I nod slowly. Have I made this decision because a man I trust happens to be brilliant with money? Or am I following the pattern of last night, surrendering control to Damien instead of coping for myself?
He’s told me more than once that there is strength inside me. And though the words are a comfort, I’m not sure I believe them. I didn’t feel strong last night. And every time I think about the press going apeshit over my personal business, nausea crashes over me.
But Damien is looking at me with such tenderness that I say none of that. “I’ve trusted you with my heart,” I say, because that is an undeniable truth. “Why wouldn’t I trust you with my money?”
I speak the words lightly. His expression, however, is serious. “You do know that I trust you, too?”
“Of course,” I say.
“Just because it takes me time, doesn’t mean I trust you less.”
“I know that,” I say, because in my head, I do get it, and I have to admit that he’s already told me so much. In my heart, though, I want him to spill out everything still locked inside. But do I want that so that I can be strong for him as he is for me? Or am I simply being selfish, looking for a tangible confirmation of how he feels about me, even though I already know from every glance and every touch that I am cherished?
For the rest of the afternoon, we do little more than laze about in bed, our arms touching, our legs crossed over each other. Damien reads various reports that Sylvia emails to his iPad. I flip through magazines, folding down pages with clothes that I like or that I think might look good on Jamie. Sometimes I see an interesting piece of furniture and show the picture to Damien who tells me to mark the page, then promises me we’ll go to the Pacific Design Center soon and try to find some of these pieces for the Malibu house.
“I thought decorating your house was something you did on your own,” I say.
“No. I said everything in the house is special to me. And if we pick something out together, it will be even that much more precious.”
His words are as tender as a caress, and I scoot even closer, leaning in as he hooks his left arm around me and holds his iPad with his right.
“I thought you were taking the day off,” I say.
“Do you have a better suggestion?” he counters, a delicious deviousness in his voice.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
I don’t think that Damien is expecting my suggestion that we make popcorn and more mimosas, then lounge in bed for the rest of the afternoon watching old Thin Man movies, but he takes it in good grace. And I’m surprised to learn that he actually knows the movies as well as I do.
“William Powell is brilliant,” he says, “but I think I have a crush on Myrna Loy.”
“I have a crush on her wardrobe,” I admit. “I could have lived back then. Fitted dresses and flowing evening gowns.”
“Maybe we need to take you shopping.”
“I’d love it,” I say. “But you’ve already filled up a closet for me in Malibu, and the house itself is sitting empty.” I toss him the copy of Elle Decor I’d been skimming earlier. “If we go shopping, it’s for furniture.”
“All right,” he says. “It’s a date.” But neither one of us says when. I know it’s ridiculous to hide in Damien’s apartment; if I wanted to hide, I should have taken him up on the offer to leave the country. I’ve never been to Switzerland, after all. But right now, lounging casually beside Damien, it’s not the horrors of the press that’s keeping me here, it’s the sweet pleasure of the man beside me.
We’ve just finished the first movie and started on After the Thin Man when my cell phone rings. I don’t recognize the number, and I hesitate to answer, but if I ignore calls, then I really am hiding away, and I don’t want to be that girl. “Hello?” I say tentatively.
“Nikki? It’s Lisa. We met in the cafeteria.”
“Oh!” I’m surprised to hear from her. “If you’re looking to do coffee, I’m not in the office today.” I don’t mention that I won’t be in the office ever again.
“I know,” she says. “Listen, I heard what happened, and I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. The press are a bunch of vultures, and it sucks that they’re shitting all over you.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“I dropped into the office to see you, and after I learned what happened, Bruce gave me your number. I just wanted to let you know that my offer for lunch or coffee is still open. Anytime. Just call me.”
“I will,” I say, and I’m not just being polite. I’d thought when I met her that it would be nice to have a few more friends in LA. And I’m happy to know that this one isn’t going to run screaming now that I’m the object of ridicule.
Blaine and Evelyn also call, equally horrified, equally supportive. Blaine tells me he feels guilty—after all, it’s the erotic nature of his art that has the press all hyped up.
“It’s not,” I lie. “It’s all about the money.”