Living with the Dead

ROBYN



As Robyn spotted Portia across the club, she was tempted to grab Hope and bail. Portia certainly didn’t look as if she wanted company. She had the best see-and-be-seen spot in the club: a trio of sofas overlooking the dance floor. At least twenty people had squeezed onto those sofas, basking in the reflected glow of Portia’s celebrity.

But even from across the dance floor, Robyn could tell no one was speaking directly to Portia. When she saw Robyn, she leapt to her feet and frantically waved her over.

“Oh my God. Finally! Rob, you look amazing.”

She didn’t and she knew it. She wore an unremarkable black dress and basic makeup, with her shoulder-length hair brushed straight. For Portia, that was perfect—presentable enough not to embarrass her, but in no danger of upstaging her. As Portia’s gaze traveled to Hope, though, her eyes narrowed.

Robyn had neglected to pass along the “hot but not hotter than me” message. Why bother? With perfect features and long black curls, Hope looked great without trying—which was good, because she rarely did. Tonight, though, she’d put in the extra effort, wearing a pale green sheath dress and heels, her hair swept up, tendrils dangling.

“I love that dress!” Portia squealed, air-kissing Hope. “Where did you find it?”

Hope glanced over her shoulder at Karl.

“Vagabond,” he said. “In Philly.”

Portia swept past Hope and embraced Karl, giving him a kiss that definitely made contact. “I am so glad you could make it.” She tugged him onto the sofa, scooting over so close she was almost on his lap.

“Robyn tells me you’re in the jewelry business, which is perfect, because I have a question.”

“We’ll let these two talk shop,” Hope said to Robyn. “I think there’s a spot over there . . .”

Karl’s hand shot out, grabbing the hem of her dress and yanking her down beside him. She laughed and made room for Robyn.

Karl chatted with Portia, leaning over every now and then to whisper in Hope’s ear, smiling as they shared a joke or wry observation. Just like Robyn used to do with Damon.

She remembered how she used to want that for Hope, with her endless stream of casual boyfriends. Someone to whisper and laugh with. Someone to lift the shadows from her eyes.

Karl wasn’t what Robyn had in mind. Too smooth, too good looking, too old—almost a decade Hope’s senior. She’d feared Karl was a gold digger, his eye on Hope’s family money and social connections. But Karl had his own money and, she’d eventually conceded, his only interest in Hope was Hope herself.

As Portia monopolized Karl, Hope talked about work, making Robyn laugh as always with her tales of sewer monsters and alien abductions. Robyn used to worry that Hope’s breakdown after high school had shattered her self-confidence, making her think she couldn’t do better than tabloid reporting. But Damon had scoffed at that, saying Hope had the most interesting job of anyone he knew. It was like taking this position with Portia Kane. Sometimes, you just had to say to hell with relevancy and immerse yourself in the trivial. Not that it was working out so well for Robyn . . .

She gazed out over the club and saw a face that reminded her of Damon. She always did, finding him in the tilt of a stranger’s chin, the curve of a face, the crinkle of an eye. She imagined him sitting beside her, getting a kick out of all the posturing around them. Peacocks, he’d call them, so busy preening and parading they never realized everyone else was too absorbed in themselves to notice.

He’d cut up the music, too, say they were warping perfectly good songs into dance versions for white boys from Nebraska. Then he’d lean over and sing in her ear. She could feel the tingle of his breath on her neck, the warmth of his finger sliding down her arm, the deep bass of his voice vibrating through her. He’d sing “500 Miles,” their song—the one he’d been singing on the phone that night, driving home late from a conference in Pittsburgh.

When Robyn closed her eyes, she could hear him. Then he stopped and said, “Huh. Looks like someone lost a tire. Shit. Guess I should be a gentleman and offer to help.”

Don’t, baby. Please, please, don’t . . .

She drained her champagne glass and refilled it. Hope didn’t notice. She’d stopped talking and was staring across the club, eyes glazed over.

Gave up on me, I guess, Robyn thought.

She stared at the bubbles in her glass and allowed herself a two-second self-pity break.

She could imagine what Damon would say. What did you expect, Bobby? She came all this way to help you, but she can’t do it by herself. You need to give a little.

Help her with what? Get over it? Get over him?

Robyn downed the drink. Hope was still staring out at the club, eyes unfocused. When Karl tapped her shoulder, she jumped. He whispered something. She shook her head, mouthed “nothing.” He frowned, unconvinced.

Then Portia declared she was ready to move on. To another club, Robyn presumed, but Portia was chattering too fast for Robyn’s booze-soaked brain to keep up.

She did know, however, that she had no intention of going anywhere but home. Hope and Karl decided to call it a night, too, and Hope offered her a ride, but Robyn insisted that Portia’s driver would drop her off. Otherwise Hope would see how drunk she was and want to walk Robyn to her apartment. It wasn’t ready for visitors yet. Robyn had been there three months, but still needed a few things. Like pictures for the blank walls. Dishes for the empty cupboards. Food for the bare fridge.

Portia barely waited until Hope and Karl were out of earshot before grabbing Robyn’s arm and squealing, “Oh my God, he is so fine. I know he’s kind of old for me, but I could use an older guy, don’t you think? Someone more mature? He’s classy and smart and funny.” Portia sighed and Robyn thought she was going to swoon. “Can you imagine what everyone would say if I showed up at the premiere next week with him on my arm? What Jasmine would say? And Brock? You have to give me his number.”

“I don’t have it. But I do have Hope’s. His girlfriend’s.”

Portia dismissed the reminder with a toss of her hair. Two weeks after having her heart broken by a stolen lover, and she was ready to do the same to another woman. No one gave a shit. It didn’t matter who got hurt, so long as you got what you wanted.

“Portia, you can’t—”

“Do I pay your wages, Rob?” The snap in Portia’s voice made a few people look their way. “I’ll expect that number in the morning. Now call Tim. Tell him to bring the car around. I’m going to touch up my makeup.”

Robyn didn’t argue. Her job was to get Portia out of public confrontations, not start them. Come morning, Portia would forget all about it anyway.

It took Portia fifteen minutes to make the rounds, saying her goodbyes and handpicking a few to invite to the next club. The moment she was gone, the uninvited dispersed, as if fearing they’d look like they were hanging out with Portia Kane’s dowdy PR rep.

Robyn gazed around the club, at all the twenty-somethings, laughing and hugging, and she couldn’t believe they were her species, let alone her generation.

Widowed at twenty-eight.

She thought of all the people who’d come up to her on the day of the funeral and said she was still young, as if she should be thanking God for taking her husband before she was too old and ugly to attract a new one.

Did they know what she’d give to have spent those years with him? If God had said, “I’ll give him to you for six more months, but you’ll never marry again, never fall in love again, never touch a man again,” she would have screamed, “Yes, please, yes!”

Her own mother had hugged her, and in a whisper, asked whether she was pregnant yet. When Robyn said she wasn’t, her mother had said that was for the best. A remark uttered in thoughtlessness not cruelty, but Robyn would never forget it. Just as she’d never forget that day three weeks later when she’d glanced at the calendar and realized her period was late and her knees had given way as she prayed. But even that scrap of mercy had been too much to ask for.

“How long does it take her to pee?” a plaintive voice moaned at Robyn’s ear.

She looked over to see a red-haired waif. Some starlet whose name Robyn wouldn’t waste energy remembering.

“Well?” the young woman said. “Shouldn’t you go check on her? Isn’t that, like, your job?”

Only if Portia was peeing in the hall and the paparazzi were snapping photos.

Robyn had a good idea what her client was doing and it wasn’t a bodily function, unless that included “inhaling.” Last year, Portia had spent a month in rehab. She hadn’t been addicted to anything except publicity, and realized rehab had been a sure way to get it. There, she’d made new friends who’d expected her to snort the coke they smuggled in. So Portia Kane became quite possibly the first person ever to become addicted while in rehab.

Still, given the choice between checking on Portia or listening to this starlet whine . . . Robyn rose unsteadily and headed for the back rooms.