Changing Scenes (Changing Teams #2), page 15
The waiter arrived—wasn’t half as cute as Donnie—and we ordered our respective drinks—vodka and seltzer for me, microbrew beer for Britt, and Chardonnay for Melody. I glared at the other two, just waiting for them to challenge me. I didn’t have to wait long.
“Did you work today?” Melody asked.
“No,” I replied. “Did you?”
Melody winced; her ongoing lack of employment was a sore spot for her, and that was a low blow I’d delivered. “I didn’t mean did you work as a model,” Melody clarified. “Did you work at the bar?”
“What bar?” I demanded. No one—and I mean no one—knew about my job at Al’s. Hell, Al and Padraic didn’t even know my real address or last name.
“We called Michael,” Britt said.
I looked from one cousin to the other. Along with Michael they were two of the best friends I’d ever had, and all three of them had betrayed me something fierce. “How dare you,” I seethed.
“How dare I?” Britt squeaked. “How dare you have all these problems and not come to me for help! Or even talk to me about them! Damn it, Astrid, Sam and I would have paid all your stupid bills. You didn’t need to sneak around and get some crap job in a bar.”
“I didn’t want you to pay my bills,” I snapped. “I got that so-called crap job so I could pay them myself.”
“Okay, I get it, but did it occur to you that Sam’s a photographer? Who just happens to have Nash’s old client list? We could have gotten you work that didn’t involve drunks groping you,” Britt said.
Shit, I had forgotten that. Our drinks were delivered, and I sipped mine while I composed myself. Wow, that was some harsh vodka. “No one groped me,” I said.
Britt leaned across the table and grabbed my hand. “I’m glad you weren’t groped. Now, can you tell us what’s going on? We want to help. Really.”
Melody nodded furiously. “Any way we can.”
Britt and Mel’s inherent good natures cracked my last defenses, and I told them everything. It gushed out of me, beginning with how I’d only started wearing my expensive clothes to prove I was as successful as Bruce, to how I’d gotten so poor over the last few months I only ate at work. By the time I finished Britt and Melody were each in their third drink, though I was still nursing my original vodka seltzer.
“I’m so sorry,” Britt said when I was done. “And John is a dick. Want me to ask Marlys if she’s looking for clients? I bet she can get you out of your contract with Archer too.”
“Sure,” I said. “I’ve been trying to find work on my own, but man, it’s hard.” Mindy and John may have gotten me some huge gigs, but that was all in the past. I needed to look toward the future.
“Tell me about it,” Britt said. “Remember when I was a life model?”
“I do.” I smoothed out the tablecloth. “Donnie was really worried?”
“Yeah,” Britt replied. “He thought you were destitute.”
I sniffed, and didn’t tell Britt how close to the truth that was. “You think he would have called me.”
Britt frowned. “When he left, he said he was going to talk to you at Al’s. I take it that didn’t happen?”
“No, it didn’t.” I swirled my terrible drink, staring into the tiny whirlpool in my glass. Maybe I’d call Donnie later…
“Astrid, why do you live your life this way?” Melody asked.
“Well, I’m an in demand model, for one.” I laughed through my nose, and added, “Well, I was in demand before my agent decided he hated me.”
“I’m not asking why other people want you to model,” Melody said. “Why do you go out of your way to impress others with things like designer shoes and expensive drinks? Why do you create these illusions about your life?”
I stared at Melody; trust the girl who’d given up all the wealth she could ever want for the possibility of someday having true love to cut through to the heart of my issues.
“I…I like modeling,” I said. “Really, I do. All I ever wanted was a fun life, not one trapped in an office or behind a desk. I never meant to put up…illusions.”
Britt smiled. “I like modeling too. But you don’t have to go around pretending to be something you’re not. You’re pretty awesome as is, you know?”
I smiled weakly. “You think?”
Britt grinned. “I know.
***
When I got back to my place I sat on my couch, set my phone on the coffee table, and stared at it. And stared some more. In case you’re wondering, it didn’t get up and do anything on its own.
After a while I got sick of staring at it, so I went into the kitchen and made myself a vodka and seltzer. Just like the drink at the café, I gagged when I sipped it. Since even top shelf vodka was disagreeing with me, I figured the only thing to be done about my queasy stomach was send the message I was dreading.
I grabbed my phone, typed, and sent the text before I could change my mind. With any luck, Donnie was between the lunch and dinner rush and would respond quickly.
Astrid: Britt told me you had lunch with her and Mel.
Donato: And?
Astrid: And that was nice of you to be concerned.
Astrid: I’m taking care of things my own way.
Donato: He helping?
Astrid: He who?
Donato: The guy I saw you with outside Al’s.
Astrid: Spying on me?
Donato: I wanted to talk to you but he seemed to have your attention.
Astrid: What the hell business is it of yours if he did?
Donato: It’s not my business if my girlfriend is laughing with another guy?
Astrid: I sure as hell don’t feel like your girlfriend!
Donato: Good. We agree that you’re not.
I dropped my phone, the case hitting the edge of the coffee table and sending the phone case flying in one direction, and the battery in another. Donnie had said I wasn’t his girlfriend. I’d hardly gotten to enjoy being his girlfriend before it was taken away from me, and now it was over.
Tears streamed down my cheeks so fast I could hardly see. I laid down on my couch and cried until I passed out.
Chapter
Thirty-Five
Donnie
Donato: Babe, I’m sorry.
Donato: Babe, I didn’t mean that.
Donato: Come on, Astrid, you know you mean everything to me.
Donato: Astrid I need you.
When she didn’t reply to my fourth text, I called. It went straight to voice mail. I called three more times, all with the same result.
It was over. It was really over, and we had hardly even happened.
I shut my phone off, rolled my shoulders, and strode back into the kitchen. If that was the way Astrid wanted it, so be it. I loved her too much to hold her where she didn’t want to be.
Chapter
Thirty-Six
Astrid
Wednesday was somewhat eye-opening for me, to put it mildly.
First off, I made no money at the bar. Nada, zip, zilch—which meant I didn’t have any cab fare to get home, just my sore feet dragging me through the cold, windy streets. At least it wasn’t snowing.
My misery didn’t end there. I’d gotten a voice mail from Britt’s agent, Marlys, telling me that she had more clients than she could handle, but was glad that I’d considered her. I hadn’t even wanted Marlys as an agent, yet that rejection was like a punch to the gut.
After I got home and thawed myself out in the shower, I did what I had to do. I called Archer Modeling and made nice.
“Hey Mindy,” I greeted.
“Astrid,” she said, surprise evident in her voice. “Why did you call in on the main number, instead of my direct line?”
“It was the only one I could remember,” I replied. “My phone is broken, and I have a new number.”
“Wow. And they couldn’t retrieve your contacts?”
“Nope.” My phone wasn’t just broken, it was destroyed; somehow, that fall against my coffee table had shattered every wire and doodad the thing needed to function. When I brought it to the store the tech just shook his head, asked me if I’d taken it to a cage fighting match.
“Not even online?” Mindy pressed. Ever-efficient Mindy, she who backed up her backup files.
“They’re working on it,” I replied. What had really happened was that my bill was due again, and my service has a fun habit of limiting online access until the payment’s been received. That, coupled with the fact that I couldn’t get a new phone until this contract ran out made me real glad Michael had gotten me the cheap ass prepay.
“Weird, that you got a new number. Usually they put the same number on a new phone.”
“Yeah.” I gave her my new digits, then asked, “So, do you have any leads for me?”
“Hang on.” I heard her shuffle some papers, then she continued, “I have a last-minute catalog shoot that pays pretty well, but it’s tomorrow. You’d have to be there at two.”
I could swing that, if I cabbed it directly from Al’s. God, please let me make enough in tips to cover cab fare. “I have a morning doctor’s appointment, but I should be able to make it,” I lied; if I had any other sort of appointment Mindy might have thought I was working elsewhere. Which I was, but that was beside the point. “What’s the address?”
She gave me the address, and as luck would have it the location was only a few blocks from Al’s. “I can make it. Anything else?”
“Maybe.” There was more shuffling. “Let me call a few places, confirm some things. Can I get back to you in a few hours?”
“Absolutely. Thanks, hon.”
“Any time.”
I ended the call, then I went into my bedroom and picked out some clothes for tomorrow. Since I made a habit of not looking too good at Al’s, I wondered if I should just pack a bag of things to wear to the shoot. I could easily explain away my makeup-less state, but if I showed up looking like a barmaid that would not go over well.
My phone beeped, and, assuming it was Mindy, I took the call without a second thought. “Hello?”
“Astrid,” said a man’s voice. John Archer’s voice, the owner of my agency. “How are you?”
“Fair to middling,” I replied. I hated him, but I could be polite when I wanted to. “You?”
“Wonderful, being that you’re scheduled for that evening wear shoot tomorrow.”
Huh. I hadn’t even asked Mindy what I’d be wearing. “You know me, always working.”
“About that,” he continued. “I’ve gotten quite a few offers for you, but I want to talk to you before we go any further. We don’t want any more…misunderstandings.”
“I am not going to walk off another shoot,” I said. “I promised Mindy, and I would never break a promise to her.”
“Good, good.” John rustled a few papers—did these people not own any computers?—then he said, “I can bring some contracts to you tomorrow. If you’d like, I’ll pick you up from the shoot. We can even do dinner.”
“Dinner,” I repeated. I remembered the last time he’d taken me to dinner, and tried having me for dessert. Normally I would have declined, but being that my tips had gone down after the holidays just like Padraic said they would, I figured using a slimeball like John for a free meal couldn’t hurt. “Dinner sounds fine.”
“Wonderful. I’ll meet you at the shoot.”
I swallowed and fought the urge to vomit. “Great. See you then.”
***
My shift at Al’s was pretty much the same as always, just at a slower pace. I left with thirty-five dollars in tips and spent almost all of it on a quick lunch as I walked to my shoot. I got to the studio with twenty minutes to spare, and spent the next four hours wearing a selection of ridiculously expensive eveningwear; even pre-broke me wouldn’t have considered forking over the cash for one of those dresses. Shortly after I donned a fitted black lace number that hit me right at mid-thigh, John Archer arrived.
It wasn’t that he was a bad looking guy; in fact, John was quite attractive. His blond hair and blue eyes, along with his perpetual smirk, made him look like the ideal soap opera hero, full of smoldering stares and knowing glances. And he wasn’t that bad of a guy, either. Before he’d taken me on our first and only dinner date we’d gotten along quite well, but since then I’d come to suspect that he thinks he’s entitled to sleep with a woman just for making conversation with her. I wondered if he ran a modeling agency for the sole purpose of getting his bed warmed.
John took a seat toward the back of the set, his gaze raking across me as I posed according to the director’s cues. I ignored John to the best of my ability, which means I went cold and shut him out. In fact, that’s what John had called me after our disastrous date, a cold bitch. He had no idea how cold I could be.
Once the shoot wrapped, John was at my side in an instant. “Astrid, dear,” he said, “you look wonderful. I made dinner reservations uptown, and this dress is perfect.”
“The dress isn’t mine,” I said. And he knew that! “Let me change, and we can go someplace more low key.”
“I don’t like low key,” John said, then he beckoned the set manager toward him. “This dress? Send me a bill.”
The set manager didn’t even try to protest, thus damning me to an evening dressed to the nines with John. Whatever. At least I looked good, and was getting dinner out of it.
“Shall we?” he asked, extending his arm.
I glanced at his arm, but didn’t take it. “Let me grab my bag,” I said. “Meet you out front.”
John smiled, his composure never wavering. “Of course.”
***
Dinner was nice, I guess.
It was the sort of restaurant my brother and father would have chosen, with no frittatas or cute custardy pastries in sight. I remembered Donnie’s pastel de natas, and almost teared up.
“I’ve reserved the four course prix fixe menu for us,” John said after we’d been shown to our table. “We could always upgrade to the seven course, if you’d like.”
“I’m sure four courses will be plenty,” I said, flashing my best approximation of Britt’s thousand-watt smile, though my wattage was hovering near one hundred. “What’s the starter?”
“Scallops, I believe,” John replied. The sommelier appeared tableside, and John asked, “May I order the wine for both of us?”
“Of course.”
And so began the most surreal night of my life. John, decked out in his ten thousand dollar suit, was doing his best James Bond impression—except for the Merlot in lieu of a shaken, not stirred martini—and I was wearing a dress that was just as expensive, that he’d bought for me. Once the wine was delivered and John approved it, elegant plates of equally elegant food appeared before us. The appetizers looked and tasted perfect, miniature renditions of food we could have gotten for less money elsewhere.
Honestly, Donnie never would have starved his customers.
God. It’s been days since we talked…can’t I just stop thinking about him already?
“Is something wrong?” John asked when I pushed some frog legs around my plate.
“I’m really not a fan of amphibians,” I replied. “You’ve yet to tell me what this dinner’s all about.”
“Why, it’s about dinner,” he said, flashing that smile that women who didn’t know him probably found charming. “What else could it possibly be?”
“What else, indeed.”
The food was excellent, even if the company was lacking. By the time the dessert course was delivered I admitted that I was enjoying myself, and wondered if John wasn’t such a bad guy. We’d always gotten along well enough, and I couldn’t blame him for being embarrassed over that ridiculous internet stuff. Maybe I’d been wrong about him.
“You’ve hardly touched your wine,” John said, nodding toward my glass.
“I need to be up early tomorrow,” I said.
“Booked another shoot?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Nothing like that,” I replied. There was no way I was letting John, of all people, know about the waitressing job. If he knew I’d had to get a job like that then he’d know how much he had hurt me, and my pride wouldn’t allow that. “Still mad about the Saunders show?”
“I don’t know if mad is the correct term,” he said. “However, you looked amazing on that runway.”
Crap, John had watched the show, and seen me half naked? My cheeks warmed; Donnie’s ideas about modesty must have rubbed off on me. Too bad I’d probably never see him again to tell him about my newfound morals.
We finished our desserts, and John didn’t mention my topless runway incident again. After he’d settled the check we retrieved our coats and stepped out into the chilly January night.
And into a swarm of paparazzi.
“Ms. Janvier, will you have another runway show soon?”
“You were seen fighting with a man at the after party.”
“Are you and Mr. Archer dating?”
“Please,” John boomed, wrapping his arm around me and tucking my face against his shoulder. “We’d like to enjoy our night in peace.”
The car’s driver held the back door open, and John bundled me into the vehicle. After the car started moving, and I had a chance to catch my breath, I considered what just happened. I’d been photographed by paparazzi exactly once, and that was when I’d worked a lingerie show during fashion week in London. Even then, they had been trying for the model behind me.
“What was that all about?” I asked John.
“The photographers?” he asked, as if he hadn’t known what I meant. “Some assume that since I own an agency, I date models. They only wanted a few shots of you.”
“But how did they know where you’d be tonight? And that I’d be with you?” I pressed. “Have they been following you?”
