Reunion Girls (26 page)

"So I'm reading the new issue of
212,"
Linda went on, "and I see your name and think, 'What about a coffee-table book on the New York nightlife scene?'"

"That sounds fantastic." Babe felt excitement bubble up to the rim. It didn't quite boil over. This wasn't a sale, after all. Just an idea. She told Linda about her photographic style on the social scene during her days at Brown—the violently cropped images, the edgy lighting techniques, the disoriented, drunken point of view.

Linda was encouraging.

"I still shoot that way," Babe said. "I sneak in several images at every event. You know, to keep those muscles flexed. Of course,
212
would never use them. The editors there want the
Town and Country
vibe. Everybody looking rich and beautiful. In my storage files, I must have thousands of images to choose from."

"I think we should pursue this," Linda said. "Give it some thought, and we'll talk in a couple of days." She paused. "Does
212
have you covering the birthday party for the Kometani twins?"

"Probably."

"I thought so. I'll see you there. Maybe we can steal a few minutes over a drink."

Babe laughed a little. "I have to work the event. What's your excuse?"

"I represent Mio and Mako. In fact, I just sold a beauty book they're writing to St. Martin's Press. Well, I should say they're posing for the pictures. One of my ghostwriters is doing the actual writing. Anyway, I have to turn in an appearance and wish them well. It's the least I could do. I earned a nice commission on that book."

Babe said her good-byes and hung up as if on a cloud of wonderful, cotton-candy air. This was no deal with the devil for a moment of notoriety. This was a real chance to display her talent. The possibility was incredible. She tried to imagine what her name might look like on a book cover, Babe Mancini. And what would she call it? Let's see . . . the title had to be provocative and sexy . . . something that smacked of eroticism and decadence. Suddenly, inspiration struck. The hair stood up on her arms.
Night Sweat.
That would be the name of her first book, and she knew that it was gold.

The rest of the afternoon flew by. She plotted out her wardrobe to meet Dean Paul, deciding on a Zac Posen denim jacket, a ribbed cotton tank, and a lace-overlay chiffon miniskirt by Valentino R.E.D. Then she slipped into a pair of Marc Jacobs python sandals, tossed her essentials into a Badgley Mischka beaded satin bag, and hit the door.

Babe walked into Hue at six on the dot and went straight for the flawless mahogany bar to order a Rolling Blackout—a potent mix of Stoli, Kahlua, and espresso.

She slapped down a twenty for the drink and told the could-be-a-model bartender to keep the change. He had that gorgeous frat-boy look that ruled Hilfiger campaigns.

Babe stalked the two-room lounge, sizing everything up, sorting everything out. There was an interesting mix of hard chargers and hot players. Model (of course—they swarmed the city spots like locusts), musician, magazine editor, artist, designer, HBO writer.

A familiar actor approached. "Hey."

She knew the face but not the name. Tragedy of the semi-famous.

He shook his index finger at her. "I think I know you."

Babe gave him a look. "Is that a line, or do you have a bad memory?"

His forehead crinkled. Apparently, anything more than half a sentence was heavy-duty social intercourse. "Hold on a minute . . . what?"

Babe avoided eye contact and watched the entrance for Dean Paul. "I'm waiting for someone."

He opened up his arms. "I'm here. And I'm on TV Every week."

"So is Maury Povich. It's nothing to brag about."

"You're a smart-ass. I like that. Haven't you ever seen my show?"

Babe shook her head.

He called out the name of a bad sitcom on CBS.

She nodded politely, having seen half an episode once. The name came to her now. Tate Barbour.

"Today's my birthday," Tate said.

Babe stifled a groan. What were the odds? Every time she met a jackass in a bar, it happened to be his birthday. One asshole had lucked out this way, and the rest of the female population had to suffer.

"What kind of present do you want to give me?"

"Something you really need—acting lessons." And she walked away to enjoy her drink elsewhere.

A quarter past six came. Then six-thirty. Still no sign of Dean Paul.

It occurred to her that he could be in some kind of heated row with Aspen.

Just as she began to really worry that the night would be aborted, he showed up, effortlessly stylish in a Brown University T-shirt, lived-in jeans, and a six-hundred-dollar pair of Prada boots. He reduced every other man in the bar to troll status.

"Shit, Babe, I'm sorry." Dean Paul's breathing was labored as he kissed her cheek. "I ran most of the way. Can't you tell?" He smiled at her, and his high concept could be summed up in three little words: God among men. "Drink first." He glanced at the one in her hand. "Can I get you another?"

She held it up. "This is serious enough. I have to work later tonight."

Dean Paul dashed to the bar and came back with a Surfer on Acid—a kick-ass blend of Jagermeister, Malibu coconut rum, and pineapple juice.

Babe gestured to his concoction. "Are you embracing your inner college boy?"

He grinned, checking out the crowd, vibing to the trance disco beat of a remix of Sting's "Send Your Love."

Bodies filed in. Alcohol flowed. And the background noise went up a notch.

"I'm an idiot," Dean Paul said in a louder voice. "I completely forgot about us meeting here." He shook his head. "You'd never believe the day I had."

Babe smiled vaguely, playing it cool, even as the fire of embarrassment burned inside of her. He had forgotten about the date. She had lived for it all day. The incongruity was off the charts. "You know what? I think I will have another," she said, pushing her almost empty glass into his hand. "Rolling Blackout."

If only she could—black out, that is.

His retreat to the bar gave her a few moments to collect herself.

But Dean Paul was back too soon, and she still felt . . . uncollected. The drink helped. She sipped the poison greedily until slight buzz became solid buzz. Now she could deal. Enough of the edge was off.

"Do you want to sit?" He gestured to a cozy, unoccupied couch in the corner. It had everything but a neon sign that read MAKE OUT IN PUBLIC RIGHT HERE.

Babe slid onto the soft leather seat. She glanced down at her dangling purse. Inside it was the end of his marriage. The reality of that resonated. To have expectations for tonight would be foolish. It's not like Dean Paul was going to review Exhibit A and say, "Oh, that sucks. Guess I'll divorce the bitch. Let's start things up again. Are you free later tonight?"

He leaned back on the couch. "So what's on your mind. You said it was important."

She reached for her Mischka bag. "Important but not pleasant."

Dean Paul tensed. A wary look swept across his face. "If this has anything to do with Jake James . . ."

"This isn't about that asshole. It's about another one. Joaquin Cruz."

He seemed to relax a little. "I know all about that."

Babe unsnapped the purse closure and pulled out two digital prints. "I don't think you know about this." She passed them over.

Dean Paul studied the evidence. A strange sort of determination tightened his jaw, as if he were a kamikaze psyching himself up for the inevitable and honorable end. He looked at Babe. "Are you doing surveillance work now?"

It was an odd response. As she opened her mouth to explain, Babe braced herself for the shoot-the-messenger routine. "I promised Lara that I would take care of Joaquin."

"Take care
of him?" There was a hint of hostility in his tone. "Okay, Babe Soprano, go on."

"At first I just intended to destroy the Facebook page. I work with a kid who can do anything with computers—hack 'em, crack 'em, build 'em. You know the type. He's twenty-one, and I don't think he's ever so much as held a girl's hand."

Dean Paul continued to absorb the pictures.

"I just had a feeling that I could find something on Joaquin if I put in the effort. I don't know. Call it a sixth sense. When it comes to scams, his stripe of worm typically operates on the edge. So I found out where he lives and decided to . . . observe."

Dean Paul's face went through a repertoire of disappointed expressions. "Jesus, Babe, I never knew you were one of them. And I've had eyes on the back of my ass to spot 'razzis since I was a toddler."

Babe stared back at him. This was the last thing she expected. To play patient teacher to a dense pupil who didn't get the lesson. "Then maybe you need to stand up to look at these. That's your wife."

He looked at Babe. Really looked at her. As if the idea of her being a paparazzo was creeping inside his brain and slowly rotting it. He gave the pictures one more glance and handed them back. "Soon to be ex-wife." He announced this with little emotion.

"I'm sorry."

"Your little peep show comes as a surprise, but it's not a two-by-four over my head. Aspen accepted a job in Vegas this afternoon. Some kind of strip show with other women from reality television."

There was a long silence.

Awkwardly, she slipped the photos back into her bag.

Dean Paul worked on his drink. "So what do you plan to do with those? A big paycheck is sitting in that purse."

"I would never do that."

"Oh, really?"

The fear of what was coming next consumed her.

Dean Paul's brilliant blues told her that he knew the things she didn't want him to know—about her . . . about everything—that her Chanel cuff bracelet had smuggled in an uninvited guest to his wedding, that the media megabucks were drawing interest in a secret account, that no matter how much pain and embarrassment her mercenary act of subterfuge had caused his family, she would always feel a smug sense of victory over him, over everything and everyone that he represented.

"How did you find out?" Babe asked, her voice barely a whisper as the sad reality began to take shape.

Those Lockhart eyes bored into her soul. "You just told me."

Babe felt the heat rising on her cheeks. Twin spots of glowing redness. When she finally spoke, her voice was urging, yearning, begging for some less than neutral response. "Please don't hate me."

"I don't hate you." But even as he said it, there was a change in the way that he looked at her. Things were different now.

Babe felt less certain that the sun would rise tomorrow. There were no words to offer him. She could apologize until her voice gave out, and it would still sound hollow. "No hard feelings?"

Dean Paul stood up. "No feelings at all, Babe." And then he walked out into the New York night.

She sat there for a long time, finishing her drink, thinking about the mess that was her life, wondering how she would go on.

"You shouldn't have spent your time waiting around for that guy."

Babe glanced up to see Tate Barbour.

"Maybe you're not such an idiot after all."

He laughed. "Well, I was hoping for a little more encouragement than that. But it's a start."

Babe realized that she must look like an easy mark for hunters of the hooking-up set. She was alone, all dressed up, and reeling from a public rebuke.

The old Babe would have given this C-list actor the time of day, flirted some more, benefited from a free drink or two, and before the night ended, gone over the business of who lived closer. But a new Babe was emerging in the final act of the Great American Drama that was her history with Dean Paul Lockhart. And this Babe wanted a new beginning.

She stood up.

"Can I buy you another round?" Tate asked.

"No, thanks. I just got a better offer."

He looked around as if he had missed something. "From who?"

"Myself."

Babe walked back to her apartment, changed into her cashmere sweats, and dug out every New York party picture she had ever taken. Work could wait. She sat there at her worktable, under the soft light of the task lamp and above the harsh brightness of the negative viewer, and pored over the images, singling out the best ones.

It was a fresh challenge. Her own book.
Night Sweat.

The new mood flowing through her left her strangely exhilarated. On this—one of the saddest nights of her life—she had never expected to feel . . . happy . . . positively happy . . . for perhaps the first time in her life. That realization merged with the high energy of her creativity. She got a whiff of the future. And it smelled good.

Smiling, Babe peered through her magnifier at a great shot of Dean Paul at a glitzy benefit for cancer. She stared deep into those impossibly devastating eyes, took in the aquiline nose, the sensuous mouth. All of a sudden, a train of thought began to chug along.

He had taken all the punches a little too easily tonight. A wife's infidelity. An ex-girlfriend's cruel deception. Yet none of it seemed to really penetrate. Upon reflection, she now sensed a bulletproof quality to his reactions. As if he knew that there was a safe place for retreat, that emotional succor was waiting.

Something clicked in her mind. Cynics had that defense mechanism. It was their own harsh view of the world. But people deeply in love had it, too. And it was the object of their affection.

Dean Paul was a romantic at heart. There was the answer to one question. Now Babe wondered about the other. She might be down for the count, but Lara and Gabrielle were still in the running.

Who would get him?

The It Parade

by Jinx Wiatt

Fill in the Blanks

Those poor, pitiful Japanese twins. The beautiful sisters are all dressed up, and they definitely have a special place to go . . . but nobody cares. Only the truth here, darlings. Sure, their spare-no-cost birthday bash is generating priority buzz. That doesn't have anything to do with them, though. It's the RSVP list that's wagging tongues like crazy. A former rap diva is set to make her first public appearance since that self-imposed exile following a shooting, a scandalous PR hoax, and the loss of a career that went poof overnight. Hmm. Any coincidence that it's happening on the eve of her highly anticipated TV interview with
Hollywood Live's
delicious new correspondent? Yes, darlings. Mr. Wonderful beat out Katie, Oprah, and all the rest for the biggest monster get of the year. Sorry, girls. So much to look forward to at the birthday party. And there will be cake! What more could a nosy scribbler want?