Damien turns back to his attorney, and I stop cold, as if the connection between us has been broken. I consider continuing on my way, but then rule it out. I am, after all, the one who is mad at him. So why am I so desperate to run to him?
I glance down at my left forefinger. The indentations from the string are still visible, and the tip is still slightly purple. That pain satisfied a need. It grounded me and kept at bay my anger, my fear, my humiliation. It gave me strength and focus, and once again I wonder if Damien gives me the same thing. Is he a new kind of pain?
The thought makes me shiver, and I want nothing more than to erase it from my mind.
A waitress passes in front of me and I signal for her to come over. Right now, I need a drink.
I’ve downed the glass and have just grabbed another when Jamie rushes up. “Those two are so funny. And they told me what’s going to happen on the show next week.” She grabs my elbow. “If you forget to remind me to set the DVR, I will never forgive you.”
“Fair enough,” I say.
“You’re getting pictures, right? I want to post them on Facebook. Sorry,” she immediately adds. “I know you’re avoiding social media.”
It’s true. I’ve never used it much, but once all the gossip and speculation about Damien and me started, I took all the social media apps off my phone and have been doing my damnedest to avoid anything that smells of tabloid. As for the photographs the paparazzi take of Damien and me, I rely on Jamie to find those and either email them to me or cut them out. Without the accompanying text.
“It’s okay,” I say. “And, yeah. I’ve taken some,” I add, though I’ve taken very few.
She narrows her eyes at me. “You okay?”
I almost smile brightly and reassure her that of course I’m okay. Why would I not be okay? But this is Jamie, and even if I could, I don’t want to deceive her. “It’s been a strange evening,” I admit.
“Want to talk about it?”
I lift my glass. “Hell no.”
“Where’s lover boy? Or is that the part we’re not talking about?”
“He’s doing the host thing.” I look around for him and see that he’s left Charles, and is now at the center of a small cluster of guests.
“So who is she?” Jamie nods toward the group, and I see that the people have shifted, revealing a lithe brunette at Damien’s side.
The muscles in my face suddenly seem uncomfortably tight. “That’s Giselle,” I say. “She owns the gallery that sells Blaine’s work.”
“Ah. The hostess to Damien’s host. No wonder you’re in a pissy mood.”
“I am not in a pissy mood,” I say, but of course I am. And although the whole Hostess Giselle thing hadn’t occurred to me before, it is now at the top of my list of affronts and irritations. Gee, Jamie. Thanks so much.
“I know how to cure your not-pissy mood.” She grabs my hand and gives it a tug. “Rip and Lyle really are funny. You’re going to love meeting them. And if you don’t love it, then at least pretend like you do, okay?”
I stare her down, because she knows damn well that if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s put on a good face at a party.
I don’t bother to remind her that I’ve met Rip and Lyle before and since all they speak is Hollywood, I couldn’t make sense of a thing they were saying. This time, though, I’m seeing them through Jamie’s eyes, and she’s right—it’s actually fun.
Armed with my best party girl facade, Jamie and I make the circuit. I am smiling and bubbly, and it’s easy to slide into conversations, easy to pull out my camera and tell people to smile or laugh or cluster closer together.
How simple to fall back into my old habits. To hear my mother’s instructions in my head. “A lady is always in control. Never let them see that they’ve wounded you. Because once you do, they’ll know your weaknesses.”