“Thank God.”
This bothered her, this indifference of his. How could he just walk away from her, ignore her, and act like they hadn’t kissed? And, though she could never, ever admit this to Dakota, those kisses had been very good. So at the very least he owed her some sarcasm and contempt. Was that too much to ask? Would it kill him to display a little snide and inappropriate behavior?
“Yeah,” Scarlett said, forcing a smile. “Imagine if I started dating someone you hated more than Eric.”
“Don’t make jokes like that,” Dakota said. “The way things have been with you? Anything could happen. And I would hate to kill you. You’re so pretty.”
When Scarlett stumbled home, she found Lola in the Orchid Suite, going through her dresser. There was a pile of objects on Scarlett’s bed—two sweaters, some pajamas, a scarf, a winter hat, a number of things from the Drawer of Mysteries that Lola had acquired during her stints working at the spa and the makeup counter.
There was no point in asking what this stuff was. She already knew. Lola was casting off her old things. Her clothes. Everything that was broken, shantylike, about the hotel. There would be no more hoarding of free samples of moisturizer or half-empty testers of fancy lotions.
“Hey!” Lola said brightly. “I’m just doing a little sorting out. How was your day?”
Scarlett decided not to answer that question. She sat down and looked at the neat little piles of Lola stuff.
“Are you…” Scarlett had no idea how to phrase this question. “Coming back? To sleep, or…Where do you live now?”
“Well,” Lola said, refolding a sweater. “Chip went back to Boston today. I’ll spend maybe four days a week up in the apartment in Boston, and the other three I’ll be down here. Chip is going to transfer schools next semester. So I have until December to find an apartment for us. The Sutcliffes are…getting us one. Not a big one.”
Even a small apartment in Manhattan ran to a million or two—at least any apartment that the Sutcliffes would consider buying. There were many things Scarlett could say about this, but she decided not to.
“I want you to know,” Lola said. “I respect that this is your room now. I can’t just barge in whenever I want. I’ll always let you know, or stay in another room.”
“No,” Scarlett said quickly. “This is your room, too. I mean, when you’re just staying here. I’m not going to move your stuff.”
Lola looked over at her shyly and bit her lower lip. She shook out the sweater she had just refolded and did it yet again.
“I have to go over to the Sutcliffes’. We have some presents to open. Sounds like a lot of presents, actually.”
“So what does that look like, when the Sutcliffes’ friends give you presents?” Scarlett asked. “Is it kind of like what they find when they open up a pyramid? Do you go blind from all the gold?”
“It’s a little like that. But I’m staying here for dinner. I think we’re having pizza. Want to go down and ask Spencer what he wants on his? I think I just heard him come in.”
Scarlett dutifully stood and went down to Spencer’s room. He was standing by his bureau in a very strange position, leaning down on it, grasping his head in both hands as he intently read a script.
“So they finally sent it?” Scarlett asked.
Spencer said nothing.
“I’m supposed to ask you what you want on your pizza.”
Spencer said nothing.
“Is there still frosting in your ear?”
He finally looked over at her, but again, did not speak. Instead, he held out the script, open to the last page. Scarlett took it. There was only one bit of dialogue on it. It read:
BENZO
That was Frieze’s lawyer on the phone.
They just found him on the floor, beaten.
He’s dead. The son of a bitch is dead. The son of a bitch is dead.
Demo version limitation
THE OFFENSIVE
It was five A.M., and Scarlett’s phone was ringing. She sat bolt upright, her hand slapping around her pillows, her nightstand, her blankets, searching desperately for the phone before it woke up Lola…
But Lola wasn’t there, of course. It was just Scarlett, alone in the pearly half dark, an empty bed next to her. She found the phone on the floor next to her bed and slapped it up to her ear with too much force, causing further chaos in the head/skull region.
“O’Hara,” Mrs. Amberson said. “Thank goodness. I need a little favor.”
It took Scarlett a moment to process that statement.
“Are you there?” Mrs. Amberson asked.
“You…what? What time…”
“I need you to go over to my apartment…”
“No,” Scarlett moaned.
“I need you to go to those Foo dog bookends I have on the bookcase near the window. They’re the Chinese ones that look like dogs with lion heads, and they’re propping up my section on Futurist and Expressionist theater. Go to the Foo dog closest to the window and…”