First Kiss (6 page)

Suzi-Suzi started singing, " 'Two of hearts two hearts that beat as one.'" Then she sighed. "I used to love that song! Whatever happened to her?"

"Girls!" Kiki scolded them. "Would you shut up about Stacey Q already? I'm the one with the problem. Focus!"

"Sorry," Suzi-Suzi murmured. "Do you want us to come over?"

Kiki thought about it. "No, I'm fine." Her stomach did a low rumble. "God, I'm starving. Do you realize that I haven't eaten a thing since lunch yesterday?

And there's not a speck of food in this apartment. I think there might be a jar of jam in the fridge, but I have no idea how old it is."

"So go to the market," Danni suggested. "That will help take your mind off things."

Kiki sighed miserably. "Ugh. That's too much trouble. I'd have to go there, pick everything out, haul everything back I'm exhausted just thinking about it. I'll just pop in somewhere for an egg white omelet." She said her goodbyes, signed off, tossed on a Krista Allen SexBrand tee emblazoned with the phrase you were never my boyfriend, squeezed into distressed denim cutoffs, slipped on the nearest available pair of Manolo Blahniks, and hit the door.

"There she is!"

Kiki heard this the moment her expensive shoe hit the sidewalk. She glanced up to see a gaggle of photographers positioned in front of her building. Right away she regretted not putting any makeup on. God! All she wanted was an omelet! Hmm. Note to self: Maybe you don't want to be as famous as Jennifer Aniston. But you do want her hair.

"Are you in love with Tom Brock?" The question came from a sweaty man with bad acne.

Kiki ignored him and started down the sidewalk. Honestly! The idiot needed a lesson in priorities. Shouldn't he be more concerned with ordering a trial package of Proactiv Solution?

"Why are you going after a married man with a young family?" It was a female voice this time. Probably the butch-looking girl with sideburns growing down her face.

Kiki walked on imperviously, never once looking back, doing her best to pick up the pace without coming off as frantic.

"How much did the plastic surgeon charge for those tits?"

Kiki stopped cold, spinning angrily to see a short, balding Danny DeVito look-alike smirking at her as he snapped off several shots. She stood there in a state of horrified silence, wondering how these vultures found out about her boob job. She had them done in Brazil. And everybody had always assumed they were real. Even her last boyfriend, Mike Jovie, a real estate developer and self-proclaimed connoisseur of breasts, was completely fooled by the teardrop implants. Ugh! Her real age. Now the truth about her breasts. Why not just film her next visit to the gynecologist and be done with it?

Suddenly, Kiki felt the impact of the personal invasion. She experienced a tight fight-or-flight sensation. So as any sensible woman would do when faced with the same set of circumstances, she slipped off her Manolos and sprinted down the sidewalk, pedicure be damned. She had to get away from these pigs.

Thank God for all those spinning classes. And designer sample sales. All that pedaling and dashing about had really whipped her into great shape. Kiki commanded a quick lead, but the paparazzi gained on her fast. For people who looked like they lived on Krispy Kremes and Coke Classic, they sure could move.

Just ahead, Kiki saw a cab jerk to a stop. Out stepped a distinguished woman who looked at Kiki's bare feet as if she were a refugee from one of those countries that's impossible to spell.

Kiki tumbled inside and found herself momentarily paralyzed by the driver's body odor. Beyond awful. She wanted to suggest a new super-strength time-release deodorant. This worked for Adam, a writer friend whose fiancee broke up with him over his odor problem. Of course, this happened before the new deodorant hit the market, and by then she had met someone else. Now she was married and lived in a great apartment in the West Village. Poor Adam! Him. Mental note to include this story in the book. An important object lesson about proper grooming.

For now, Kiki just told the stinky man to drive.

He demanded to know where because his shift was about to end, and if it was too far, then she'd have to get out.

What a horrible attitude! She decided to keep the deodorant tip a secret. Kiki thought for a moment. Where to go? Suddenly, it dawned on her. In all of yesterday's hurly-burly, she really didn't get a chance to see all that Stella McCartney had to offer. A little shopping should help curb the morning's anxiety. She announced the boutique's address.

Obviously it was close enough, because the driver took off.

Kiki fired up her cellular and got Suzi-Suzi on the line pronto. Luckily, the girl was always sitting by the phone hoping that her modeling agency might call. In the middle of Kiki's story about being chased by ugly people with bad diets, Suzi-Suzi halted her to say, "That's not even the half of it."

Kiki blanched. There was more ? "What do you mean?"

Suzi-Suzi sighed. "Radio is all over the story. DJs are ripping you to pieces, and listeners are calling in to say you're a skank. You know that show with the shock jock who's always prank-calling his mother?"

"Stevie G?" Kiki asked.

"Yeah," Suzi-Suzi said. "By the way, that's so cruel. I mean, she's got Alzheimer's! Anyway, he's been the worst. But don't worry. I called in and defended you on the air. I told him that you were just like other women in the city. You wanted to sleep with Tom Brock, but you haven't. He sort of twisted my words around, though, so I'm not sure if I helped or if I made things worse."

Kiki sat there totally perplexed. A simple charm falls off her bracelet, and it had come to this. Suddenly, a sobering realization hit her. The public's love affair with Tom and Kirsten was not to be underesti-mated. What if they turned her into the next Monica Lewinsky? Of course, she would be considered a thinner, beautiful version. But they still might feed her to the wolves faster than you can say "Gap dress!"

The cab stopped in front of Stella's shop.

Kiki swung out in a funk but was soon levitated by the environment of upscale retail. Way better than nature. What can a babbling brook do other than make you think that you have to go to the bathroom?

The same bitchy salesgirl was there. Only this time she stared daggers at Kiki and traded contemptuous looks with another associate on the floor.

Kiki ignored them and began to browse the racks.

Then the newer girl walked over to snappishly announce, "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Your business is not welcome here."

Kiki was appalled. "Excuse me?"

The girl nodded to the security guard. "Let's not cause a scene."

At first Kiki couldn't believe it, but then the burly man in full cop gear took a menacing step toward her, so she stepped out onto the sidewalk and just stood there, stupefied.

Suddenly, the screeching of brakes startled her. Kiki looked up to see an SUV being driven by one of those disgusting photographers. He gave her a creepy smile and aimed his big protruding lens at her as if she were fresh kill.

Kiki dashed off, doing her best to lose him while still staying on the fashionable end of the Meat Packing District. After all, one scandal was enough for the day. So she stayed south of Fourteenth Street, ducking in and out of the crossroads of Little West Twelfth Street, Gansevoort Street, and Greenwich Street. Having successfully eluded him, she sought refuge inside a discreet-looking building.

Once inside, she took in the mood lighting, sumptuous furnishings, and romantic ambiance, instantly realizing where she wasAffair, the swanky new hotel that everybody was talking about. Kiki rolled her eyes, the irony not lost on her. Here she was seeking sanctuary at Affair because people were chasing her for an affair she wasn't having. Could there be anything more ridiculous?

Kiki moved to nestle into a discreet spot in the cozy lobby only to find a couple locked in a passionate canoodling session. " Please ," Kiki snapped. "You're in a hotel. Get a room already."

But the kissing thundered on.

Kiki sank down into a love seat nearby to call Suzi-Suzi and fill her in on the latest. "I feel like a hunted animal. These photographers are like bloodhounds. And they kicked me out of Stella McCartney! Can you believe that? I'm, like, her biggest fan. It's not Stella's fault, though. If she knew, I'm sure that she would call to apologize. And fire that horrible salesgirl. She should be working at H & M and feel lucky to be there."

Suzi-Suzi was oddly silent.

Kiki grew pensive. There was more. She just didn't know about it yet. "Suzi-Suzi, what's going on?"

"It's worse. Much worse. Somehow between yesterday and today, you've become the most hated woman in Manhattan. The rumors are out of control. There's even one going around that you said Tom and Kirsten's baby looks like a monkey."

Kiki was horrified. "Oh, my God! I would never say that about Music!"

"I know. I mean, you have her picture on your refrigerator. You practically think of her as your niece. But it's all over the radio."

Kiki felt a sense of panic begin to envelop her.

Meanwhile, Suzi-Suzi babbled on. "Danni said most of the strippers at Camisole are on Kirsten's side."

Kiki found this particularly daunting. When strippers are against a girl, then she's really swimming against the current of public opinion. "What should I do?"

"About the strippers?" Suzi-Suzi asked. "I wouldn't worry about them. But if you really want to plead your case, I'm sure that Danni could arrange a little talk between shifts. Addressing them woman-to-woman would probably change some minds."

"I mean the whole mess in general!" Kiki snapped.

"Oh," Suzi-Suzi murmured. "Too bad you don't have a publicist."

Sarah Ann Duckworth! Kiki gripped her cellular tighter. "Suzi-Suzi, you have to help me."

"Name it. As long as it doesn't involve calling Stevie G again. That man is vile."

Kiki's brain computer was processing at Intel speed. "You still have an extra key to my apartment, right?"

"Of course. Remember when the pipes in my building burst, and you were out of town, and Chad and I spent the night there?"

Kiki huffed. "How could I forget? He left his business card on my nightstand with a rude little note that I needed a new mattress."

"But then he got you a good deal on that Tempur-Pedic," Suzi-Suzi said brightly.

"That's true. And it is a dream to sleep on."

"And he hated your old mattress so much that we did it in other parts of the apartmentthe couch, the bathroom. He even hoisted me up onto the kitchen counter and"

"Okay, let's stay on point," Kiki cut in. "There's a Gucci boot box filled with cash in my bedroom. I need you to go to Sarah Ann Duckworth's office and pay my invoice."

"Consider it done. Where is it?"

"Five-eighty Broadway in SoHo. It's near Prince Street."

"Not a problem. That's the same building I go to for airbrush tanning. In fact, maybe I'll stop in and see if Sally can"

"There's no time for that!" Kiki shrieked. "Because after you pay Sarah Ann, you need to bring the rest of the money to me. Not to mention some basic essentials. When you go to my apartment, pack a weekend bag. You know what I need."

"This is so like a Lifetime movie. You're the heroine on the run, and I'm the best friend you can count on. I hope this involves a handoff at Grand Central Station. That would be so exciting."

Kiki swept the lobby with a circular gaze. Nobody knew she was here. And she fully intended to keep it that way. "Forget the train station. I'm not leaving this hotel. Maybe all of this will blow over if I just disappear for a couple of days."

"Well, it's going to take more than a weekend bag. Think of all the stress you're under. I say you need the entire beauty regimen, some lounging wear, and a few sexy outfits, too. I mean, you are staying at Affair. A girl should be prepared."

"The last thing on my mind is romance of any kind. Even if the most amazing man in the world walked up to me right now and professed his undying attraction, I would tell him to go jump in the Hudson River."

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: I Must Be Insane!

Breckin!

Did I say move this shotgun ceremony to New York? You must think I see little people in salt and pepper shakers. A summer wedding here would be absolute madness. Honestly! First of all, everybody is in the Hamptons. And second, a Manhattan summer can be just as ghastly as a Texas one. I'm talking scorching, sticky heat. That would mean crescent moon underarm stains for men and too much facial shine for women. Roman tends to sweat, too, and I don't want him looking anything less than his absolute cutest! Why don't you research yacht rentals in Miami? Maybe everybody could fly there. It would be so P. Diddy.

Air Kisses, Kiki