Makeovers Can Be Murder (8 page)

″Katie, honey, Jonathan′s busy right now.″ She sounded extremely young, and she spoke with an Asian-sounding accent.

Then she added with a giggle, ″You′ve heard of me, right, Katie? My name is Gi. I′m Jonathan′s wife.″

My heart tumbled into my gut.

″But why don′t you call me Gigi?″ she continued. ″That′s what my Johnnie calls me.″

I tried to think of something to come back with. But I was completely speechless. I couldn′t even move my lips.

Meanwhile Gi—
Gigi
—continued speaking in a bright, oddly chipper tone: ″Ooh, did Johnnie forget to tell you he′s still married? His bad. I′ll spank him now for you, okay? He likes that. We′re fucking like love bunnies right now.″

In the background, Jonathan yelled, ″Cut it out, Gi. Damn you.″

Then he came back on the line, his voice urgent. ″Kate, let me explain. This is not what you—″

I couldn′t bear to hear anything more. There would be. No. More. Words.

I slammed down the receiver.

Chapter 13

Straighten out Your Eye Circles

—From
The Little Book of Beauty Secrets
by Mimi Morgan

 

 

 

I gaped down at my hand that was resting on the phone, trying to absorb what I′d just heard. Then my palm felt a vibration. It was the phone ringing—Jonathan trying to call me back.

Abruptly, I picked up the receiver and banged it down again to cut him off. Then I unplugged the cord from the wall. There would be no more talking. Not now.

In a daze, I dropped onto a stool by the kitchen counter. For a long while I simply perched there, staring silently into space. My brain was too stunned to think—all it could do was reel from the shockwaves.

Gi
.

It was a name I knew well. Gi, Jonathan had told me when we′d first met, was his ex-wife. He′d never said much about her, only that she was a refugee from North Korea, and that their marriage had ended when he′d discovered that she was having an affair. Jonathan had never been willing to talk about her much, and I hadn′t pried. But once when I was over at his apartment I′d found a picture of her. The photo had showed Gi wrapped in the arms of a beaming Jonathan. He′d been staring down at her with obvious adoration—and more than a little lust. (
Had he ever looked at
me
that way?
I′d wondered at the time.)

Gi had delicate features and huge dark eyes that were set in an alabaster complexion. She looked like an Asian Audrey Hepburn. Gorgeous as hell.

My first thought when I′d stumbled across the picture of them together was
How can the man who loved this incredible beauty be satisfied with someone who is overweight and out of shape? How can he want me after Gi?

The answer was obvious to me now. He′d never wanted me at all. He′d never really left her, in fact. On the phone Gi had said that she was Jonathan′s
wife
, not his ex-wife. Could that possibly be? Had Jonathan lied to me when he′d said they were divorced? Did I even
know
this man, really? Maybe he′d been covering up a long-distance marriage to Gi all this time. Plenty of guys did that, I knew. I just hadn′t thought that Jonathan was that kind of guy.

I cast back on every conversation we′d had about Jonathan′s marriage to Gi. There hadn′t been many of them. In fact, it had been Jonathan′s resolute silence on the subject of Gi that had always fueled my insecurities about our relationship. On some level I figured he′d never gotten over her. And, boy, had I gotten
that
one right. It was obvious now that he′d never left her at all. Jonathan and Gi were still married.
Married.

So what precisely did that make me?

″You′re an idiot, Kate; that′s what you are. A fool,
un estupido
,″ I muttered out loud. ″You were just an easy port of call for Jonathan. A no-stress lay. Dammit dammit
dammit . . .″

I′d made everything so easy for him. I′d been so
-o
Miss Independence with my TV news career, never pressing to know where our relationship was headed. I′d never asked, because I hadn′t known where I was headed myself, ca reerwise. It had never occurred to me that I was just the right type of woman for a man who wasn′t looking for a permanent relationship. That I was an easy target for a liar.

That′s when the anger broke loose. No crying yet—that would undoubtedly come later.

″A
liar
, that′s what you are,″ I yelled at the phone.

As Elfie jumped and skittered from the room, I added, ″You′re a moldy-faced, stinking liar, Jonathan. I
trusted
you!″

In the wake of that outburst, cold fingers of nausea moved into my stomach, probing its edges. They worked their way slowly up my throat muscles. Then a wrenching spasm turned my insides out. I stumbled in the direction of the bathroom.

I spent the next couple of minutes retching my guts out into the toilet. There wasn′t much to come up—even though I′d been up since three a.m., I hadn′t eaten anything since the night before.

When my stomach was empty, I dry heaved a couple of times. Then I rested my throbbing forehead against the lid. I was already totally exhausted, and the day had barely started.

Something soft and sinewy brushed against my cheek. I lifted my head from the toilet and saw Elfie peering into my face.

Raising her right front paw in the air, my cat mewed and gently touched my cheek.

″What′s
wrong
with you?″ she was obviously saying in cat-speak.

″Well, Elfie,″ I said, stroking her back. ″It′s nice to know that someone still loves me.″

Now that she had my attention, Elfie sat back on her haunches and began grooming her long, drooping white whiskers. She always looked like a walrus when she did that.

Gazing down at my kitty, I felt engulfed by a wave of tenderness. It was an emotion that reminded me that once, I had dared to let myself dream about having children with Jonathan. I′d felt certain that he would be an amazing father.

Well, that dream was now officially dead. The anger and nausea receded and a new emotion—sadness—engulfed me. It was more than sadness, really.

That′s when the tears began to flow. They built until, volumewise, the downpour of earlier that day was a mere sprinkling by comparison.

When Evelyn described the four cycles of love at the Newbodies meeting, she′d forgotten to mention a cycle.

She′d forgotten the cycle called grief.

Chapter 14

To Knock him Dead, Wear Red

—From
The Little Book of Beauty Secrets
by Mimi Morgan

 

 

I arrived at the Channel Twelve studios just before ten a.m. Thursday morning, clutching a light latte that I′d picked up on the way. I trudged on autopilot from the parking structure to the newsroom, almost unaware of my surroundings. My emotions were too busy reeling from the blows of Jana′s death and Jonathan′s betrayal. The only thing I had left in my emotions bank was an overdraft.

The newsroom was suspended in its morning lull between the end of the morning report and the ramp-up to the midday news. Reporters were scattered about shooting the bull or hunched over newspapers. The one person who appeared to be actually working was the summer intern, whose job it was to monitor breaking news. She was sitting in a swivel chair making notes in front of a bank of screens that were tuned to cable TV stations.

I scanned the whiteboard. To my relief, I saw that I hadn′t been assigned to work on anything yet that day. All I needed to do was make a few calls before getting back to the hospital to check on Shaina.

″Tell the desk not to put me on anything today. I′m here today, but not really,″ I announced to Rob, the studio director. He was dubbed Jumpy Rob for the way he constantly ejected from his seat in the control room while screaming camera directions into his headset.

Rob didn′t even look up from the TelePrompTer scripts he was laying out on a large desk in the middle of the bullpen.

″Gallagher, here today but not really,″ he echoed. ″Doing a little legwork on your bikini story, are you?″

″It′s not a bikini story,″ I retorted. ″I′m doing a five-part series about weight-loss scams.″

″But the bikini′s the money shot.″ He bent his head low to sniff at a page of script. ″What′s
this
?″

Picking up the script between two disdainful fingers, he demanded of the newsroom at large, ″Someone calls this an intro?″

As Rob crumpled the offending intro into a ball and tossed it into a trash can, I trudged across the carpeted floor to my cubicle and threw my purse at the desk. My aim was off, and it thumped against the cubicle wall.

″
Hey!
″ Crystal protested from the other side of the wall. ″You made me spill my double espresso. ″

Crystal is a former public defender who traded in her attorney briefs for an on-air career as a legal reporter. The camera loves her quartz gray eyes and caramel complexion. She′s the only one of us who dares to go on the air without foundation.

Poking her head over the cubie wall, Crystal said, ″Bad day already?″

Then taking a look at my face, she added, ″Uh-oh. We′ll talk as soon as I finish this script.″

I couldn′t muster a reply as I checked my cell phone messages. One from Evelyn was marked urgent. She said there was going to be a gathering of the Newbodies later that day in the Duke Forest. The Newbodies were going to have a Memory Ceremony to honor Jana.

Frank poked his head into my cube. Frank′s my favorite videographer. He′s only five foot six, but he′s got the muscled shoulders and bulldog stance of a heavyweight.

″I′ve been looking for you, Kate,″ he said. ″What the heck happened between you and Lainey last night? The overnight crew said she was stomping around this morning, claiming you made her screw up her carjacking story. She says you told the police not to speak to her.″

Stifling a grin, he added, ″Beatty was all over her ass because we got scooped by news radio.″

″A friend of mine was killed in that carjacking, ″ I replied. ″Lainey and her scoop can go piss in the goddamn wind as far as I′m concerned.″

Frank′s expression turned serious. ″I′m really sorry to hear about your friend,″ he said. ″I heard there were two victims. I heard that on the
radio
, mind you.″

″Her daughter′s alive but still in the hospital. In fact, I need to head back over there to be with her. I guess I′m not thinking straight—I can′t even remember why I came in here right now.″

My voice dissolved into something dangerously close to a sob. It′s always been a point of pride with me never to cry in front of my colleagues. But Jana′s murder and the abysmal phone call with Jonathan had spun my world on its axis. I felt spent and dangerously off-kilter. The floodgates of emotional hell had swung wide open, and the devil dogs were on the loose.

Crystal must have heard the SOS in my voice, because suddenly she also materialized in the opening to my cubicle. ″Time for a confab in the ladies′ room,″ she said, shooing Frank away. ″Let′s go.″

We retreated to the ultimate sanctuary—the handicapped stall in the women′s restroom.

″Tell me about what′s going on, sweetie,″ she said. ″Is it about your friend? I heard there was a carjacking overnight. I know that must be upsetting. ″

Crystal unwound a length of toilet tissue and handed it to me. In moments of stress, Crystal has a calm, maternal side that′s oddly comforting. You feel like you could lean your head against her shoulder and cry your eyes out, and everything would be better.

″Yes, my friend Jana died. But there′s a lot more going on,″ I said, finally yielding to the sob. ″It′s Jonathan. I know it′s stupid to be upset about a guy when someone has died . . .″

″Nothing′s stupid when it comes to love, honey.″

″I caught Jonathan in bed with his wife this morning. According to her, they′re still married.″