How to Sleep with a Movie Star (12 page)

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” I asked breezily, emerging from the bathroom. I tried not to think too hard about the fact that Cole Brannon was actually sitting at my kitchen table. In Tom’s chair. Talk about an over-adequate replacement.

“Yeah, sure, thanks,” he said. Damn it. He was supposed to say no, and he certainly wasn’t supposed to look that sexy when he said it.

“Um, okay,” I said. I should have just been rude. “I’ll put a pot on, okay? But then I’m afraid I’m going to have to take off. I have to get back to the office to finish the story.” There, that was good. I wasn’t throwing him out if I actually had somewhere to be, right?

“That story on me, hmm?” Cole asked, leaning back in his chair and grinning. “It had better be a good one. You better work hard on it. Make me sound good.”

I smiled and wondered how anyone could possibly make him sound bad. He was perfect. I was suddenly sure that the whole sex-addict thing had to have been a false rumor.

“I’m going to go change out of these clothes,” I said. I flipped the switch on the old Black & Decker that had served me well for the past five years. It began gurgling almost immediately, and I could smell the dark-roasted coffee beginning to work its caffeinated magic.

“But the clothes you’re wearing are so nicely cleaned and neatly pressed,” Cole teased.

“So true,” I replied. “But I would love for you to actually realize that I have more than one outfit.”

“Oh, do you? Well, let’s see!”

I made a face at him, and we both laughed. I could feel him watching me go as I stepped into my bedroom and shut the door behind me.

The smell of coffee wafted in from the kitchen as I surveyed my room slowly, trying not to think about the scene I’d witnessed here last night, trying not to think about what had happened in the bed I’d shared with Tom for nearly a year now. The room looked just as innocent and welcoming as ever, which struck me as somewhat strange, although I’m not sure what I had expected.

I looked in the closet and was immediately shocked to see that most of Tom’s clothes still hung there. From the way he’d cleaned out the bathroom, I assumed he was gone for good and had taken all of his things. I stared for a moment as I realized it meant he’d be making at least one return visit. My stomach turned funny circles as I tried to decide how that made me feel.

As I turned around to survey the rest of the room, an unfamiliar object in the corner of the room caught my eye. I took a step closer.

It was a small Louis Vuitton bag, and it wasn’t mine. It lay on its side, half obscured by the faded bureau, its thin strap trailing dangerously toward the bed. I stared warily.

I took a few steps across the room and bent down beside the purse, suddenly feeling choked up and uncomfortable. I weighed it for a moment in my hands and turned it over pensively. I knew instantly that it belonged to the woman with the perfect hair, the perfect breasts, and the perfect legs. Did she have to have a perfect handbag too? Of course she did.

Inside, there was surely an answer to who she was. I had to know. But I wasn’t sure I was ready to confront her again, even if this time she’d only be a tiny photo and a name on an ID.

“Cole, can you come in here for a second?” I called out weakly. I sat down on the bed.

“Sure.” I heard his footsteps. He knocked lightly. “Are you decent?”

“Yeah,” I said absently, still fingering the bag. He cracked the door open slowly and slipped inside.

“You okay?” he asked, looking at me with concern as he joined me on the edge of the bed.

“It’s hers,” I said, without answering his question. He knew instantly what I meant. I held the purse out to him and finally looked up. Concern was etched across his perfect face as he put a strong hand gently on the small of my back.

“What are you going to do?” he asked softly.

“Open it, I guess,” I said. I paused for a moment. “Is that wrong?”

“You have every right to know who she is,” he said softly. “If you want to.”

“I don’t know if I want to.” But I did. If for no other reason than to put a name with the face that had turned my life upside down. More important, I had to know if she had indeed been the woman at the Christmas party. If so, who had she been with? Had one of my coworkers known about Tom’s affair all along?

“Want me to do it?” Cole asked gently.

“Yes.” I nodded, relieved that he’d taken over. I was silent as he unzipped the little purse and reached inside. He pulled out a tiny Louis Vuitton wallet.

He opened it, looked at it for a moment, and silently handed it to me. It was her New York State driver’s license, and from the tiny photo on the ID, she looked at me defiantly, almost smirking. Her long hair was dark and shiny, as it had appeared in person yesterday, and her lips were perfectly lined and filled in. Her complexion was creamy and flawless. She looked as if she’d had her makeup professionally done before standing in line at the driver’s license bureau.

“Estella Marrone,” I said softly, reading her name. The name didn’t ring a bell right away. “Estella Marrone.” I repeated it once, a bit more softly. There was something familiar about her, but I was sure I’d never heard the name.

“You okay?” Cole asked. He started to rub my back slowly as I stared at the ID. Finally, I nodded.

“Yeah,” I said. I sighed. “I think I am.” We just sat there for a moment, me staring pensively at her ID, not knowing what to think, and Cole gently rubbing my back.

Suddenly, there was a sharp knock on the front door. I jumped, startled. I wasn’t expecting anyone. Cole and I exchanged confused looks.

“It must be Wendy,” I said finally. She had surely been worried when she got my slurred message. “My best friend,” I clarified. “Hang on a second. I’ll get it.”

I left Cole sitting on the bed while I went to answer the door, suddenly feeling relieved, despite the fact that Cole was still here and the mysterious Estella Marrone’s face was dancing around in my head. Wendy was the one person in the world who would know how to take care of this entire situation.

I was actually smiling by the time I reached the door, fully expecting to be blinded by Wendy’s toothy smile and amused by today’s choice of wacky outfit. I wrestled with the stubborn lock, swung the door open, and smiled into the hallway.

Then I blinked as I realized that it wasn’t Wendy on my doorstep at all.

It was Sidra DeSimon.

I stared wordlessly at
Mod
’s fashion director, dressed from head to toe in black leather, despite the fact that it was a warm June day. As usual, her short, dark hair was perfectly slicked back, her eyebrows were perfectly tweezed into sharp lines, and her lipstick was a perfect bloodred. Her perfume filled the hallway.

She stared back at me wordlessly for a moment, looking inexplicably as surprised to see me as I was to see her. My mind began racing.

Oh my God, someone had seen me leave Cole’s hotel. Someone had called
Mod
. Margaret had sent the head Triplet here to check and see if the rumor was true. And she would think it was! Cole was in the other room! In my
bedroom
! She would see him, assume the worst, and my life would be over! How had this happened? Finally, she spoke.

“Hello, Claire,” she said, staring at me strangely. She glanced past me into the apartment, and I took a quick step to the right to block her view. I was still confused about her appearance on my doorstep, but I hadn’t forgotten about Cole Brannon and his potential to ruin my life if Sidra caught a glimpse of him.

“Can I, um, help you with something?” I asked quickly, hoping to expedite this visit. My discomfort was growing. Sooner or later, Cole was bound to emerge from my bedroom, and I’d have no chance of saving my reputation.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” said Sidra cryptically. I just stared at her. She paused. Then she continued. “I’m here to pick up my sister’s purse.”

I simply stared for a moment, then my jaw dropped. It suddenly clicked, and I realized what I should have known all along. The woman Tom had been sleeping with bore a striking resemblance to Sidra DeSimon. The same thick, dark hair, the same pointed nose, the same high cheekbones (though I would have wagered that they were implants—perhaps by the same plastic surgeon), the same fake breasts. Of course.

“Your sister?” I squeaked.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” said Sidra, looking annoyed. “Honestly,” she muttered, rolling her eyes and looking at me like I was a half-wit. She reached into her clutch and effortlessly extracted a cigarette, which she proceeded to light, flicking ash on my doorstep and blowing smoke in my face. “Could we hurry things up here? I don’t have all day.”

“Your sister?” I repeated stupidly. Sidra stared at me with blazing eyes. I couldn’t move. I took a deep breath.

“Yes, Claire.” She spoke the words slowly, with forced patience, like she was talking to a child. “My sister, Estella. She left her bag at her boyfriend’s apartment, and she asked me to pick it up. Is that really so difficult for you to understand?”

“Her boyfriend?” I choked. “He was
my
boyfriend. This is
my
apartment.”

“Ah, yes,” Sidra said, still looking bored. She took another long drag from her cigarette. “I know. Rather awkward.” The corners of her lips twitched, and I suspected she would have been smirking had she not had so much collagen injected recently. Suddenly I wanted to reach out and strangle her. The only thing that stopped me was the realization that it would likely be difficult to get a grip on the slippery leather that covered her body.

“Did they meet . . .” My voice trailed off. I didn’t know how to complete the sentence or even why I wanted to know. “. . . at the Christmas party?” I finally finished the thought.

“Yes, Claire,” Sidra said slowly. “Now are we going to stand here and play twenty questions all day? Or are you just going to give me her handbag? I have work to do today, you know.”

“Oh,” I said, my mind still spinning. This was too much.

“Oh?” Sidra mimicked. “Look, I have a car waiting outside. I don’t have time for chitchat.”

“I’ll get the purse,” I said finally. I balled my hands into fists and contented myself by imagining a scenario in which I beat Sidra and Estella to a pulp, perhaps using Estella’s Louis Vuitton bag as the weapon of choice. Pummeled to death with Louis Vuitton products. A fitting end to their shallow lives.

But I realized suddenly that Sidra wasn’t looking at me anymore. She was looking over my shoulder. I knew with horror, before I even turned around, what she was looking at.

“This must be Wendy!” Cole said cheerfully as he emerged, grinning, from the bedroom. He crossed the kitchen in a few steps and was at my side. He placed a gentle, almost protective hand on the small of my back.

“No,” I muttered as Sidra stared. I could practically feel my world crashing down around me. “This is Sidra DeSimon, the fashion director at
Mod.
”

“Oh,” said Cole, looking confused, but still smiling politely. This was worse than I could have imagined. “Nice to meet you,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Cole.”

“Yes, I know,” said Sidra finally, taking his hand and shaking it slowly. My stomach churned. She turned back to me. “Well, well, well, what have we here?” she asked, arching an eyebrow at me.

“It’s not what it looks like,” I stammered. “Really, we just got here a few minutes ago, and I barely know him, and . . .” Sidra cut me off, still smiling dangerously.

“Oh, I know what it looks like,” she said. She looked at Cole conspiratorially. “I used to date George Clooney, you know. How nice to see little Claire here, following in my footsteps.” She tittered lightly. “Not that
you
would actually date
her.
” She laughed again.

“Why not?” Cole asked. I turned around to look at him and was surprised—and a bit flattered—to realize that his grin had been replaced with an icy glare. “I think she’s wonderful. And it’s funny, but I’ve never heard George mention anything about you.”

I could practically see Sidra’s claws coming out. Her eyes flashed, and she prepared to cut into Cole. I interrupted quickly.

“Sidra just stopped by to pick up
her sister’s purse,
” I said to Cole, turning around to look at him. His eyes widened.

“But I see I’m interrupting something,” Sidra said mischievously, her mouth twisting as far into a smirk as it was capable of.

“I’ll get the purse,” Cole said tightly. He left Sidra and me staring at each other while he disappeared momentarily. She continued to smile knowingly while my stomach again threatened to turn. I distracted myself by returning to the beating-Sidra-with-Louis-Vuitton fantasy.

“Here.” Cole surprised me by tossing the purse at Sidra rather than handing it to her. She deftly caught it and smiled smugly at me.

“I’m sure the editorial staff at
Mod
will be thrilled to hear about this,” she said, a dangerous edge in her voice. She looked back and forth between Cole and me. “This is just
precious,
” she squealed. She started to back away from the door, but as an apparent afterthought, she turned back around and smiled icily at me once more.

“Claire, dear, one more thing. That shade of lipstick looks absolutely
hideous
on you,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Just a little tip, from me to you.” She looked at me coolly for a moment, as if challenging me. She dropped her cigarette on my cheery blue and yellow welcome mat, stubbing it out with the toe of her leather stiletto boot. “Ta-ta, lovebirds,” she said. She spun on her heel and started to click-clack down the hallway and down the stairs. “Have a lovely day. I know I will.” Her laughter wafted up through the stairwell as she descended and disappeared from view.