I feebly ran my finger along the small rubies that surrounded the four carat diamond. I didn’t have the heart to take it off yet. I was still in shock, in disbelief.
I was trying to pinpoint a moment in time when he may have started acting strange, when he may have shown a rare episode of suspicious spontaneity, but I couldn’t find one. I would’ve never guessed that Sean, my Sean, would leave me crying at the altar. He didn’t seem like the type.
Sean was an immensely talented jewelry designer. Four years my senior, he dropped out of law school to study under renowned jeweler Frances Durmont.
While I was in college, he treated me to small trinkets he created: tiny ruby rings with sapphire accents, beaded pearls with reversible clasps, and intricate charm bracelets—lots of charm bracelets.
He left Durmont during my senior year and opened his own shop, Belazi, a small storefront that once served as a book store.
Business was slow at first, but word quickly spread about his reversible beaded clasps, and he was able to move his store to a prime location on Fifth Avenue. His client list quadrupled in months and grew to include the likes of major celebrities and Fortune 500 CEOs.
With his newfound riches, he took me with him on business trips all over the world. He even took me to diamond mining sites, explaining the history of trade and manufacturing in great detail. He showed me all the places I’d read about, all the places I’d seen in the Hollywood classics.
He proposed to me in Naples, Italy, after we’d eaten two dozen pizze at La Notizia and were both drenched in a sudden summer rain.
I thought he and I would always be together.
Later that night I felt my mom French braiding my hair, softly tugging the strands as if she didn’t want to wake me.
“He was the one who convinced me to be a brunette you know?” I cried.
“Shhh,” she rubbed my back. “Go back to sleep. We can talk later.”
“Was she prettier than me?”
“Melody, don’t do that to yourself. There’ll be someone else.”
“I don’t want someone else.”
“Go to sleep Melody.”
I tried to keep my eyes open in protest, but I quickly succumbed to the stubbornness of heavy eyelids.
Chapter 2
Matt
I shoved my notes into my pocket and walked out of my trailer. For some strange reason, the usual throng of fans was nowhere to be found. The only paparazzi were two men chatting away on their cell phones, punching the air with their fists.
“Matt! Matt!” my agent Shelby waved at me. “I’m sorry! I didn’t realize you were going to be up so early today. George made a couple of adjustments to the park scene.”
“What? Why?”
“Do you really think they give agents insight on the creative process?”
I sighed. “What’s different?”
“Well, George thinks the ‘rain and kissing’ scene should involve some skin. So when you’re running through Central Park looking for the love of your life, your shirt will need to be off.”
“My shirt needs to be off? I thought my character had just gotten back from the airport.”
“He did,” she clasped her hands together. “But the air conditioning in the plane malfunctioned. So since he was in business class, the flight attendant asked him to take off his shirt to block the fumes coming from the cockpit. And then—”
This can’t be real life. I’m going to wake up any moment now and be on the set of a film with substance and not stuck in another romantic comedy that involves me taking my shirt off.
I mean, I’ve never minded stripping for the camera. Someone’s got to do it and it might as well be someone like me. But the sheer lack of “art” involved is getting to me. I went to Julliard for Christ’s sake! Surely Broadway will re-launch “Death of a Salesman” and I can snag the role of Willy Loman. Or maybe— “Matt?” Shelby’s shrill voice brought me back to the present. “What brand of baby oil do you prefer?”
“I don’t care,” I rolled my eyes. “Where’s Joan? I need a couple of things from Saks before we wrap today.”
“I believe she’s across town getting your breakfast.”
“Oh,” I looked at my watch. I really was early. Two hours early.
I took out my phone. “Joan?”
“Mr. Sterling? Did I set your alarm for the wrong time? I’m sorry if I—”
“No, Joan. I’m just up early today. Is there any way you could bring me two extra bagels? White truffle cream cheese?”
“Not a problem sir. Do you still need me to pick up your order from Saks Fifth Avenue this afternoon?”
“Yes please.”
“And sir, don’t forget that I’ve made dinner reservations for you and Miss Ross’ two year anniversary tonight.”
“That’s tonight?” I sighed, trying to mask my annoyance.
“Yes sir. I have to go now. I’ll see you in about an hour.”
“Fine,” I hung up and headed back to my trailer.