What I Did for Love

  “I barely know her.” That was true, although Rory had once phoned Georgie to suggest she avoid signing onto a certain project. Georgie had taken her advice, and sure enough, the film had run into money problems and shut down halfway through. Since Vortex hadn’t been involved, and Rory didn’t have anything to gain from the tip, Georgie had been puzzled by her interest. “I guess she feels some kind of connection with me because of the year she spent working as a P.A. on Skip and Scooter.”

  Bram flicked the card back down on the credenza. “She doesn’t feel any connection with me.”

  “I was nice to her.” Georgie barely remembered Rory from those days, but she did remember Bram’s habit of making life hard for the crew.

  “Lowly P.A. to the head of Vortex Studios in fourteen years,” he said. “Who’d have guessed?”

  “Apparently, not you.” She gave him her most annoying smile. “Payback’s a bitch.”

  “I guess.” He slipped on a pair of devastatingly sexy aviators. “Let’s go show off your ring to the American public.”

  They posed for the paps outside the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf on Beverly Boulevard. Bram kissed her hair and smiled at the photographers. “Isn’t she beautiful? I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”

  After her hellish year of public humiliation, his words of phony adoration felt like balm to her bruised soul. How pathetic was that? She stepped on his foot to retaliate.

  Chaz was coming back to the house from cleaning Bram’s office when she saw Georgie’s lardo assistant standing by the swimming pool, gazing down into the water. She marched over to him. “You’re not supposed to be out here.”

  He blinked behind his glasses. The guy was a mess. Wiry brown hair exploded from his head, and whoever had picked out those big nerd glasses must have been blind. He dressed like a fat sixty-year-old man with his stomach hanging out over his belt and a checked sports shirt that pulled at the buttons.

  “Okay.” He stepped around her to go back to the house.

  She brushed off her hands. “What were you doing anyway?”

  He shoved his fists in his pockets, adding to the bulk at his hips. “Taking a break.”

  “From what? You’ve got an easy job.”

  “Sometimes. It’s a little busy now.”

  “Yeah, it looks like you’re real busy.”

  He didn’t tell her to fuck off, which she deserved for being so rude, but she hated having all these people running around her house. And that whole thing yesterday in Bram’s office with Georgie and the camera had thrown her off. She should have walked right out, but…

  She tried to make up for being a bitch. “Bram probably wouldn’t mind if you used the pool once in a while, as long as you don’t do it too much.”

  “I don’t have time to swim.” He pulled his hands from his pockets and walked away from her toward the house.

  She didn’t swim anymore, either, but she’d loved the water when she was a kid. He was probably embarrassed about the way he looked in a suit. Or maybe only women felt that way.

  “It’s private back here,” she called out. “Nobody would see you.”

  He went into the house without answering her.

  She retrieved the net from behind the waterfall rocks and began to skim for leaves. Bram had a pool service, but she liked making the water all clean and smooth. Bram told her she could swim whenever she wanted, but she never did.

  She tossed down the net. Until Monday, she’d been so happy here, but now, with all these strangers invading her space, the bad feelings were coming back.

  Half an hour later, she entered Georgie’s upstairs office. A big, kidney-shaped desk, matching wall unit, and a couple of streamlined chairs upholstered in spice-colored fabric printed with a tree branch design made up the new furnishings. Everything was too modern for the house, and she didn’t like it.

  Aaron had his back to her, talking on the phone. “Ms. York isn’t giving interviews yet, but I’m sure she’d be more than happy to contribute to your charity auction…No, she’s already donated her Skip and Scooter scripts to the Museum of Broadcast Communications, but every year she designs some Christmas ornaments for groups like yours, and each one is personally autographed…”

  He sounded like a different person on the phone, sure of himself and not so geeky. She set a turkey wrap on the desk. She’d made it with a fat-free tortilla, lean meat, sliced tomato, a few spinach leaves, a sliver of avocado, and carrot sticks on the side. Dude needed to get a clue.

  He took in the wrap as he finished his conversation. When he hung up, she said, “Don’t count on this every day.” She picked up the new issue of Flash with Bram and Georgie on the cover and sat on the corner of his desk to thumb through it. “Go ahead and eat.”

  He picked up the turkey wrap and took a bite. “You got any mayo?”

  “No.” She carried a perfume sample to her nose and sniffed. “How old are you?”

  He had good manners and he swallowed before he answered. “Twenty-six.”

  Six years older than her, but he seemed younger. “Did you go to college?”

  “University of Kansas.”

  “A lot of people who go to college don’t know shit.” She studied his face and decided somebody had to tell him. “Your glasses are lame. No offense.”

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  “They’re ugly. You should get contacts or something.”

  “Contacts are too much trouble.”

  “You have nice eyes. You should show them off. At least get decent frames.” His eyes were bright blue and thick-lashed, the only decent thing about him.

  He frowned, which made his cheeks look as though they were swallowing the rest of his face. “I don’t think a person with holes in her eyebrows has room to criticize anybody else.”

  She loved her pierced eyebrows. They made her feel tough, like a rebel who didn’t give a damn about society. “I really care what you think.”

  He turned back to his computer and pulled up some kind of graph-thing. She rose to leave, but on her way out, she spotted his big ugly briefcase lying open on the floor with a bag of chips inside. She went over and pulled it out.

  “Hey! What are you doing?”

  “You don’t need these. I’ll bring you some fruit later.”

  He pushed himself up from his chair. “Give those back. I don’t want your fruit.”

  “You want this junk instead?”

  “Yeah, I want it.”

  “Too bad.” She dropped the chips to the floor and brought her foot down hard on the bag. It split open with a loud pop. “There you are.”

  He stared at her. “What’s your problem, anyway?”

  “I’m a bitch.” As she left the office and went back downstairs, she could almost see him reaching for those smashed chips.

  Bram kept disappearing into his office, as if he had a real job, leaving Georgie no way to work off her frustration. She eventually wandered up to his exercise room and began going through the ballet warm-up routine she used to do every day. Her muscles were stiff and uncooperative, but she kept at it. Maybe she’d have a barre installed. She’d always loved to dance, and she knew she shouldn’t have let herself set it aside. The same with singing. She wasn’t a great singer. The big, belting Broadway voice that had made her so winning as a kid hadn’t matured with age, but she could carry a tune, and her energy made up for what she lacked in vocal nuance.

  After her workout, she talked to Sasha and April on the phone and did some online shopping. Her daily routine had been whittled down to bothering her busy friends and making sure she looked good enough to be photographed. She cheered herself up by following Chaz around with the video camera and asking intrusive questions.

  Chaz complained bitterly, but that didn’t stop her from talking, and Georgie learned a little more. Her growing fascination with Bram’s housekeeper was all that kept her from bringing in her own cook.

  On Friday morning, day seven of her marriage, she and Bram met wi
th a party planner, the stridently officious, very expensive, and highly recommended Poppy Patterson. Everything about the woman grated, but she loved the idea of a Skip and Scooter theme, so they hired her and told her to work out the details with Aaron.

  That afternoon, her father decided he’d punished her long enough and finally took her phone call. “Georgie, I understand you want me to put my stamp of approval on your marriage, but I can’t do it when I know how wrong it is.”

  She wouldn’t tell him the truth, but she also wouldn’t lie more than she already had. “I just thought we could have a nice conversation. Is that too much to ask?”

  “Right now? Yes. I don’t like Shepard, I don’t trust him, and I’m worried about you.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about. Bram isn’t…He isn’t exactly like you remember.” She struggled to conjure up a convincing example of Bram’s greater maturity, at the same time trying not to think about his drinking. “He’s…older now.”

  Her father wasn’t impressed. “Remember this, Georgie. If he ever tries to hurt you in any way, promise you’ll come to me for help.”

  “You make it sound like he’s going to beat me.”

  “There are different kinds of hurt. You’ve never been rational about him.”

  “That was a long time ago. We’re not the same people.”

  “I have to go. We’ll talk later.” Just like that, he hung up.

  She bit her lip, and her eyes stung. Her father loved her—surely he did—but it wasn’t the cozy kind of dad love she wanted. A love that didn’t have any strings attached to it. A love she didn’t have to work so hard to deserve.

  Chapter 10

  Georgie awakened around three on Saturday morning and couldn’t fall back to sleep. One week ago just about now, she’d been standing next to Bram saying her wedding vows. She wondered exactly what she’d vowed.

  The bedroom was stuffy. She kicked off the sheet, slipped into an old pair of yellow Crocs, and padded across the rug to step out onto the balcony. Palm fronds clicked in the breeze, and the gentle splash of the waterfall drifted up from the pool. Lance had left another phone message this afternoon. He was worried about her. She wished he’d leave her alone or that she could hate him. Except frequently she did, and it didn’t make her feel any better.

  The clink of ice cubes interrupted her thoughts, and a voice drifted through the dark. “If you’re going to jump, wait until morning. I’m too drunk to deal with a dead body tonight.”

  Bram sat by his open bedroom doors, just off to her left. He’d stuffed his feet into an ancient pair of sneakers and propped them on the railing. With a drink in his hand and a sickle-shaped shadow slicing across his profile, he looked exactly like a man contemplating which of the seven deadly sins to take on next.

  She knew all the back bedrooms opened onto this same second-floor balcony, but until now she hadn’t seen Bram out there. “No jumping necessary,” she said. “I’m on top of the world.” She curled her hand over the railing. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

  “Because this is the first chance I’ve had all week to drink in peace.” He took in her sleepwear, which was a far cry from the tiny teddies and flyaway baby-dolls she’d worn for Lance. Still, he didn’t seem overly critical of her comfy boxers printed with pink and yellow pop art lips.

  As she observed the slouch to his spine, the lazy droop to his wrist, she had the feeling she was missing something, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. “Has anybody told you that you drink too much?”

  “I’ll think about quitting after our divorce.” He took another sip. “What were you doing poking your nose in my office on Wednesday morning?”

  She’d wondered when Chaz would get around to ratting her out. “Snooping. What else?”

  “I want my video camera back.”

  She ran her thumb over a rough place on the railing. “You’ll get it back. Aaron’s buying me one of my own.”

  “Why do you want it?”

  “Mess around.”

  He set his glass on the tile floor. “Other than walking off with my stuff, what else were you doing out there?”

  She debated how much to say, then decided to come right out with it. “I needed to know whether the reunion show was real or a figment of your imagination. I found the script, but the box was taped up nice and tight. Not that I would have read it anyway.”

  He rose from his chair and wandered toward her. “You should have asked me. Trust is the foundation of a good marriage, Georgie. I’m hurt.”

  “No, you’re not. And I won’t do a reunion show. Ever. I’m sick of being typecast. I want parts I can sink my teeth into. Playing Scooter again would be the worst career decision I could make. And you hate Skip, so I don’t get why you’re so set on this. Well, I do get it, and I’m sorry you’re broke, but I’m not sabotaging my career to help you solve your cash flow problems.”

  He slipped past her and poked his head in her bedroom. “I guess that’s it, then?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Okay.” He ran his hand along the doorframe, as if he were examining it for dry rot, but she wasn’t buying his easy surrender.

  “I mean it,” she said.

  “I get that.” He turned to her. “And here I thought you were trying to snoop into my love life.”

  “You’re married to me, remember? You have no love life.” As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she wanted to snatch them back. She’d given him a mile-wide opening to delve into the subject she most wanted to avoid. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Not so fast.” He touched her arm before she could make it inside, and that’s when it hit her. The nagging feeling that she’d been missing something…“You don’t smoke anymore!”

  “Where did you get that idea?” He released her and walked over to retrieve his drink.

  She’d noticed the way he smelled, like soap and citrus, but until this precise moment, she hadn’t jumped to the logical conclusion. They’d only been together for seven days, but still, how could she have missed something so obvious? “You’re always talking about cigarettes, but I haven’t once seen you light up.”

  “Sure you have.” He flopped down in his chair. “I smoke all the time. I just finished a cigarette before you came out.”

  “No, you didn’t. You don’t smell like smoke, and I’ve never tasted tobacco when I’ve had to endure one of your pathetic kisses. In our Skip and Scooter days, kissing you was like licking an ashtray. But now…You really have stopped smoking.”

  He shrugged. “Okay, you’ve got me. I stopped, but only because my drinking has gotten out of hand, and I can’t deal with more than one addiction at a time.” He tipped the tumbler to his lips.

  At least he was aware of it. Even in the morning, she’d see him with a glass in his hand, and last night he’d had wine with dinner. So had she, but that had been her only drink of the day. “When did you stop smoking?”

  He muttered something she couldn’t make out.

  “What?”

  “Five years ago, I said.”

  “Five years!” That made her furious. “Why couldn’t you have just said you’d stopped smoking? Why do you have to play all these mind games?”

  “Because I like to.”

  She knew him, and she didn’t know him, and she was worn out from keeping her guard up. “I’m tired. We can talk in the morning.”

  “You know we can’t go on like this much longer, right?”

  She pretended not to understand. “Neither of us has killed the other one yet, so I think we’re doing pretty well.”

  “Now you’re the one playing games.” His glass clinked as he set it on the tiles and uncoiled from the chair. “You have to admit I’ve been patient.”

  “We’ve only been married a week.”

  “Exactly. An entire week without sex.”

  “You’re a maniac.” She turned toward the door, but once again he stopped her.

  “I’m not bragging, just offering
up information. I don’t expect sex on a first date, but it usually seems to happen that way. Second date max.”

  “Fascinating. Unfortunately for you, I believe in establishing a relationship first, but, hey, marriage is all about compromise, so I’m willing to compromise.”

  “What kind of compromise?”

  She made a play out of thinking it over. “I’ll have sex with you…after our fourth date.”

  “And exactly how do you define ‘date’?”

  She waved her hand breezily. “Oh, I’ll know it when I see it.”

  “I’ll just bet you will.” He ran his thumb down her bare arm. “Frankly, I’m not too worried. We both know you won’t last much longer.”

  “Because of your overwhelming sexiness?”

  “That, but also because—let’s be honest—you’re ripe for the picking.”

  “You think so?”

  “Baby, you’re an orgasm waiting to happen.”

  Her skin prickled. “Oh, really?”

  “You’ve been divorced for a year. And the Loser is half girl, so nothing will make me believe he was any kind of lover.”

  She predictably—pitifully—jumped to Lance’s defense. “He was a great lover. Gentle and considerate.”

  “That’s a bummer.”

  “Naturally, you’d say something sarcastic.”

  “Fortunately for you, I’m neither gentle nor considerate.” He slid his thumb into the crook of her arm. “I like my sex rough and dirty. Or does the idea of getting it on with a full-grown man scare our little Scooter?”

  She pulled away. “What man? All I see is an overgrown pretty boy.”

  “Cut the crap, Georgie. I’ve given up a lot for you, but I’m not giving up sex, too.”

  She’d known she could only ignore this for so long. If she didn’t give him what he wanted, he’d have no qualms about dialing up someone who would. She hated feeling trapped. “You cut the crap,” she retorted. “We both know the odds of you staying faithful are smaller than your bank account.”

  “I’m not Lance Marks.”