“Unless we settle, probably at least another week. Then it’ll depend on how long the jury’s out.”
“We’ll do drinks when you get back,” I say. “Or you’ll drink, and I’ll look longingly at your scotch.”
“Sounds like a plan. Love you.”
“Back at you,” I say, and when I hang up, I see that I have a voicemail from Bijan. I call him back right away, and he apologizes that their PR department sent the newsletter before he’d spoken with me. I assure him it’s not a problem, we schedule a call for Wednesday to go over the specs and set the first round of Dallas meetings, and I manage to control my squeals of joy and delight until after the call ends.
Then, of course, I call Damien—to give him both the good news and the bad.
“He just left the office for a meeting,” Rachel says. “But congratulations!”
“Twitter?”
“Instagram, actually. That picture of you on the lawn of your old house. But the caption was good news, and so I asked Damien and—”
“It’s all good,” I say, cutting her off. “How long do you think he’ll be out of the office?”
“He didn’t say. I’m not even sure who he’s meeting with. He was over in the apartment, and when he came back, he said it had just come up. Do you want me to leave him a message?”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll send him a text. He’ll call me when he gets a chance.”
“Sounds good. By the way, what are you wearing to the premiere? I’ve never been to a red carpet thing before.”
“I’m wearing a white dress with black trim on the bodice and a completely unreasonable slit up the thigh. I was excited about it before, but now I’m thrilled. I figure I should take advantage of the occasion since pretty soon I’ll be in maternity clothes. But as for you, you can do a gown or a cocktail dress. Either one’s appropriate.”
“Gown, duh. It’s not like I get the chance that often. Besides, I think Graham Elliott might be there,” she adds, referring to the A-lister she actually met once for about seven seconds. “He and Kirstie Ellen Todd broke up, you know, so maybe I have a shot now.”
“Maybe you do,” I say encouragingly.
“And if not, there’s always Lyle Tarpin.”
“He’ll definitely be there,” I say. “He’s not only starring in the movie, but he’s the incoming celebrity sponsor of the Stark Children’s Foundation.”
“That man is seriously hot. I mean, there’s like lava flowing under that whole innocent Iowa boy vibe he’s got going.”
I fight a grin. “You think?”
“Definitely. Except I think the nice guy routine is real. I mean, you never hear about who he’s dating, and he’s only recently started going to red carpet things.”
“Maybe he doesn’t like the whole Hollywood lifestyle.”
“Oh, no. That’s not it at all. He loves Hollywood. He just values his privacy.” Her tone is almost solemn, and I can picture her shaking her head vehemently, then leaning forward and cupping her hand around the mouthpiece of the phone as she shares some big secret.
I adore Rachel, but she’s significantly more fascinated with Hollywood than I am. Which isn’t saying much, though now that I live in LA, I try to at least pay enough attention that I can follow Jamie’s conversations over drinks.
That thought reminds me that I’m meeting Jamie for lunch and I want to get some actual work done before that. I finish up with Rachel, then text Damien. Got the job! Call when you can. Want to share that good news and tell you something else, too. XXOO.
Almost immediately, I get a reply. Never had a doubt. Soon, Mrs Stark . . .
I hug my phone close, because I sure as hell had doubts. But I truly believe that Damien didn’t. Where my career is concerned, he is my most ardent fan.
I text Jamie next, telling her I’ll be at Art’s Deli on Ventura at noon, which only gives me half an hour to go through all my emails and handle any crises.
Except I’m not in the mood to work. Not at all. And since my office is less than a mile from the restaurant, I decide to walk there and do a little window shopping along the way.
In the grand scheme of things, I haven’t lived in Los Angeles all that long. But Ventura Boulevard has changed a lot in my time here. More restaurants, more shops. Jamie’s condo is just a few blocks off Ventura, so we came down here all the time to grab a drink or a bite or poke around in the bookstore housed in an old, converted theater.
Now, I’m looking at the street with a different point of view. I see toys in windows. A shop with designer baby clothes. A store with what has to be the Rolls Royce of baby carriages and a crib that is the most precious thing ever.
A darling little onesie with a giraffe catches my eye, and I veer toward that window, thinking that it’s a shame that it’s way too small for Jeffery. Almost the second the thought enters my head, I realize that I don’t have to focus my baby shopping on Jeffery—I have my own baby on the way.
I can shop for Ashley.
And so I do.
In under twenty minutes, I manage to do significant damage to my credit card. Or what I would have considered significant in another life. The amount I just spent is probably less than what Damien has in his pocket at any given moment. That’s something that has taken me some getting used to—this constant proximity to money. The fact that I don’t actually have to think about how much things cost. Not as a matter of survival, at any rate. I still cringe at the thought of paying jacked-up prices just because the store or the designer is trendy.
But the point is, I can.
Which is why my shopping bag is now filled with a variety of undoubtedly overpriced baby clothes, all of which are just so darn cute that I couldn’t say no. They’re also all unisex, because even though I’ve started calling the baby Ashley, I’m not completely delusional. I’m just hopeful.
“Congratulations again, Mrs. Stark,” the clerk says happily. “Come again soon.”
“Thanks, I will.” I head out of the store, swinging the pretty yellow shopping bag as I hurry toward the crosswalk because, naturally, now I’m running late.
I pull out my phone as I wait for the light to change, just in case Jamie has texted. She hasn’t. I glance to make sure the light is still red before I start to scroll through my emails.
And that’s when I see the woman on the other side of the road.
Mother?
A nearby man turns sharply toward me. “Excuse me?”
I hadn’t realized I’d spoken aloud, but I don’t bother to answer. Instead, I step forward off the curb. “Mother!” I say again. “Elizabeth!”
But no one responds. It’s just a crush of people on the opposite sidewalk, all hurrying to and fro during the lunch hour.
I curse under my breath and take another step, determined to get across the street. To find her.
But now I don’t even see a blond head in the crowd, which is a miracle in a city like LA, and for a moment, I just stand there, defeated.
Until someone screams my name—and I turn toward the voice and see a fast-moving BMW coming right at me.
12