I’ve been texting, calling, and emailing Zoey every five minutes since the Letterman taping ended. She’s back to pissing me off and MIA. Maybe Scott’s right. I should just fire her sorry ass.
“Darling, can you please put the damn phone away,” snips Katrina, nursing a glass of Cristal while I down a vodka martini. We’re seated facing each other at a candlelit table at Cipriani, the popular downtown eatery. Gucci is on Katrina’s lap, his paws on the table. While the bustling restaurant is studded with supermodels and some stars including De Niro and Pacino, all eyes are on us. Bratrina.
“I can’t,” I growl back at her. “I have an emergency.” She knows nothing about the latest developments in my life. Pete insisted that neither Zoey nor I talk to anyone about his investigation into my hit and run and her mother’s murder.
“Forget your emergency. Let’s talk about Paris.”
My blood runs cold. “How the hell could you spring that on me on Letterman?”
She smiles defiantly. “I wanted to surprise you.”
“You did.”
She takes another sip of her champagne. “You could show some appreciation. It’s going to be divine. I’ve booked us the Presidential suite at the Crillon. Mommy says it’s so much better than the overrated Ritz.”
On my credit card, I assume. “And how are we getting there?”
“Darling, why of course, by our own private jet. We can’t fly commercial with peons. We’re royalty.”
I assume she flew to New York on a private plane too, but truthfully, I really don’t want to know. I must be at least a hundred grand in the hole, and that’s just for starters because I have no idea how much she’s spent shopping here.
A young, suave waiter comes by and hands us menus.
“Katrina, take a look and order me another martini. Shaken, not stirred. I’ll be right back.”
She shoots me a dirty look as I dart off with my phone to the men’s room.
As soon as I enter, I try to get in touch with Zoey every which way I can. Goddamnit. Nada. I hear a toilet flush, and a dark thought besieges me.
Shit. Maybe something happened to her. With her concussion, she could have gotten dizzy and fainted…and hit her head. Or maybe she went for a swim all by herself and had some kind of spell…and drowned. And the worst thing imaginable…Donatelli showed up! My inner panic button goes off. Frantically, I search my wallet for her father’s business card. f*ck
. I can’t find it. I’ve got to get home. I dash out of the men’s room.
“Brandon, what’s the matter?” asks Katrina as I breathlessly round our table.
“Katrina, I’m sick. I think I caught that stomach bug that’s been going around.”
“Puh-lease. You were fine two minutes ago.”
“Well, now I’m not. I’ve got major diarrhea.”
“Ugh!” She scrunches her face in disgust at my last word.
“I don’t think I should go to Paris. Or be on a private plane with you. I’ve read it’s highly contagious.” I grip my stomach and feign pain.
“Jesus, Brandon. Absolutely. I mean, if I came down with it, I’d miss out on three days of major shopping. I have personal shoppers lined up at every store on Rue Saint Honoré from Chanel to Hermès. They’re expecting me.”
I intensify my pained expression and let out a moan. I’m such a good actor. But truthfully, she doesn’t seem to give a damn about me. And you know what, the feeling is mutual. If I had real balls like Kurt Kussler, the character I play, I should have broken up with her on Letterman in front of a gazillion viewers. Unfortunately, I couldn’t do that to my publicist or the network. Or my fans.
“Listen, Katrina, don’t cancel the trip on account of me. You should go. Use my credit card and have fun.”
Pursing her billowy lips, which look bigger than ever, she shoots me a surprised look. “Darling, what possessed you to think I would cancel our trip? Gucci and I will have a perfectly good time without you, right baby boy?”
Puzzled, the little dog cocks his head. Feeling sorry for him, I mumble, “Great. If you don’t mind, I’m going back to the hotel.”
With a little whimper, the dog looks up at me with his big brown puppy eyes that shout out: “Take me with you.”
Sorry, Gooch. I wish I could. He belongs with Zoey and me. Scanning the celebrity-filled room, Katrina has moved on and couldn’t give a shit about me. Her face lights up.
“Oh look, there’s Cindy Crawford! I’m going to go over and say hello.”
“I’m out of here.”
It’s as if she’s gone deaf. Without saying another word, she leaps up and saunters off with Gucci tucked under her arm. I split. One hour later, I’m on a chartered plane headed back to Los Angeles.
Zoey