All About Evie. Beth Ciotta
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Hunched over and momentarily frozen in his calfskin oxfords, he stared me down for a full minute. I don’t know what won him over—my persistence or my thinly veiled desperation. Maybe he’d read my mind and was feeling the teensiest bit guilty about Sasha. Or maybe he was considering my mental stability. After all, I had a death grip on the silk fabric looped around his neck.
Seemingly considering my sanity, he pried loose my fingers then smoothed his shirt and tie. “You do favor Pam in coloring.”
I performed a victory happy dance, giddy with excitement and relief. Eight days far and away from the city that no longer considered me an asset. Eight days to contemplate my future, padding my bank account in the process. Pam’s misfortune was my blessing.
Ignoring my comical jig—a routine that used to amuse him—Michael glanced at his watch, the phone. “You’ll be stepping into the shoes of a free-spirited newlywed.”
“A comedic role. My specialty.”
“Except we’re not talking eccentric kook.”
“What are we talking?
“Think Judy Holliday in Born Yesterday.”
The mental image was crystal clear, the irony priceless. “Ditsy ex-showgirl?”
He smirked. “You’d need to provide your own wardrobe. Miniskirts, microshorts, crop tops and stiletto heels. A Wonderbra wouldn’t hurt.”
It never did. Since I was dead set against a boob job, I owned several bust-enhancing brassieres. On occasion I’ve been hired to portray a zaftig, although usually zany, character. As a freelance entertainer I often provide my own costumes, although in this instance it struck me as odd. A low-budget production show? On a cruise ship? Maybe it was an interactive murder mystery or improvisational theater like Tony n’ Tina’s Wedding.
I started to ask specifics but was sidetracked by Michael’s cocky expression. Clearly, he expected me to back down. Clearly, he thought he knew me, which he did. Familiarity used to make me feel special. Just now I felt predictable, boring and somewhat ill.
My self-esteem plummeted by the nanosecond. The need to escape Michael, this town, my life, was excruciating. I shrugged. “So I’ll have to flaunt my body. I don’t have a problem with that.”
“Since when?”
“Since today.” This was it. Time to ‘fess up. I waited until he turned his back in search of his briefcase. “Just so you know, I flashed the execs at the audition.”
He snapped the lid closed. “What do you mean, you flashed them?”
“They were looking for T & A, so I showed them T.”
He smiled. “Yeah, right.” Shaking his head, he leaned over, signed on to the Internet and speed-typed an e-mail.
I squelched a smug retort. I wasn’t the only predictable one in this room.
Case closed, I thought, as he signed off AOL, snagged his briefcase and shooed me toward the door.
“What time am I expected at the airport?” I asked, more than happy not to elaborate on the botched audition.
“In three hours. You’ll have to haul ass. I’ll call you on your cell with details.” He followed me out the door, down the stairs and onto the buckled sidewalk.
I glanced over my shoulder, cursing myself for wanting to impress him even as the words left my mouth. “You won’t regret this, Michael.”
“It’s not you I’m worried about,” he said as we moved toward separate cars, separate lives. “It’s Arch.”
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