Glamour (11 page)

“I thought you were going to get a spray-on tan.” Paige frowns at me. “You’re going to look like a brunette albino next to me.”

“As a matter of fact, I made appointments for both Erin and me for tomorrow morning,” Fran informs Paige.

This is news to me, but I smile as if I knew.

“Well, girls, I wish you the best in the Bahamas,” Helen says as she gathers her papers and slips them into her briefcase. “I wish I could join you, but my schedule will simply not allow it.” She shakes her finger at both of us. “And I expect you two to bury the hatchet and pull off some excellent shows
over there. Because, as you know, this is
not
an inexpensive trip.” She smiles. “Thank goodness our sponsors believe in this show. Let’s not do anything to disappoint them.”

Fran leaves on Helen’s heels, and now it’s just Paige and me. “Let’s not do anything to disappoint them.” I mimic Helen’s final words.

“What do you mean by that?” Paige glares at me.

“Well, I’m just not sure how Helen, or our sponsors, or the network would feel about their starlet sleeping with her boyfriend.”

“Fiancée,”
she says firmly. As if that means they’re married.

“Fine.
Fiancée.
How do you think they’d react if they knew?”

She shrugs. “They’d probably take it in stride, Erin. It’s how things are.”

I frown. “You’re probably right.”

Her expression softens. “Look, Erin, I’m sorry I offended you. I’ve had time to think the whole thing over and I decided that it really was unfair for me to have Dylan stay at the condo.”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly. It won’t happen again.”

I blink. “I really appreciate that.”

Paige gives me a hug that feels sincere. I hug her back. “I hate feeling like we’re enemies,” I tell her.

“Me too.” She smiles in a slightly catty way. “You know what else I hate?”

“Huh?”

She looks down at my clothes. “That outfit.”

“Hey, I was in a hurry this morning. Mollie and I stayed up really late last night watching old movies.”

“Yeah, well, it shows. Are you working with Fran today?”

“I can if I want, but I don’t have to.”

“Want to go shopping for some Bahamas clothes?”

“Won’t they be provided as usual?”

“Yeah. But that doesn’t mean we can’t pick up a few things anyway. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

I realize that Paige’s concept of “fun” is different than mine, but at the same time my life hasn’t been much fun lately. The truth is, I have been missing her … and Mom. “Sure,” I say. “Unless you’re embarrassed to be seen with me like this.”

She studies me. “Yeah … maybe we should swing by home first.”

So we go home and I take a quick shower while Paige picks out my outfit, which turns out to be pretty cool. A silk, sleeveless BCBG top in a black-and-white print over a black cotton-blend skirt. But, as usual, it’s the accessories that make it. A pair of Louboutin cage platform sandals in black.

“Those are pretty tall for me,” I say as she presents me with the rather stunning pair of shoes.

“Try them, you’ll be surprised.”

So I try them and I am surprised, they’re not as uncomfortable as I expected. Must be the platforms. And I must admit, it’s fun being taller. Even so, I sneak a pair of flip-flops into the bright yellow Kate Spade bag she insists is perfect. When I check myself out in her mirror, it is perfect.

Before long we’re just two sisters out on the town, shopping, having a late lunch, and reminiscing about the details of the wedding.

We don’t really buy much, and on our way home I thank her for inviting me to go with her. “It really was fun,” I admit.

“It was,” she agrees happily. “And you know, Erin, I don’t
want anything or anyone to come between us. You know that, don’t you?”

“I think I do.”

“Not even Dylan.
Okay?
“

“Okay …”

“And even though he’ll be in the Bahamas—”

“He’ll be in the Bahamas?” I demand.

“Sure. Dylan’s got a resort wear line too. Those shows are a big opportunity for him. You wouldn’t expect him to miss it, would you?”

“No, of course not.”

“And even if Dylan and I do spend some time together there, which I know we will, I don’t want that to come between us, Erin. I don’t want to fight with you anymore.”

“I don’t want to fight either.”

“Good. I’m glad we agree.”

But as she drives us home I’m wondering what I just agreed to. I think it was something snuck in between the lines, and I have a feeling I just told Paige I have no problem with her and Dylan being together, or more explicitly,
sleeping
together. I realize it’s none of my business. Not really. I mean, it’s her life. Even if she is my sister, she has to live it the way she thinks is best. However, I don’t have to agree with her.

Because, call me old-fashioned or conservative or whatever, but for some reason I still find it disturbing that she is willing to jump into bed with Dylan simply because he put a great big diamond ring on her finger. I wish Paige wanted to save that part of herself until
after
the marriage. But maybe I’m one of the few people remaining on the planet, or at least in this country, who feels that way.

On Friday night, I find I am thinking
about Blake. To be more accurate, I am obsessing. Suddenly I’m worried—what if he really is the right guy for me and I’ve pushed him away? Equally troubling is the idea that I have hurt him. I’m not even sure how, exactly, since didn’t he dump me, but I keep remembering the look in his eyes when we danced at my mom’s wedding. He seemed wounded, and that makes me feel lousy. I wish I could do something about it. Especially before we fly off to the Bahamas in the morning.

I consider calling him, but it’s already past midnight. I’d send a TM, but that seems so impersonal—and email, well, that just feels wrong. So I decide to do something really old-fashioned. I’ll write him a real letter. I pull out my best stationery and begin. Then I wad up the page and begin again. After three bad starts, I decide that no matter how this version turns out, I will not throw it away. I will continue until I’m done. I can always decide not to send it.

I’m not sure why, but I feel close to tears as I seal my letter in an envelope, address it, stamp it, then pack it in my carry-on bag. I’m unsure as to whether or not I’ll even mail it. But somehow it feels like a load’s been lifted, like I can sleep better knowing I’ve taken this step.

The morning is a mad scramble. Paige thought I’d set my alarm and I thought she’d set hers. As a result, both of us are still asleep when Fran calls from the limo, which is down in the parking lot. Fortunately, our bags are already packed, or mostly. We throw on some clothes and hurry down to the waiting car.

“I hope there are no paparazzi at the airport,” Paige says as she opens her carry-on and starts doing her makeup and hair on the way to LAX.

“If there are, I’m sure you’ll look fabulous,” I assure her.

“It wouldn’t hurt for you to run a brush through your hair,” she shoots back at me. “And some lip gloss and mascara could do wonders.”

I glance at Fran, and she nods.

“You’re sure looking good,” I tell her.

She smiles. “Thank you. I feel good.”

I try not to seem surprised. “Great.”

“Yes.” Paige looks at Fran. “Your spray-on tan gives you a nice healthy glow.” She turns to me. “Both of you. It’s too bad sun is so damaging to skin when it makes us look so good.” She looks more closely at Fran. “Have you lost weight?”

Fran shrugs.

“Well, whatever it is, you look fabulous.”

I press my lips together, looking out the window, where I see that the gray dawn is just beginning to lighten around the edges a bit. When I think of how Fran lost weight, by puking
her guts out for the past several weeks as a result of her chemotherapy treatments, it makes me want to scream.

We get to the airport and without any drama, paparazzi, or security mishaps make it to our gate with about twenty minutes to spare before boarding. Fran offers to sit with our bags while Paige and I peruse the newsstands. As I’m returning to the gate, I see a mailbox. Why not send Blake his letter? After all, it’s only an apology. No reason not to send it. So I hurry and get it from my carry-on, and as they’re announcing that it’s time to load first class, I run back to the mailbox and drop it inside. Done.

Of course, after we’re loaded on the plane, I second-guess myself. Maybe I shouldn’t have sent it. What did it really say? If it had been an email, I could go back and reread it and make sure it sent the right message. As it is, it’s gone now. No getting it back. So I say a quick prayer, asking God to help my letter to make sense—and to not hurt Blake even worse than I’ve already done. And, as usual, I ask God to protect us on this flight. Then I lean back and try to get some sleep.

After a long but uneventful flight, we land in Miami, where we switch planes. Then after a much shorter flight, we arrive in Nassau just before five. The air terminal is buzzing with the fashion crowd. Paparazzi are all over, and when JJ and Alistair pop up to get our arrival filmed for the show, they are joined by others who may or may not know who we are. For the sake of our crew, as we make our way from baggage pickup to our waiting car, Paige makes observations, pointing out various personalities and fashionistas who’ve also just arrived in Nassau, and some of the other cameras stay with her too.

Then, as if the light just went on, one of the journalists yells out to Paige in a thick Italian accent, asking her if she’s
the
Paige Forrester of
On the Runway.
Naturally, Paige smiles and tells the woman that she’s right and that we’re here to film some shows as well as to participate in
Britain’s Got Style.

“Is it true you are no longer with Benjamin Kross?” the journalist asks. “You left him for a
designer?”

“It’s true,” Paige tells her as we go out to the street.

“Oh, that is too bad.” The woman shakes her head. “Benjamin Kross is so hot.”

Paige just laughs then tells them we have to go, and we start piling ourselves and our luggage into the car. But once the doors are closed she lets out a sigh. “I forgot that Benjamin Kross is still a big deal in some countries … the ones still watching old episodes of
Malibu Beach.”

“Publicity is publicity,” I remind her.

Fran just nods, but I can tell she’s tired. I can also tell that her wig has slipped, ever so slightly, but enough for my style-savvy sister to notice. So I point to some models just getting into a van and ask Paige who they are. Then, while she’s distracted, I quickly straighten up Fran’s do. Fran looks weary but grateful, and I know that if she doesn’t hit a bed soon there will be a meltdown.

Fortunately, we go straight to the hotel, where I get a bellhop to assist with our bags. Then I help Fran check us into our rooms, making sure that I get a room that adjoins with hers. Once I’m in my room, I knock on the adjoining door and wait until Fran opens it. She is minus her wig now. This was a bit startling last week, but I’m getting used to it, although her scalp looks strangely white and slightly alien-like in contrast to her sprayed-on tan.

Ignoring this, I help Fran into bed then call room service and order her a fresh fruit and cheese platter and plain turkey sandwich. While waiting for that to arrive, I make her some chamomile tea then unpack for her. I stick around until room service arrives and I’m fairly sure she’s going to be okay.

“Thank you, Erin,” she tells me in a bone-tired voice. “I promise I’ll be back on my feet tomorrow, and I’ll kick it into high gear by Monday.”

I nod. “I know you will.” But my thoughts don’t line up with my words. I’m worried that she’s even worse than last week. Oh, she might not be vomiting and all that, but there is something in her eyes, a weird kind of blankness, that tells me she’s not getting better yet … and this trip is not going to help. But what can I do?

I’m barely back in my room when my phone rings.

“Let’s get dressed to the nines and go out on the town,” Paige chirps cheerfully on her end. To be honest, it’s the last thing I want to do at the moment. Except that I know Dylan won’t be here until Monday, and the idea of Paige going out solo and probably clubbing is a bit unsettling.