Hostile Makeover (24 page)

Shelley got up and retrieved the pan from the stove. She offered the last piece of French toast to Judy, but her sister declined. “It sounds to me like this whole wife-and-mother thing is not all that it’s cracked up to be.” Shelley watched the syrup slide down the sides of the French toast and form little pools on the plate.

“You’ve got that one right.”

“So what’s your plan?”

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other side of the table. “Plan?”

“Well, the Schwartz women have never traveled light, but you brought a full set of luggage. You must have had a plan of some kind.”

“My plan was to leave the house before I fed my husband rat poison. And I almost didn’t make it.”

Shelley laughed. “I wonder if Craig knows how narrowly he escaped death. How long are you planning to be away?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know what I’m hoping to accomplish. I was just so mad that I had to make some sort of statement.”

“How long do you think it’ll take Craig to figure out where you are and beg you to come back?”

Judy snorted. “Craig isn’t exactly a ‘sweep you off your feet’ kind of guy. He doesn’t make grand gestures.” She moved the pieces of French toast around on her plate. “I didn’t think I did, either.”

“Well, there’s no way he can ignore the fact that you’re gone.”

“I don’t know, Shel. He’s been doing a pretty good job of ignoring the fact that I’m there.”

“Aw, Jude . . .” The hurt and disappointment in Judy’s voice were painful to hear.

Judy jumped up and started clearing away their dishes. “It’s OK,” she said. “I just need some time off. If I go back right now I’ll make everyone, including myself, completely miserable. I can check into a hotel or something after breakfast. And I suppose I have to call Mother and tell her what’s going on. Craig’ll need help with the boys.”

This, Shelley knew, was not going to sit well with Miriam Schwartz. Shelley was very glad she was going to be out of town when Judy and Craig’s shit hit the Schwartz Family Fan. “You don’t have to go to a hotel. I’ve got the extra bedroom, and I’m leaving tomorrow morning for L.A. For the next week at least, you can have the apartment to yourself.”

Judy watched Shelley leave the apartment for a pretravel shopping trip with Nina. She’d been invited to join them, and though she also suffered from the Schwartz women’s compulsion to shop on the eve of a departure, regardless of the destination or the actual need for anything, the outing sounded much too lighthearted for her current state of mind.

With Shelley gone, the apartment rang with silence. Judy breathed it in and absorbed it. As the mother of boys, with their penchant for shouted communication and even louder music and television, she barely recognized it and rarely experienced it.

Moving into the living room, which had been done in blacks and whites with vibrant splashes of color—so unlike her own eclectic mix of antique and contemporary pieces—she fought back the urge to dust and straighten. This was not her home; she was not responsible. Now, there was a novel thought.

Why, she could plop right down on this sofa like Jason and Sam did, flip on the television, and do her own imitation of a couch potato. She could close her eyes and take a nap. She could go read the best-seller she’d been unable to find time for. Today was hers, and what she chose to do with it was up to her as well.

Like the ones before it, this thought was both strangely frightening and incredibly wonderful.

Judy moved to the telephone and lifted the receiver, but there was no one she wanted to call. She wasn’t ready to talk to her mother. Her children, if they weren’t still sleeping, would either feign indifference or assume she’d left because of them. And she damned well wasn’t calling Craig.

She could call a friend, except then she’d have to confess she’d moved out, because however she wanted to sugarcoat it, that was, in fact, what she’d done. Still, doing it was one thing; admitting it was another. She was much too raw and uncertain to discuss it with anyone else. And what if after a few days she decided to go back home? Once the news was out in the world, she wouldn’t be able to change her mind and pretend this hadn’t happened. She knew women who’d only been testing the waters and found themselves heaved out of the boat. She needed to proceed with care.

Wandering into what was now her bedroom, she took in the pile of suitcases. She could hunt down an iron and press anything that had gotten wrinkled, hang her dresses in the closet, and put her cosmetics away in the bathroom, but she didn’t want to do that, either.

So many things she didn’t want to do; perhaps the time had come to find out what she did want.

Moving to the bookshelf near the window she perused its contents, waiting for something to grab her attention. Ultimately she sank onto the window seat and stared down at the traffic below, unsettled and empty, yet somehow . . . hopeful.

What did she want? Was it as simple as being noticed and appreciated by her family? Or something darker, more demanding? Was she wrong to want something of her own? Wrong to enjoy working and going out into the world? Wrong to want to be more than somebody’s wife or mother?

She simply didn’t know. But she’d taken this first step; it had been a wobbly, not particularly well thought-out step, but still she’d taken it. It only made sense to take another and, if necessary, another one after that. Somehow she’d have to hang tough until she saw where those steps were taking her.

chapter
23

L
ate Sunday morning, Shelley strode through the crush of people at LAX and headed for the rental car desk. Luke Skyler had flown in on Friday for the final casting call, and Ross and the Simmses were due in midday tomorrow. The shoot would begin on Tuesday, which left her a little over twenty-four hours to make contact with Selena Moore.

Countless palm trees later, she drove past a not-yet-awake Rodeo Drive, located Doheny, and pulled into the circular entrance of the Four Seasons Hotel in Beverly Hills.

Entering the lobby, she breathed in the luxury that immediately surrounded her. Here you might run into Brad out by the pool or Matt Damon in the lobby lounge. There’d be any number of well-known faces whom you would not accost or approach under any circumstances. The cost of rubbing shoulders was overlooking their celebrity and treating them like regular folk.

At the front desk she double-checked the reservations for the rest of the party. Brian and Charlie Simms would have a suite on the fourth floor. Ross Morgan, who she’d briefly toyed with putting at a Motel 6, would have the smallest room in the worst possible location, which hadn’t been easy since the Four Seasons prided itself on its accommodations. Skywalker was on the sixth floor, just below her. She’d learned the hard way that spreading people out was the best idea during a shoot; after a twelve-hour production day, you didn’t necessarily want to find yourself next door to an irritated client or a temperamental creative director.

In her room, she waited impatiently for the bellman to place her luggage and point out the amenities. As soon as he’d left, Shelley called the hotel operator and asked to be put through to Selena Moore. Once again she was forced to leave a voice mail, and once again, she was brief and upbeat and stressed how much she hoped they’d have a chance to talk while they were both here in L.A.

Determined to find the elusive Ms. Moore, Shelley left no plush stone unturned. She loitered in the lobby, took beauty treatments at the spa, worked out in the exercise room, sunned at the pool, and managed to consume food or beverage in every one of the hotel’s restaurants and bars. She even jogged the route around the hotel she’d learned Selena Moore favored.

But at the end of her twenty-four hours, all she had to show for her efforts were a first-name relationship with the hotel staff and a bill guaranteed to give Ross Morgan apoplexy.

At two o’clock Monday, not knowing where else to turn, she expanded her search zone to include the shops on Rodeo Drive. When the going got tough, the tough went shopping.

After a mad dash upstairs to stow her purchases, Shelley still managed to arrive at the hotel’s Windows Lounge ten minutes before the preproduction meeting was scheduled to start. Ross Morgan was already there.

He stood as she approached, and remained standing as she moved to a club chair as far away from him as she could get. He was wearing form-fitting khakis and a black Ralph Lauren polo shirt. A black leather belt circled his trim waist. As they sat, she noted that the black set off his blue eyes and blond hair. In fact, now that she thought about it, bright color always intensified the blue of his eyes. He must be a winter.

Shelley grimaced. Ross Morgan was a big pain in the rear end and she was deciding what season he was.

“How’s your room?” she asked sweetly.

“Great. Except that I seem to be near the Dumpster and the elevator. The bellman seemed surprised. He said they almost never put guests there.”

“Gee, that’s too bad.” She bit back a smile and dropped her gaze to her briefcase. Pulling out the client file and her notes, she placed them on the cocktail table in front of her. “I trust the Simmses fared better.”

“Right down to the fresh-cut flowers and artfully arranged fruit basket.” He speared her with a look. “The limo was a nice touch, too. Except, of course, neither of them had ever
been
in a limo before.” His look became pained. “So we had to stop a passerby and ask him to take pictures of us in it.”

“Oh, God.” She gave up trying to hold back her laughter. “I’m so sorry I missed that.”

“Yeah. I can see that.”

Still smiling, she turned and saw the production company people heading toward them. Tracy Evans, the producer, was close to six feet and the production assistants with her had to scurry to keep up with her. Luke Skyler, looking like a film star in his own right, strolled in behind them.

Shelley made the introductions and there were handshakes all around. They were still at it when Brian Simms and his nephew, Charlie, arrived.

“Oh, my God, this hotel is UN-believable.” Charlie was out of breath with excitement. “I saw John Travolta in the lobby—just sitting there talking to someone. And Meryl Streep was coming out of the elevator!”

“It’s cool, isn’t it?” Shelley shook Charlie’s hand. He was tall and gangly and though he was in his mid-twenties, he carried himself like a teenager who hadn’t yet grown into his body. “Hello, Brian.” She kissed Brian Simms on both cheeks, then directed everyone to their seats. She could feel Ross Morgan’s gaze on her, assessing, considering. She placed Charlie next to Tracy. He looked so happy, she was afraid he was going to hyperventilate.

“Tracy’s the go-to person on the shoot,” Shelley explained as Charlie took his seat. “She’ll be assigning you to work with different people during the week. If you have a question or a problem, Tracy will definitely have an answer or a solution.

“And this,” she held up one of the production books Tracy was now passing out, “is known as the bible. Tracy’s going to take us through it now, but everything you need to know about the shoot is in this document.”

Charlie opened his book with reverence and she felt a warm little glow. As Tracy began to walk them through the details of the shoot, Shelley’s gaze met Ross’s across the table and they shared an unexpected smile.

Appalled at the warm little glow that ensued, Shelley yanked her gaze away and let it skim around the room. She’d be better off trying to find Selena Moore and Miranda Smith than trading glances with Ross Morgan; the last thing she wanted to feel in his presence was warm.

When the meeting broke up, Shelley lagged behind so she could scan the room once more without calling attention to herself. Near the entrance she spotted a table occupied by a blonde and a brunette of the right height and age.

Heart racing, she reached forward and tapped Luke on the shoulder. “I think I’ve got a sighting,” she whispered. “Can you take the Simmses and Morgan on to the restaurant? I’ll catch up later.”

Casually, she turned and headed back in the direction from which they’d come. A second glance out of the corner of her eye confirmed the identity of the two women.

Reminding herself to breathe, Shelley continued to the ladies’ room, where she reapplied her lipstick with a shaky hand and ordered herself to calm down. Pushing everything but the success of her mission out of her mind, she raised her chin and strode out of the restroom. As she neared the entrance, Shelley stopped and took notice of the table as if for the first time. With what she hoped looked like a surprised, yet casual, smile, she headed directly toward it—and her finally cornered quarry.

“Selena?”

“Yes?” Selena Moore tilted her head sideways. Her makeup was flawlessly applied and she had the classically perfect features that only Mother Nature or a gifted plastic surgeon could provide. Miranda Smith, who had also gotten more than her fair share from the good looks fairy, smiled tentatively.

For the span of several heartbeats Shelley felt short and frumpy. With a stab of irritation she shook off the feeling. “We met at a fund-raiser in Atlanta last fall.” Shelley extended her hand. “I’m . . .”

There was a movement directly in front of her, and for the first time she noticed that a man was sitting across from the two women. He swiveled to stand and face her, and she noticed he was wearing a black Ralph Lauren polo shirt.

“. . . Shelley Schwartz,” Ross Morgan finished for her.

Shelley’s smile faltered.

“Yes, I remember,” Miranda Smith said. “Wasn’t it the—”

“Woodruff Arts Center Gala,” Selena finished.

“Yes.” Shelley found her voice. Ignoring Ross, she shook hands with both women.

“Did you leave me a message?” Selena Moore asked.

“Yes,” Shelley said, striving to remain casual. It wouldn’t do to let the woman know she’d been hunting her like wild game. “I was hoping we’d run into each other.” She made a point of including both women in her smile. “I’m a huge fan of Custom Cleavage and the Selena Moore Boutiques. You’re always my first stop at Phipps Plaza.”