The Divorce Club (22 page)

"I'm fine. Just a headache."

"You look tired. Did they give you anything?"
Mel sits on the bed and our eyes lock. It's an uncomfortable
moment. The small talk is just the warm-up part. She's about to say
something but is waiting for the right moment.

I shrug. "Did you see Sam yet?"

She nods, but doesn't elaborate. I let out a
sigh, ready to get it over with. "Just say what you came to say,
Mel."

"You know I'm here to see if you and Sam are
okay." She leans over me and brushes my hair out of my face. "Sam's
well, given the circumstances. Her face is a bit bruised—nothing a
dab of concealer couldn't solve."

I wince, imagining my beautiful daughter
battered and swollen.

"I got you a gift from the gift shop
downstairs." She hands me a pink bag.

"Thanks, Mel. You didn't have to do this." I
slide my hand into the bag and pull out a small replica of the
Eiffel Tower. My breath catches in my throat. She knows everything.
Keeping a secret from Mel is impossible because she's like a
bloodhound that's sniffed a trail.

"I can explain. I know it's my fault that
Sam's face is banged up and—"

"Hey, snap out of it. I said it's not that
bad," Mel interrupts. "What's bad is the fact you didn't tell me
you were going to France."

"It was just a weekend work thing. A spur of
the moment decision."

Mel narrows her eyes. "Don't lie to me. Sam
told me everything. That guy, Jamie, invited you and you agreed. If
this accident wasn't enough of a sign, then I don't know what
is."

"Now don't get all superstitious on me." I
roll my eyes. "It wasn't a
sign
; just some random car that
cut in front of us on the expressway. This is ridiculous." I gasp
because I don't know how I just remembered that tiny detail. My
memory's coming back.

"He's bad news."

"How could you possibly know? You haven't
talked with him more than three words." I reign in my voice, trying
hard not to shout, but it takes me all my might. I realize I'm
protective of him when I shouldn't be. Mel and I have been friends
for years. Screaming over a guy is out of the question because she
means well and cares about my wellbeing. But my intellect doesn't
seem to be the winner in this argument.

"He's married. Isn't that bad news enough?"
Mel takes a deep breath. I see she's trying hard to keep her
composure too. "Please, at least wait until the divorce is
finalized before you get involved. It's not right to date a married
guy."

She can't be serious. I smile, my eyes
narrowing to tiny slits. "You and your conniving double standards.
You dated a married guy last year."

"It's not the same, darling. I wasn't in love
with him."

"I'm not." A bell starts ringing at the back
of my mind. I'm not in love with him. Or am I?

Mel cocks an eyebrow. "Really? I've known you
forever, Sarah. And this—" she waves her hand in the air "—isn't
you at all. Your hair's glossy, your skin's glowing. Well,
obviously not now, but it was until you left for France. You're
even wearing lip gloss again."

"I've changed my shampoo." Her words slowly
sink in. "Wait, why's my skin not glowing now?"

Mel shrugs and starts rummaging in her
oversized bag, pulling out candy bars, two small plastic bottles of
smoothies and all the other stuff one's not supposed to consume in
a hospital. "Do you want mango or banana? You can have the
straw."

"I want mango and a mirror."

"Mango for one coming right up." Mel opens
the bottle, pushes the straw inside and places it in my hand.

"The mirror now." I take a sip, only then
realizing the nurse never asked whether I wanted any food, so maybe
I'm supposed to keep an empty stomach.

"I don't have one," Mel says.

"You're lying." I hold my drink over her
expensive
Gucci
. "My hand's shaking. If I don't get that
mirror soon I might just spill my juice."

Her eyes turn wide with dread. "You
wouldn't!"

"My reflexes are all messed up and the
doctor's said there's something wrong with my brain."

"Fine. But if you turn into a hazard to
yourself, you're to blame." She stomps over to the white cupboard
in the corner and retrieves my compact mirror from my bag, then
returns to the bed and tosses it on the covers.

I hold the shiny surface up to my face,
expecting to see bloodshot eyes and maybe some dark circles.
Instead, I stare at a purple bruise spreading over my right side.
My lips are swollen as though I've had collagen injections. There's
a wide dressing wrapped around my forehead; a tiny red stain the
size of a nail peers through from underneath. No one expects to
look like a supermodel after a car accident, but this is more the
picture from a bad horror movie with loads of paint and gore.

"It's not that bad," Mel says. "Give it a few
days and you'll be as good as new." The way her eyes move
uncomfortably conveys another meaning.

"You're lying again."

"This will hide the bruises on your neck."
Mel retrieves a black scarf from her bag. "Take my glasses too. You
need them more than I do."

"Who do you think I am?
Lady
GaGa
?"

"You could never pass for her."

I shoot her an amused look. "Why not?"

"You don't have the proper handbag to pull
off that number," Mel says.

"Because it's not a limited edition and
doesn't cost a thousand?"

She smiles. "You said it, not me." Clearing
her throat, she adds, "Could be the shoes too."

I know she's just warming up to whatever she
has to say again, so I play along. "What am I going to do with
you?"

"I have a little magic trick up my sleeve
that will hide your deep, dark secret. It's a magic medicine called
concealer. If we use the correct tones and colors that best match
your bruise, nobody will suspect a thing."

"Really?" I nod, impressed.

She rolls her eyes. "Of course not. People
will still think you've been beaten up and won't believe you when
you deny it, so I wouldn't even try."

She's not exactly helping me cope. "Drop
it."

"Sorry." She takes a sip of her smoothie and
runs a hand over the cheap cotton sheets. I can see her dirty mind
working before she even opens her mouth. "So, what did you do in
France?"

"Not what you're thinking."

She grins. "You couldn't be thinking what I'm
thinking unless you thought of it yourself."

"What?" I roll my eyes. "Honestly, Mel, at
times I'm wondering whether you're actually a bloke disguised in
Chanel
."

"It's
Lagerfeld
," Mel says. "I don't
need to be a bloke to let my imagination run wild. A hot guy and
romantic France is a deadly combination to any woman's rationality,
particularly to the lonely and divorced."

I smirk. "Yeah, well, as you can see it
wasn't a deadly combination to me, so stack your dirty thoughts
away."

"You didn't even think of it?"

How should I answer this one? If I negate she
won't believe me. If I say I did she'll keep snooping around. Time
to change the topic. "Do you think you could get me a glass of
water?"

"Finish your smoothie." Mel points at the
bottle in my hand. "So, you did. I knew it the moment I saw him at
the club. Sarah, to him you're nothing but a rebound relationship,
and you know it. He's not ready to commit to anyone just yet. Give
him a few months before you end up hurting again."

I shrug. "Maybe I just want a roll in the
hay."

Mel laughs. "Good one, Sarah."

"What?"

"That's me," Mel says. "Not you. It's not in
your character to do something like sleeping around. You're holding
out for the fairytale. You know, Prince Charming comes riding on
his white horse and sweeps you off your feet, away to the royal
castle, where he marries you and swears his undying love. The kind
of stuff that only happens in movies."

"He could be my knight in shining armor. You
never know."

"I hope you find Mister Perfect one day." Mel
shakes her head. "But I'm telling you, it's not Jamie because if he
was,
where is he now
?"

Good question. It looks as though at the
first sign of trouble he rode into the sunset like a spooked
horse.

Mel peers into the bathroom. "Are you hiding
in the toilet, precious Jamie?" She slams the door and looks under
the bed, then rummages in my trashcan. "He's definitely not hiding
here. Or here." Cocking her head to the side, she pulls up my
blanket and freezes. "Is that the phone? No, wait. Just a car
horn."

I laugh. "Seriously, I get the point."

"Do you?" With a sigh, she sits down and
squeezes my hand. "I'm not trying to make fun of you. I'm just
bringing you back to reality. Jamie couldn't even be here to make
sure you were okay after waking up from an accident he caused. The
police should classify it as a hit and run." She pauses for
effect.

I raise my brows. "What?"

Mel shrugs. "You got hit, and he ran away
faster than a cheetah. What kind of Prince Charming does that make
him, Sarah? A lousy one, if you ask me."

"Nobody's asking."

"I love you and want the best for you and
Sam. You'll find the right guy, but it isn't Jamie." She keeps
saying that. For the first time I'm thinking she may be right.

"What about that water?" I say, changing the
subject. I'd cut off my left arm for another sip of water and a
painkiller for this throbbing headache. Besides, I don't want to
talk to Mel anymore. She's jumbling my head.

Mel lets out an exaggerated sigh. "Fine, but
I know you're trying to avoid having this conversation. You know I
won't let you get away with it once you no longer have the excuse
of being in a hospital with brain swelling."

My jaw drops. "Brain swelling? The doctor
said it's a mild concussion and memory loss."

"That too." She stands and stomps out.

Why didn't anyone tell me my brain's swollen?
That explains my lack of interest in a smoothie. I'm definitely not
myself, which is also obvious from the fact that I can't stop
thinking of ringing Jamie to hear his voice.

When Mel returns with my water and pill, I've
made up my mind. First the stalker, then the trip to France and the
accident. Mel's right. Jamie
is
bad news, but I might as
well give him a chance to prove us all wrong. If he doesn't call
before the end of the day, I'm nothing but a booty call.

"The nurse says your brain's not swollen. I
must've made that part up, which isn't surprising given what you
put us all through. Who in their right mind travels to France with
a guy they barely know?" Mel places the pill next to the glass on
the bedside table and gives me that 'you didn't listen' look of
hers before she adds, "There's someone here to see you."

"Who is it?"

"Greg."

Hearing my ex-husband's name I choke on the
water. "How did he find out I'm here?"

She hesitates and looks away. "I told
him."

"Mel!"

She holds up her index finger, cutting me
off. "Listen, Sam needs a father figure in her life. He might not
be the best role model out there, but he's better than nothing. I
know what it's like to grow up alone. It's not healthy."

I can see her point, but that doesn't make me
feel less betrayed. She's supposed to be my friend, not the one
siding with the enemy.

"Someone else is here to see you." Her lips
curl downward, her eyes turn cold. "Jamie's lawyer. Have your pick
who you want to talk to first because none of them will go
away."

Jamie's lawyer is tall and groomed with small
beady eyes and an expression that's supposed to convey openness,
but only manages to put me on guard. There's something familiar
about him that I can't quite pinpoint.

"Miss Davis, my name's Keith Andrews." He
shakes my hand with little vigor. "I'm a partner with Davis Pollard
& Associates. I represent Jamie Bowers and would like to
discuss a proposition that'll make all parties very happy. How are
you?"

Pulling my hand away, I lean back. "Judging
from the bruises, swelling, ugly hospital gown, and this IV that
won't stop beeping, I'm going to say, not good."

"I'm sorry." His voice sounds routine, like
he's repeated this a million times before.

"Everyone says the face lift didn't go as
planned. Bummer, huh?" I touch the bruise on my face. "Do you sue
doctors?"

He fumbles through his notes. "I supposed
this was a car accident."

"Got you. I thought you lawyers had a sense
of humor." I laugh, but he doesn't even crack a smile, so I clear
my throat. "The joke was supposed to ease the tension, but never
mind. Please call me Sarah."

"Sarah, then. You can call me Keith. Everyone
does." He pulls a chair from the window and sits without waiting
for an invitation.

"Please, sit." I point at the chair he's just
occupied.

Still, he doesn't crack a smile. "Where were
we?"

I suddenly realize why he seems so familiar.
He was on television a while back, repeating the exact same line to
a reporter. Why on earth would Jamie send a celebrity lawyer to
visit me? "Can we make this as quick as possible? I've got people
waiting to see me. It seems I'm more popular now than I ever was in
school."

He drops his briefcase on the table and
retrieves a blue folder, smacking his lips as he reads. "Right. My
client and you—"

"You mean Jamie, let's just make that
clear."

"Yes." He peers at me with the disdain of a
teacher who's just been interrupted by a naughty child for the
umpteenth time. "My client—Jamie—and you were involved in a car
accident. Now, we all know he wasn't at fault, but you're still
entitled to compensation from both parties. If you would just sign
these papers that you won't hold him responsible so we can start
our negotiations."