First Kiss (9 page)

But Kiki didn't feel very much like writing. Oh, she wanted to get out of here! How could this be? In the room only fifteen minutes and already stir-crazy. This promised to be a very long three days. A change of scenery might help. She snatched the key and ventured out to roam the halls, hoping to encounter a famous married person going in or out of a room.

But her floor was as quiet as a monastery. Well, except for the whip snaps and moans coming from the room she just passed. Probably a politician. Most

of them secretly longed to be punished sexually. Must be some sort of perverse contrition for all the tricks they slipped past the voting public. Hmm. A provocative observation. Perhaps she should write another mini-polemic, this one about politics in general. "Kiki Goes to Washington." A great chapter title! And her savvy take on issues of the day would probably surprise a lot of people.

On the way back to her room, Kiki encountered another hotel guest waiting for the elevator. The woman appeared older, possibly late forties, her head and face swathed in a flowing Hermes scarf, her eyes eclipsed by large Christian Dior sunglasses. But no matter the disguise, Kiki knew swelling from plastic surgery when she saw it.

Desperate to know what work she had done and, more importantly, who performed it and how much it cost, Kiki approached. "Hi, I'm Jennifer Aniston. We must be neighbors. I'm staying in the Mistress Hideaway just down the hall."

The woman responded with a curt nod as she pressed the button again to call the elevator.

"Don't worry," Kiki went on. "I'm nobody's mistress. Never have been. Hey, I couldn't stand my own husband, so chances are it's not going to work out with some other woman's." She laughed a little. "That reminds me of a friend of mine. She's a mistress. Loves it. Gets him about one week a month, and that's quite enough for her. Of course, holidays are always a problem. I imagine that's a really lonely time for mistresses. Don't you think? Someone should do something special for them during that time of year. I don't know. Maybe a Christmas brunch. That would be nice."

"Yes," the woman answered crisply, avoiding eye contact. "I suppose it would be."

"So what brings you to Affair?" Kiki pressed gingerly, taking her voice down to a hushed whisper. "I'm just here to get away from it all. Pretty boring, huh? I mean, I wish I could say that I had Jude Law stashed away in my room. But it's just me. Needed a little rest and relaxation. What about you?"

"I really don't feel like speaking to anyone right now," the woman said. If looks could kill, then the hotel staff would be planning a funeral service for the elevator. The Extreme Makeover victim was staring daggers through it.

"Maybe later then," Kiki said cheerily. "We could have a cup of tea together. By the way, I didn't catch your name."

"I can't believe you don't recognize me, Jennifer Aniston ," the woman said savagely. "I'm Courteney Cox."

Kiki giggled nervously. "I'm sorry. That's just my hotel alias. My real name is"

The woman snorted. "I know who you are." She jabbed the elevator button again. "Is this goddamn thing broken?"

"I think it's just slow," Kiki said easily. "This used to be an old warehouse." One beat. "You know, I'rr always surprised by the number of viewers who remember Jeannette. She never got much screen time but people really connected with her."

"Who the hell is Jeannette?"

"My character from All My Children ," Kiki said. "] assume that's where you recognize me from. Oi course, I was also first runner-up in the 1995 Miss America Pageant."

"All I know is what I read in today's New York Post . You should be ashamed of yourself."

"It's all lies!" Kiki paused a moment. "Well, mosi of it anyway. But the parts about me and Tom Brock? Total fabrication. They should've had Jackie Collins's name on the byline."

"Women like you make me sick."

Kiki was taken aback by the venomous look spewing from the stranger's practically swollen-shut eyes The rebuke stunned her. "Women like me ? I don'l understand."

All of a sudden, the elevator doors creaked opened

"Women like you never do." She stepped inside, jammed a finger onto the instrument panel, and ther she was gone.

Haunted by the encounter, Kiki just stared blankly at the closing doors, listening as the elevator made its descent. Finally, she meandered back to the room feeling more anxiety than she had before leaving it in the first place. As if she needed additional problems to tackle. But this human conundrum would drive her insane until she solved it.

Women like you make me sick.

The bitter words turned over in Kiki's mind. What did she mean by that? Kiki had always considered herself a true feminist, a champion for the female race in general. After all, that's why she was writing the book. To give something back. Even in high school, Kiki had demonstrated the sensitivity to be inclusive. Most beauty queens operated in a rarefied orbit. But Kiki believed in reaching out. Example: Lindy Wiatt. She was teased unmercifully for being fat and ugly. But Kiki recruited her as a personal assistant. Getting ready for pageants could be so hectic, and what a godsend to have someone at the ready to fetch Diet Cokes, make an emergency hair spray run, and keep the makeup case fully stocked and in tip-top shape.

Suddenly, a dark memory surfaced. Hmm. Thinking back, there had to be a better example than Lindy. After all, the girl had tried to run over Kiki in the school parking lot. They said the attack had been stress-related and triggered by extreme dieting. At first, Kiki had felt so guilty. But how was she to know that the seven-day celery and water fast she recommended to Lindy might trigger such a random act of violence? Cosmopolitan had raved about the diet. Luckily, Lindy had been back on the job in time for the Miss Fredericksburg Hospitality Pageant. Nobody had a better system for maintaining makeup brushes. Lindy had kept them as clean as surgical instruments. Today she was assisting neurologists with complicated brain surgeries! Maybe working with Kiki had inspired her to help others.

The jingle of Kiki's cellular rang like sweet music. It couldn't be Sarah Ann. Bitch! But it might be Keith. Feeling hopeful, she rushed across the room to see. No such luck. Bastard! To no surprise, suzi-suzi calling lit up the screen.

Kiki deep-sixed the hello formalities. "Why did you pack for a year abroad? You do realize that I'm only going to be here for three days, don't you?"

Suzi-Suzi sobbed into the receiver. "I've got the worst luck in the world!"

Kiki climbed into the bed and got comfortable. Probably trouble with Chad, the married boyfriend. And that could mean a marathon phone session. "I'm here, sweetie. Tell me all about it."

"That shoot was for a sexual fetish catalog! They wanted to paint my body with latex. They wanted me to squash bugs in high heels, too!"

"Oh, my God!" Kiki screamed. "How disgusting! What is going on in America? Sex used to be so simple. Remember the innocent days when freaky meant vibrators and fur-covered handcuffs?" She hesitated, allowing buzi-buzi a chance to compose herself. Well, what did you do?"

"I told them to just forget the idea of painting latex on me. But I did stomp on some bugs. What else could I do? I needed the money."

"You don't have to explain to me," Kiki said, trying to sound supportive. "You know, I don't get it. How does a guy get turned on by watching a girl kill bugs? I mean, what happened in this man's childhood?"

"I know. It's completely retarded. Like those people who dress up as stuffed animals to have sex."

"The plushies!" Kiki said. "Or is it the furries? I can't remember. CSI did a show about it once."

"This is so wrong!" Suzi-Suzi shouted, her voice brimming with frustration. "I just want to model something normal for once. A push-up bra, an ugly sweater, a nurse's uniform anything !"

"Maybe you should consider leaving the agency. They goofed and let you sign those horrible modeling releases. Ever since it's been one bad gig after another."

Suzi-Suzi expelled a defeated sigh. "Tell me something I don't know. But where else can I go? Let's be honest. I'm almost thirty, and it's not like anybody's tapping me on the shoulder to say, 'Damn, girl, ain't you Heidi Klum?' At the end of the day, I feel lucky to be with PLK Management."

"I hate to hear you talk this way."

"Kiki, please. I don't have an inferiority complex. I'm only being realistic. I've accepted the fact that I'm a third-tier model, but I just want some decent assignments."

Kiki considered the situation. "Maybe you should try commercials. I know a girl who made ten thousand dollars from a Dr Pepper ad. And all she did was hold on to a cute guy while he drove a Jet Ski."

"It sounds like a good idea, but PLK only books for print work."

"So? You're in New York. There are hundreds of agencies. Wait a minute. That reminds me! I met this guy once in the recovery room at Bliss Spa. His name's Doug something. Gay, fabulous, flaivless skin. Anyway, he runs an agency for Broadway talent. All commercials. I mean, the theater doesn't pay anything. Those people have to supplement income. He even books for overseas work. Wouldn't it be great to fly to Japan for a commercial job? It'd be just like that movie with Bill Murray, Lost in Translation . I just know that Doug would die to sign you."

"You really think so?" Suzi-Suzi wondered aloud, her voice rattling with self-doubt. "I've never been in a Broadway show. I don't even go to them. Except for Mamma Mia ! I've seen that twice. I love ABBA. Does that count?"

"Sure!" Kiki sang, doing her best to rev up Suzi-Suzi's confidence. "At the end of the show, every-body gets up to dance in the aisles during 'Dancing Queen.' By that measure, you're practically in the show. Put it down on your resume'starred in Mamma Mia !' Nobody will ever know."

"That is so brilliant!" Suzi-Suzi said. "And so true, too. I mean, last time I was totally rocking out in the lower orchestra. In fact, one of the chorus boys pointed at me and gave me this big smile."

"See. It's not a lie. Maybe a slight exaggeration. But nothing more than that."

"So how do I get in touch with this Doug person?"

"Oh, God, I have no idea. I can't remember his last name or the name of his agency."

"KM!"

"Calm down. I know a girl at Bliss. He's a regular there. She'll know who I'm talking about and give me all the contact info."

"I feel so much better about things now. It's like I suddenly have a new career or something."

Kiki nestled back against the pillows, feeling quite pleased with herself. Basically, she'd just rescued Suzi-Suzi from a near breakdown. This would make another great chapter for the book. Just as she opened her mouth to say something, Kiki heard the distinctive break of someone else's call-waiting.

"OohChad's beeping in. I better go. He gets mad when the phone rings into voice mail. Call me later." And then the line went dead.

For several long introspective moments, Kiki just lay there, wondering what to do next. Glancing over to the nightstand, she noticed Fab's business card. It practically glowed radioactive. She reached out for it, fingering the raised lettering and embossed graphics. Then she flipped it over to see his cell number scrawled on the back.

The mere thought of him made her body itch, the so-vivid memory of Fab's impossible attractiveness crawling all over her like a hot rash. God, he really was extraordinary. Everything about himhis proud aquiline nose, his sensuously deliberate mouth, his strong, square jaw. And even covered up in his regulation Armani, Kiki knew that the body was the stuff of punishing five a.m. workouts. She could tell by his broad shoulders, the triangular shape of his chest, the discipline of his trim waistline, and his shapely butt that deserved its own cable channel.

Kiki had to wonder, though, about the character of a man who lived such a charmed existence. The success was on the cover of Fast Company . The looks were instant legend. The media was covering his every move. The women were falling at his feet. Certainly he believed some of the hype. After all, he called himself Fab. But how many deals had he struck with the devil to become Mr. Perfect?

And how many hearts had he broken along the way?

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Word of Caution

Kiki,

Hello, doll! I'm still tickled that we're back in touch. What a glorious blast from the past. I must say, though, I've never taken my wedding planning orders from a bridesmaid. A horrifying mother of the bride? Yes. Scratch that. ALWAYS. Except for Angela Binder. Remember her? She was the bitchy yearbook editor all through high school. I did her wedding two years ago, and she didn't even INVITE her mother. Something about a confrontation on Maury Povich about Angela's stepfather. I didn't ask. The point is, no bridesmaid has EVER marched right up to play General Schwarzkopf. Leave it to you to start a new trend. But are you sure that you're on the same page as Roman and this girl from New Jersey?

Big Hug, Breckin