Ginny Blue's Boyfriends (31 page)

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Authors: Nancy Kelly

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“Peachy,” I muttered under my breath. Whatever his reason had been for calling me could scarcely matter now. If he was dating Carmen, I wasn’t interested in keeping up on the friendship.
Carmen, as pulled and stretched as I remembered from my view of her in her convertible, looked at me as if she hadn’t the faintest idea who I was. I chose to ignore her as Jackson detached himself from her arm—which was quite a task, as she was wrapped around his arm like a boa constrictor—and walked toward me. He gave me a quick hug, which sent the needle of my anxiety into the red. What was this? Instantly I thought of my fat thighs, my flat hair, my red stretchy shirt that really should have been thrown away months, maybe years ago. I actually leaned backward a bit, but he folded me into the warmth of his hard chest, sending my heartbeat into the stratosphere. I prayed fervently that he wouldn’t notice and that this message wouldn’t be sent to my sweat glands. Sometimes the human body just wants to ruin things for you, you know?
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said, sounding like he really meant it. “I called you, but I didn’t get through.”
“I know. I heard you.” My voice was a squeak. I cleared my throat and added, “I would have called you back but I didn’t have your number.”
“I thought I might see you at Kane’s meeting. I remember you dated in high school.”
That stopped me. I cringed a bit inside. Sometimes I forget that Jackson went to Carriage Hill with Charlie, me, and yes, Kane. “Kind of like an old home revival meeting.”
“No kidding.” Jackson smiled. I could tell he thought the whole thing was bogus, which warmed the cockles of my heart, whatever they are.
“Are you here to meet him, too?” I asked.
“Actually ... no. I was already leaving by the time you got thrown out. I wondered what happened to you. Carmen and I crossed the street and got something to eat, and then you all came out and I heard you say you were meeting here. I decided to take a chance on catching up with you.”
I was struggling to process. “You ... came to see me?”
Carmen was hovering so close that her breath stirred my hair. Jackson smiled at her and said, “I need to talk to Ginny for a sec, okay?”
He stepped away and I went with him. Carmen might have ignored his tacit rejection but Jill suddenly said loudly, “Carmen Watkins! Good grief, girl. What have you been doing since college?”
Bless my friends. They came through at the most unexpected times.
Jackson guided me over to a corner where we sat on a loveseat-like affair situated in a quiet corner of the bar, hidden behind a black Baby Grand currently not in use.
“I’ve written a screenplay,” he revealed. “I’ve already got the financing. It’s all in place. I’m the executive producer and I want you on the production team. Truthfully, I need your help.”
My jaw dropped. “You wrote a screenplay?”
“Yeah. Weird, huh?” He shook his head in wonder. “We’re making a film!”
He was as excited as a little boy. I couldn’t blame him. “Good God,” I said.
“So ... ?”
“So, yeah. Yeah. No kidding. I’ll do it. Of course, I’ll do it. When?”
“In about a month.”
I calculated quickly, my brain spinning wildly. “Perfect. I’ve got a commercial in Seattle and then I’m free.”
He suddenly hugged me again. It took my breath away. I couldn’t help inhaling his scent. The musky cologne was just right. My cell phone vibrated silently in my pant pocket, next to Jackson’s thigh.
He said, “Is someone calling you ... or are you just happy to see me?”
You have no idea,
I thought, as I checked the Caller ID. It was Will. Now, what?
“I gotta take this,” I said.
Jackson released me to give me some privacy. I was sorry to lose the warmth of his arms. Carmen, however, had edged away from Jill, who’d determinedly followed her and kept up a fast conversation. They both noticed me take the call and Carmen instantly pounced on Jackson. I turned my back to them, but my attention was diverted.
“Hey ...” Will’s voice was full of apology and he’d only uttered one syllable.
“Hey, yourself,” I said cautiously. “I’m kind of involved in something here.”
“I’ve got a surprise for you,” he said.
“That’s great.”
Jackson had shifted closer to me to make room for Carmen, who was trying to get close to him. I could tell he was being merely polite, however, and it put a smile on my face.
“Are you coming over?” Will asked.
“Um ... well, actually, I had a change of plans.”
My mind was on Jackson, the screenplay and ten other things. I didn’t have time for Will, his relationship with Rhianna, and the sexual coaxing I suspected might be involved with giving him an erection—which didn’t have to last much more than a few minutes, let alone an hour. I wondered, suddenly, with a freezing of my blood, if Will was involved in the Trash Athletics commercial. Surely not. Not the way he’d treated Holly.
“You know Jackson Wright?” he demanded, sounding like my cavalier attituded had started his temper simmering.
That snapped me back. “You know I do,” I stalled, remembering we’d had the Jackson Wright conversation in Sedona. Could he know Jackson was right here, next to me?
How?
“He’s got all the investors lined up for a film he’s putting together. I’m directing it. I suggested having you on the team.”
I closed my eyes. I’d never been so deflated over such ostensibly good news. “Really?”
“I thought Jackson would have gotten hold of you by now. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he does.”
My ears started buzzing. Will talked on but I heard nothing else. I must have made the appropriate responses because pretty soon I’d clicked off. He’d made another attempt to get me over to his place, but I’d politely refused and he ended up hanging up on me a second time, though I sensed he was more perplexed by my attitude than infuriated. I must have sounded like a zombie because that’s how I felt. Not alive. Running by brain stem alone.
“You okay?” Jill asked, perching on the arm of the couch and peering at me closely.
Jackson and Carmen were still at my back. “I’m fine.”
She nodded in a way that said she didn’t believe me. Was I acting so strangely?
“CeeCee’s outside smoking and Daphne’s flirting with Kane, who’s definitely flirting back. At least he’s not a loser, by the usual standards anyway. You think we could go home now?”
“I’d love to,” I said, standing.
“Are you leaving?” Jackson turned to us, also rising. This forced Carmen to climb to her four-inch heels, smooth her skirt, and shoot me a venomous glance.
“I have to,” I said. My voice sounded odd. Kind of echoey. Like it was down in the bottom of a barrel.
“I asked Will Torrance to be our director. You know him, don’t you?”
“Yessirree.”
“Do you need a ride back?”
“Jackson ...” Carmen plucked at his sleeve.
I said, “I drove. I brought my friends. But thanks.”
He seemed disappointed. “I’ll call you tomorrow. And here ...” He pulled out a business card and scratched out a number on the back. “My cell.”
“Thanks.”
I walked off with Jill, who looked as if she thought she might have to catch me should I fall. That would be a riot. All five feet nine inches of me toppling onto her five feet one frame.
“How does Jackson know Carmen?” she asked as we stepped outside to meet CeeCee.
“I think I introduced them. At college.” I handed my hotel parking ticket to the valet.
“You introduced him to everybody,” she observed.
“I didn’t mean to,” I said with a strange kind of miserable candor.
Jill said, “It has not been a good day.”
“No.”
CeeCee joined us and asked, “Daphne coming with us?”
“You want to ask her, be my guest.” Jill jerked her head in the general direction where Daphne and Kane had last been seen. About twenty of Kane’s disciples had walked in with him, but he’d gently shooed them away as he’d tucked Daphne’s hand through his arm and led her toward the far end of the bar. They milled around in anxious circles, worried their leader had chosen someone above them. I guessed they were still milling.
At this point Jackson and Carmen came outside. Jackson sent the valet for his car and Carmen leaned on tiptoe to whisper something into Jackson’s ear. She was so eager she was bent like a bow string. I reminded myself that Jackson was off-limits. It was like a mantra. If I was really going to work with him, I had to remember that.
“He is attractive,” Jill observed. “In a less pretty way than Kane. He’s got more natural charm. Less bullshit.”
“And he’s all Blue’s,” CeeCee said.
“The hell he is.” I surfaced from my self-induced coma.
“He always has been,” Jill agreed.
“Oh, give me a break.”
Luckily, one of the valets squealed out of the underground lot with my car at that moment. I tipped him and quickly climbed inside. Jill slammed into the back and CeeCee ran inside to see if Daphne was ready to go or if she was still getting able.
Jackson caught my eye as his dark Lexus was delivered and he helped Carmen into the passenger side. To my surprise he suddenly walked briskly to my car. He said, “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I got the feeling something happened.”
“No. I’m in.”
“Will Torrance is all right with you?” he asked.
“He’s a great director.”
“Okay.” He shot Jill a quick smile. “See you later.”
“Oh, he’s yours,” Jill said, as soon as Jackson was out of earshot. I could hear the smile in her voice.
Because she was going through hell I didn’t argue with her.
But it didn’t mean she was right.
Chapter
20
I
left for Seattle on the first day of December, exactly ten days after the Kane Reynolds revival meeting. Nothing much had changed in my world in that time, other than a few calls from Jackson about our scheduled mid-December production start and a lot of calls from Holly, who was obsessing over the setup for the Trash Athletics shoot.
Suffice it to say, I was sort of let down. I don’t know what I’d expected of Jackson, but I’d gotten my hopes up. Yes. It had happened. I’d been one of the idiots that wanted something
more
from him than friendship. I’d believed my friends. I’d pretended not to—even to myself—but in the end I’d heard what I’d wanted to hear:
He’s all Blue’s.
It was really better for me when they’d all professed to hate him.
Before I left the state I managed to squeeze in a quick session with Dr. Dick. Evil Janice hadn’t found a way to squelch my appointment, apparently, but I could feel her seething as I sat in the waiting room, toying with my cell phone. I didn’t have to make a call; just holding the offending item was enough to keep her perturbed and off-balance. Oh, the small joys of immaturity. Sometimes I revel in them.
I didn’t give Dr. Dick a chance to ask any questions. As soon as I crossed his office threshold I launched into a diatribe about my friends and all the events that had led up to this moment. To wit: Daphne had survived both a) her vaginal itch commercial, which I’d seen already and in which she’d looked fresh-faced and beautiful as she conspiratorially whispered that Soft & Soothing had been a lifesaver for her, and b) her pseudorelationship with Kane, who’d apparently been more interested in turning her into a fresh-faced and beautiful acolyte than into a girlfriend. (Secretly I believe Kane couldn’t have a girlfriend with a vaginal itching problem, real or imagined, who broadcast the problem over national television. Bad for the “Getting Able” image.) CeeCee, I reported, had cemented her job by fair means or foul, and she’d even cleaned up her act on the air; she was only bleeped fourteen times the last time I’d listened to her program. Jill had asked me to speak to Ian about their relationship, which I had. A mistake, as it turned out, because Ian was quite voluble about how Jill had fallen into her bulimic habits one too many times. He loved her and always would, but it was over. Ian was now somewhere in Mexico with his friend Worth—I still don’t know his last name so we’ll stick with Worth Less—and Jill was absolutely convinced this was all a huge lie and that Ian was once again with his ex-girlfriend of over five years earlier. I seriously doubted this. I mean, come on! But being the frightfully well-adjusted friend that I am, I guess I can’t be trusted, or listened to, or expected to know anything that might actually be the truth.
“... of course, none of it matters anyway,” I finished up. “Jill and Ian are no longer Jill-Ian. But then, that’s kind of what they do. Ian’s paying for the unused bridesmaid dresses. I guess that’s something.”
“How do you think Jill’s doing?” Dr. Dick asked.
“Better than I expected,” I admitted. “Unless it’s all an act. She’s thrown herself into work. The weird thing is she got offered a job at Ian’s restaurant. Ian’s half-owner, but the partner asked her to come on board as one of their chefs. It’s really a coup, but she turned it down for obvious reasons. Ian stayed noncommital during the whole thing. That’s kind of his usual middle-of-the-road approach.”
“You don’t like Ian.”
“I don’t like him hurting Jill. But if he wasn’t ready to get married ...” I shrugged. “Truthfully, they both struggle with commitment. I’m surprised their engagement got as far as it did.”
“How are you with commitment?”
I almost yelled,
this isn’t about me
, but decided, well ... yes, it was, actually. It was my session with my shrink. I paused for thought, wondering why I so wanted to avoid talking about myself. “I’m not exactly a poster child for commitment. The difference is that Jill and Ian are actively
trying
to commit. I’m not. I’m ... not even really dating right now.”
“Are you still examining your past relationships?”
Dr. Dick was lightly tapping his pen against a desk pad, not impatiently, more as if his mind were elsewhere. The motion distracted me as well. I suddenly had a few questions of my own for Dr. Dick. “Daphne says you’re back with your wife.”
“Daphne says?” He sounded surprised to be a topic of conversation.
“Mmm-hmmm. She acted like you were going to be at ‘Getting Able with Kane,’ but I didn’t see you.”
“We were there.” He gave me a direct look with those blue eyes. I hadn’t been feeling the heat, so to speak, but now I remembered that I found him very attractive. Well, sort of. In the deep recesses of my soul I knew some sort of threshold had been crossed in my relationship with Jackson, such as it was. Nothing concrete in the real world. Just my own evaluation of myself. A sort of recognition that I’d been lying to myself for a long, long time. And that it colored how I perceived any other male.
“You and your wife were there?” I asked.
“Anna and I were never officially apart. I’m surprised Daphne thought so.”
We both thought so. Or, maybe it was just a hope Daphne and I had shared, both knowing we couldn’t get involved with our analyst—even if he wanted to, which he didn’t.
“Anna and I saw you,” Dr. Dick informed me, his expression carefully neutral.
“Me? Or, me and my friends?”
“You and your friends.”
“Go ahead and say it. You saw us get thrown out.”
He didn’t deny it. “What happened?”
I thought about it a moment, running my fingers over the edge of the chair’s arm. It all seemed distant and childish now, but there had been real emotions at work that night. I drew a breath and said, “Ian had just broken up with Jill, so she was upset. I didn’t think she would even go, but there she was. And she was spoiling for a fight. Maybe we all were. And this guy told her to shut up and sit down and Jill wasn’t in the mood to hear it, and then CeeCee karate-chopped his knee to take the heat off Jill, and then ... things deteriorated from there.”
“Did you play peacemaker?”
I frowned at him. “No. I was there to see Kane. Why? Did you expect me to play peacemaker? Oh, right.” I answered my own question. “I’m so ‘frightfully well adjusted,’ I just can’t help myself.”
“You don’t like conflict,” he said.
Well, duh. I started calculating how much I paid him an hour and wondered if I was getting my money’s worth. With a distinct shock I realized I wasn’t interested in seeing Dr. Dick for a while. Maybe ever again. Was that progress? It was certainly something.
That thought pretty much blew my concentration for the rest of our hour. I went right to that place in my head where I fret and stew and toil over problems. I even went so far as to ask myself why I’d ever started with Dr. Dick, apart from the obvious fact that I’d found him attractive. Sifting through the ashes of my own suspect motives, I suddenly turned over a scorching ember:
I wanted a therapist, just like all my friends!
“Good God,” I said aloud. I was back in the moment, big-time. And I wanted out.
Dr. Dick lifted his brows as I hurriedly slung the strap of my purse over my shoulder.
“I just realized I’ve never left junior high,” I said, then ran for the door before he could ask the question forming on his lips.
 
 
I spent Thanksgiving alone and was totally thankful for it. Jill flew to Colorado to be with her parents, Daphne met with actor friends, and CeeCee went snowboarding at Mammoth with Sonny Boy. I actually baked a turkey breast and made myself sandwiches. Mom called. She was sharing a Thanksgiving meal with some friends of hers and said she’d spoken to Mr. Norell, my landlord, again. She was hot on the idea of buying me the condo. I’d thought this might be a passing fancy, but I should have known better because my mother isn’t like that. She’s more like a piranha when she decides on a plan—she bites in and hangs on for all she’s worth.
I told her again that I would love to own my place but I couldn’t afford the down payment. She told me again that it was under control. I found myself torn by feelings of inadequacy. My mother didn’t owe me anything. I tried to say as much to her and she made her
tsk-tsk
noises and said I was making everything harder than it had to be.
Was that true? I always think of myself as such a facilitator. But then, I’d thought I wasn’t judgmental and learned that I might be a teensy bit wrong on that, too.
Hmmmm ...
I packed for Seattle like it was a time test, throwing items in my roller bag with minimum thought, maximum speed. I caught a nine A.M. flight, barely making it through all the airport rigamarole to get to the gate on time. I was speed-walking down the concourse when I caught sight of Holly, seated at a sports bar, drinking a bloody Mary. She hollered at me as I sped by and I practically ran in place, one eye on my watch, as I gazed at her in surprise.
“We’re late!” I pointed out.
She waved me to a seat. “They’ve got issues with a drunk and disorderly deplaning passenger. We’re going to be here awhile.”
“Oh.” I tentatively perched on the edge of the chair across from hers. Inside, I felt as if a clock were ticking off the seconds, counting down my life, I guess. I’m always in such a hurry.
“Relax,” Holly said on a yawn.
“I am relaxed.” I am such a liar.
I’d left a message on Kristl’s voice mail. I hadn’t heard from her since her last, somewhat wistful call, and I had no idea how she and Brandon were getting along. There had also been no call about a wedding, however; I looked on that as a good sign.
Holly ordered another bloody Mary, and before I could stop her, one for me. I’m not a huge bloody Mary fan, but it’s made with vodka so I can go there if I choose. I just wasn’t sure I chose this morning. I realized, sort of indistinctly, that I wanted to just get through this job in Seattle and get to the film with Jackson.
“I have an opportunity to produce,” I said carefully. I knew Holly saw me as a production manager and it’s where she wanted me to be. It’s where she felt safe. Many times producers don’t want you snapping at their heels, so to speak, and so I was fairly certain my elevation in job status wouldn’t be cause for celebration.
“Yeah?” The drinks came. She lifted her glass and sucked down a hefty slug of spicy tomato juice and alcohol. “What’s the job?”
“A small-budget film. I know the screenwriter. He’s the exec producer and he got the financing together.”
“Good for you,” Holly said and actually sounded like she meant it.
“Will Torrance is directing.”
She snorted and half-choked, which caused her to reach quickly for her glass and gulp some more. “Did you sleep with him?”
I’m terrible with direct questions. It’s one facet of my lying I can’t seem to get down. My hesitation was answer enough. She gave me a sorrowful look, so I admitted, “Only once.” I looked at my drink but didn’t touch it. I really needed breakfast, though the idea of a leathery bagel and/or box of sugary cereal on the plane didn’t exactly appeal.
“Once was enough, huh?” She checked her own watch. As if on cue, several security men hauled a handcuffed man past the open door of the concourse bar. The man wore a rumpled suit and a red face. He looked as if he could barely manage putting one foot in front of the other. Blotto. Silent, but steaming.
“A case for anger management,” I said.
“I’m glad you figured that out early. He may be an
artiste
, but his temper makes him a thug.”
I realized she meant Will. I nodded and let it go at that. They called our flight over the loudspeakers and we went to the gate.
 
 
Trash Athletics was a small-budget job, and I mean small. We filmed it in one afternoon on a set with cute, prepubescent teenage girls who pranced around in the raw-edged, army-lettered sweats in green, gray, and camouflage and tried to look tough. The makeup and hair woman had ratted their hair and put fake nose rings on them. I guess the idea was “urban chic” but they looked like suburban kids who were playacting. Agency would have been better off coming up with a slut theme. I could see these girls wearing black lace bras with their sweats and getting into some of that sick baby stuff, like sucking their thumbs or licking a pacifier: Seattle Grunge meets Frederick’s of Hollywood meets Babes “R” Us. I pointed this out to Holly, who grunted and said maybe I should air my views to Agency. As this would be professional suicide, I kept my idea to myself.
I met Kristl for dinner my second night in Seattle. I wanted to do something totally touristy like eat at the Space Needle, but she took me to a hole-in-the-wall bar where everyone dressed as if they were the inspiration for Trash Athletics. I swear there wasn’t one item of clothing on the customers that wasn’t ripped, faded, shrunk, or stained. In my ubiquitous jeans and cotton T-shirt—and a black leather coat purchased the first day on the job as it was patootie-freezing cold in the Emerald City—I was several tiers classier than the mainstay crowd.

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