Picture Perfect (17 page)

The heart is a fragile thing. And after everything with Alan, I’m not too certain I want to hand mine over to anyone else to break. Even Jack. Who is a darling. But too young and impetuous to really trust with my heart. He’s sent dozens of texts since I left New York yesterday, but I’ve yet to return any. I just don’t know what to tell him. That I think he’s sexy and fun and smart and mysterious and beguiling, but I don’t want to see him again? Of course, I
want
to. But I can’t. It would mean going down a road riddled with potholes and hairpin turns and blind spots and curves far too dangerous for the likes of my wounded spirit.

The truth is, I just can’t imagine a future with Jack. He’s everything I never wanted in a man. Which makes my desire for him all the more perplexing.

Maybe he is like one of those decadent desserts that women drool over, fork out good money for, and then regret the instant it’s disappeared down their throats.  Hell, I am exactly the kind of woman who’d spend her last dollar on a chocolate truffle just for that moment of bliss. But unlike food, men have generally been easier to resist. Until Jack. Oh sure. I couldn’t resist Alan either, but he made sense. We were colleagues, and he was a man on the rise. A relationship with him held every promise for the future.

But obviously, this was not the future I’d envisioned. Me waiting in what used to be our weekend home to surprise him and his new girlfriend so that I could get the drop on him in our divorce proceedings? Had I known it would all come to this, maybe I would’ve followed in Rebecca Walters’ footsteps and never married. Just spent all my time and energy on building my career. Had I done that, I would probably be president of Paramount Studios by now. Instead, I’m on the brink of unemployment and my reputation is teetering on the verge of disgrace.

But honestly, as much as I admire Rebecca, I can’t help but think she is a very lonely woman. Nearing seventy-five and having absolutely no family other than her fluffy Maltese, Muffin, must be somewhat disheartening. But she made that choice. Like she told me in her office the other day, being a woman in this business is tough. Trying to have it all may mean risking it all.

I wander into the den and sit down at Alan’s desk. Leaning back in the tall leather chair, my gaze drifts to the bookshelf across the room where several photos of us once resided. Now, empty spaces languish between books and random objects d’art. But one particularly shiny object catches my attention. Cut crystal, formed into the shape of a star, rests in the center of the shelves, a beam of sunlight glinting off one of the edges. I don’t recall ever seeing that before. Curiosity pulls me from the desk, and I cross the room to inspect it.

Etched into the front is an inscription,
You Will Always Be My Star
. I pick it up to investigate further. It’s heavy and the points are fine and sharp. I turn it over in my hands, looking for any more indication of its meaning, but find none. I can’t imagine who would have given this to Alan or when he would have received it. Had he kept it in a box all the time I’d lived here, or did he get it after we separated?

I hear the front door slam closed and the sound of Alan and Jennifer’s faint voices echoing off the marble foyer. Having stupidly left my car in the driveway, surely they know I’m here, but I don’t necessarily want to be found snooping around Alan’s things. I quickly shove the crystal star back onto the shelf, muffling a yelp as one of its sharp edges slices into my palm. Blood rises quickly from the gash, and I scurry into the en suite bathroom to rinse it off.

Motherfucker,
I think to myself as I stick my now throbbing hand under the tap. I rifle through the vanity drawers looking for a bandage or any sort of ointment to put on it, but come up empty. As I reach for the decorative hand towel hanging on the wall, I hear Alan’s smug voice.

“Caught red-handed, I see,” he says.

I turn to find him leaning against the door jam, his arms folded across his chest.

“What exactly are you doing here, Lauren?”

I press the cloth into my bloody palm. “I came here to discuss a settlement.”

“I gave you divorce papers already. You threw them in my face.”

“That settlement was a joke.”

“Funny. No one seems to be laughing. Especially since I have proof that you committed adultery, which you know perfectly well voids the pre-nup.”

I shake my head. “I didn’t cheat, Alan. You betrayed me. With my own assistant.”

“Well, it all comes down to what you can prove in court. And I have physical evidence of your infidelity. What have you got?”

“I have a witness. And her testimony will destroy any argument you can make.”

“Babe?” Jennifer says, bouncing into the den. “Oh. You found her.”

“Do you mind telling your little slut to butt out while we discuss this?”

“Slut!” Jennifer screeches. She elbows her way into the tiny bathroom. “I’ll tell you who’s a slut!”

Alan places a hand on her arm, and like a dog who’s been yanked by a choke collar, she retreats.

He turns to me. “There’s no need for name calling.”

“This is between us, Alan. Tell your whore to wait outside.”

“Whore?” Jennifer says, stepping forward.

“Honey,” Alan says, resting his hand on her arm again. “You’re not helping the situation.” He regards my homemade compress. “And you look like you need an emergency room.”

“I’ll be fine,” I say, removing the bloodied towel from my hand and inspecting the injury. The bleeding has stopped, but the wound is still throbbing. “Don’t you have some bandages around here?”

Alan takes my wrist and opens my palm with his fingers, an act oddly intimate. “I think you’re going to need a tourniquet.” 

“She’ll need more than a tourniquet if she doesn’t get the hell out of here and damn quick,” Jennifer snaps.

Alan pulls her out into the den. “Why don’t you head home? Lauren and I need to talk some things through.”

“You want
me
to leave?”

“We need to hash some things out. Okay?” He kisses her on the forehead, a gesture she doesn’t seem to appreciate, judging by how she shoves him away and stomps out of the room.

 “Yeah, run along!” I call after her. “The grown ups need to talk.”

Alan turns in my direction and tilts his head to one side. “You
have
to provoke her?”

“Just driving the point home.”

Jennifer comes running back into the den, an overnight bag on her shoulder. “How the hell am I supposed to get home? You picked me up. Remember?”

Alan reaches into his pocket and retrieves a set of keys. “Take my car. I’ll use a service in the morning.”

Jennifer rolls her eyes. Obviously, not the response she wanted. “Fine,” she huffs, grabbing the keys. “But I am not happy about this. Do you hear me?
Not
happy.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

“Yeah, right. I’ll add it to the list.”

And with that, she turns on her heels and tramps out. Seconds later, the front door crashes closed, followed by the sound of tires screeching in the driveway.

“Trouble in paradise?”

“She’s just stressed. Thanks to you.”

“Thanks to me? You’re the one who started all this drama with your affair.”

“
I
wasn’t having an affair. I recall finding you and your lover in my bed a few nights ago. That was before anything remotely romantic developed between me and Jennifer.”

“Gimme a break. It’s pointless to pretend you didn’t have an affair with her now.” I thrust my hand in his direction. “And will you help me find a goddam bandage before I lose a pint of blood here.” 

“I think there are some in the master bathroom. Come on,” he says, leading the way out of the den and up the stairs to our spa-inspired bath worthy of a feature layout in
Better Homes and Gardens.
A bath designed for
seriously
better times.

I take a seat on the tub deck as Alan opens drawers and cabinets looking for a first aid kit. Sitting here, watching him move about the room, I am overcome with grief. Grief over the failure of our model marriage. It seemed so perfect five years ago. Like we were made for each other. Our relationship came together so easily, so swiftly, that it seemed as if it was orchestrated by some heavenly being, mapping out our destinies. And despite my foresight to have a pre-nup, I never really believed it would be necessary. I thought we were the quintessential Hollywood power couple. Two influential television executives working side by side and living the dream.

Little did I realize that dream would turn into the nightmare it is now.

 I try to remain stoic, but a rogue tear, and then another, slides down my face. When Alan finally comes to my side with the kit, I am practically sobbing.

“Lauren,” he says with a sort of fatherly tone, tinged with sadness. He grabs a box of tissues off a nearby counter and hands them to me. “You’re going to be all right.”

“I
know
that,” I snap at him. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t fucking cry about it. Jesus!”

He places a hand on my shoulder, and it’s about as reassuring as an IRS audit notification. But at least he’s making an effort to be comforting, rather than threatening to ruin my career.

“I just don’t understand why we can’t fix this. Fix us,” I say. “Or at least find an amicable way out of it.” 

Alan sighs and opens the first aid kit. He pulls out a cleansing wipe and sets the kit on the tub deck and takes a seat next to me. He opens my hand carefully, and gently caresses my palm with the towelette. I flinch slightly as the cool cloth glides across my wound.

“Does it hurt?”

“Stings.”

“It’s just a scratch. Should heal in a day or two.”

He tosses the wipe in a wastebasket, finds a large bandage in the first aid kit, and places it gingerly over my palm. He presses the adhesive edges into my hand, allowing his fingers to wander up to my wrist. He strokes his thumb along the underside of my forearm, a move I know well. It was something he did to me whenever we were in a public place where showing affection would be inappropriate, such as during a contract negotiation with a big ad agency.

I look up to gauge his expression, and before I can stop him, he presses his lips to mine. I pull away sharply and stand up, gaping at him.

“What are you doing?” I demand.

He shakes his head. “Christ, Lauren. What is it going to take for you to sign those fucking divorce papers?”

Nausea splashes over me. “What?”

He grips his forehead with his hand. “I’ve tried reason. I’ve tried blackmail. I’ve tried seduction. What do you fucking want from me?”

Bile bubbles in my stomach. “Your girlfriend just left ten minutes ago, and you’re trying to seduce me? Do you think I am that gullible? Or despicable?”

“I don’t know what you are, Lauren. But if you’re smart, you will just sign the settlement offer I gave you. Or I will make your life hell.”

“How can you be so cruel? Did you even
ever
love me?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Why would you marry me if you didn’t love me?”

“Because Rebecca told me to.”

“Rebecca? What does she have to do with anything?”

 “She was
my
mentor before you came along. She recognized my talent early on, and if it hadn’t been for her, who knows where I’d be right now? I owed everything I’d achieved at Timeless to her. I would have done anything to please her. But then she chose you,” he says, his face darkening. “
You!
A nobody. Over me. She brought you up in the ranks. Gave you first pick at projects. She practically paved the road to your success.”

I am so taken aback by this news that I actually step backward into the glass shower door with a thud. I always knew that Rebecca had a soft spot for Alan. That was one of the reasons I latched on to him. But I never thought she orchestrated our marriage. What motive would she have for doing that? And learning that the man I vowed to love
‘til death do us part
only proposed to me to please his boss? That maybe he never even cared for me at all?  

“I don’t believe this,” I croak. “I have to get out of here.”

I race past Alan, run down the stairs and hurry into the den to retrieve my purse. As I emerge into the foyer, I find Alan at the front door. His eyes are dark, and for the first time, I actually feel afraid of him. He blocks the door as I approach, placing his hand on the doorknob.

“Step aside, Alan.”

“I will destroy you,” he says, staring me down.

I swallow hard, a kind of fear rising in my belly that I’ve never known before. But I am firm as I say, “Let me through.”

Chapter 13

Tears blur my vision as I drive down Pacific Coast Highway, the windows down and the wind whipping through my hair. The cold sea breeze stings my cheeks where my tears have fallen, but I think the discomfort is the only thing keeping me alert. I am simply exhausted by the drama of the past week, of fighting with Alan, of struggling to keep my career afloat, and of trying to come to some sort of understanding with Jack.

I’ve ignored all his texts and phone calls since I left New York yesterday, and surely any other man in his position would have given up on me by now. Clearly, I’m in no shape to date anyone when my marriage is threatening to explode onto the front pages of the
Los Angeles Times
in scandal, let alone the actor I hired to play in the film that I very nearly lost to my double-crossing assistant. I just can’t fathom why he can’t accept that now is simply not the time to get involved. If ever.

I turn onto Sunset Boulevard, deciding to take the long way home, hoping that the scenery will somehow clear my muddled head. I drive along the twisty path, every now and then glancing in the rearview mirror at the coastline behind me. The sun is still fairly high in the sky, but it’s on its way to the horizon, a few bright rays breaking through the thick layer of winter clouds.

Winding through the hills, I mindlessly follow the road before me until I suddenly find myself at the gate of a massive home with four towering columns at its entrance. I press the intercom button, and it’s a few minutes before Rebecca answers.