los Angeles for a week. We’re going to figure out this trend-tracking thing together.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious.”

“But what about Jen?”

“Jen’s in New York, trying to pull the issue together. Don’t worry about her. This is our thing. We’re going to figure it out. You and me.”

•   •   •

I spend the rest of the day sleeping away my headache and marveling at the miracle of still having a job. Liz has left me a note saying that a.) she’s staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel, b.) I should come by for breakfast in the morning, and c.) before Jen left, they had picked up my car at the beach and brought it back to the apartment, so I still have wheels.

I’m still groggy into the evening, but Carmen is back from San Francisco, and I can’t wait to fill her in on all the details of the last couple days. When she walks into my apartment with a pizza, a tub of Marshmallow Fudge ice cream, and a six-pack of Pepsi (not even the diet kind!), I feel so happy and relieved that I jump up to hug her.

“My God!” she exclaims. “Look at your forehead!” She touches my head and I wince. “Ouch. I can practically feel it,” she empathizes.

“Do you know how to cut me some bangs?” I ask.

“Don’t worry about how it looks. It’ll be gone in a week.”

“Do you have any hats I can borrow?”

“I’m telling you, don’t worry about it! If you notice someone staring, just smile like you love your imperfections and you
know
you’re the cutest thing in the world. And the world will follow. Trust me.”

She spreads the food out on the coffee table and we dig in. Mmmmm. They don’t call it comfort food for nothing.

“So tell me about this surfer guy,” she demands.

“Danny? Well, he’s… pretty much your stereotypical surfer dude.”

“Cute?”

“Um… yeah, I guess he’s cute.”

“Lindsey, you’re not betraying Victor by saying that another guy is cute. So lighten up and tell me more. Is he nice? Does he like you?”

“He was really nice, actually. And he seemed to like me well enough. Not in that way, though.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, if he did, he sure doesn’t anymore – after I disobeyed his rules and, as a result, made a complete ass of myself that left him having to drag me out of the water, drive me all the way up to Hollywood and check me into a hospital. So I doubt if I’m the person he’s in the mood to see right now.” I don’t mention my potential “accident.”

“I think you should have a fling with him.”

“Are you crazy? Did I not spend the entire week telling you about Victor?”

“Victor, Schmictor. He may be all that, but he’s in New York, and that’s a long way from here. Do you really think that he’s sitting home alone, watching TV on the nights you’re out of town?”

“Can we please stop talking about this?” Carmen is pissing me off, if you want to know the truth. I have to call Victor and tell him that I won’t be back for another week, and I’m dreading that call. I was so looking forward to seeing him again, and getting back to the rush and clamor of New York. But at the same time I feel a renewed sense of hope in my job – also fear, apprehension, and tremendous curiosity over what Liz and I will come up with this week. I’m so grateful to Liz for giving me a second chance and, even more, for believing in me. I want to make her proud, to reinforce the validity of her trusted instinct. I want to do something right. Something big. Something that I can be proud of myself for.

I feel bad for snapping at Carmen, because when I explain why Liz is here, she totally gets it and morphs right back into her usual understanding self. She is excited for me, and cheers me on like my own personal pom-pom squad. After we finish the ice cream, she leaves to go see her boyfriend, and I crawl into bed.

It’s hard for me to sleep. I’m nervous about tomorrow. And despite what I said to Carmen, my thoughts keep drifting to Danny Wynn. I feel really bad about the whole thing. He deserves an apology from me, not to mention a thank-you the size of a thousand killer waves. And he’s the only one who can tell me what really happened in the water – how I got knocked out, what he did to rescue me and if he was able to recover the surfboards (God, I hope so). I kind of want to know the whole story. I should call him. No, I should go down there. I should go down there with a fruit basket and thank him in person for saving my life.