All About Evie. Beth Ciotta

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      I could feel my arteries hardening and the grey hairs sprouting.

      My lungs constricted to the size of lima beans.

      He hung up the phone, straightened his tie and glanced at his watch. Since he was wearing a suit I assumed he had an impending meeting with a client. Before he could dismiss me, I sucked air into my bean-size lungs and made a last-ditch effort. “I heard through the grapevine that Tropicana is starting up a costumed greeter program.”

      He set his open briefcase on his cluttered desk. “Yeah, I got a call a couple of days ago. They’re looking for attractive, animated women who can interact easily with guests while providing information on sweepstakes, slot tournaments…you know.”

      Yeah, I knew. That was the point.

      “They’re looking for someone exactly like you.” He tossed three files and a bottle of Tylenol into his briefcase. “Only younger.”

      He latched shut his case and glanced up, meeting my steady, albeit hurt, gaze. A slight grimace indicated he’d just realized how that sounded. The phone rang, saving us both from addressing what he’d been skirting.

      My age.

      “Pam, slow down,” he said into the mouthpiece as I massaged a sudden, crushing ache in my chest. “I can’t understand you. Calm down, hon. Take a breath.”

      Was he talking to Pam or me? Sweat beaded on my forehead and my fingers tingled. What, I wondered, did a heart attack feel like? I was certainly old enough to have one. Actor John Candy keeled over at forty-four. Okay, he had weight issues, but still.

      “A car accident? What…Dammit, Pam.” He whipped off his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Of course I understand. I’ll handle it. Somehow. I’m just glad it’s not worse. Take care of yourself and check in when you can. Bye, hon.”

      He hung up the phone, shoved his glasses back on and scanned computer files. “Who the hell am I going to get to cover this gig on such short notice?”

      What about me? I wanted to ask, but didn’t. Pride dictated a more subtle route. Besides, I didn’t even know what the gig was. I ignored my own sudden and mysterious ailments and voiced concern for Pam what’s-her-name. “What’s wrong?” I scooted to the edge of my seat in a not-so-subtle attempt to peek at his flat-screen monitor. “What happened?”

      “A disaster by way of a three-car pileup,” Michael snapped while scanning his database. “Instead of heading for the airport for a contracted engagement, Pam Jones is on her way to the hospital with a broken leg and bruised ribs.”

      “That’s awful, but like you said, at least it’s not worse.” I didn’t know Pam Jones, but I had a good view of her head shot and physical stats via Michael’s computer screen. It was almost like looking into a mirror. We both had an all-American vibe going. Pale skin that freckles in the sun, wide blue-green eyes, golden-blond hair. Only Pam had been blessed with long, fairylike curls. The woman could’ve posed for a Pre-Raphaelite painting whereas I looked like a trendy poster girl for Ivory soap. My pain-in-the-butt, stick-straight hair was currently shoulder length and razor-cut into funky layers.

      I refocused on Pam’s stats. Okay, she was four inches taller than me and probably a natural blonde, but, that and hairstyle aside, we were pretty interchangeable. Why not dull the shock of a last-minute replacement by offering the client a similar product? Meaning, moi.

      My anxiety over being put out to pasture dampened my sensitivity to Pam’s injuries. “Which airport? A.C. or Philly? Maybe I can help. What is it? A meet and greet for conventioneers?” A few years ago I appeared as a mermaid at the Atlantic City Train Station, part of the hoopla to celebrate the arrival of the Miss America contestants. Nothing fazes me. I’m willing to lend atmospheric hoopla to any visiting organization. Well, except the porno convention I saw featured once on HBO. I draw the line at Darla-the-Dancing-Dildo.

      Michael spared me a sidelong glance as he stood and rushed to his file cabinet. “It’s a—” he waggled his fingers as if to snatch words from the air “—special interest gig. Out of state. Pam was supposed to meet her contact at Philadelphia International. The ship sails out of Fort Lauderdale.”

      “A cruise ship, huh?” I chewed my thumbnail, musing as he sorted through select head shots and résumés. I’d never performed on a cruise ship, but I was familiar with the venue via the experiences of friends. “How long is the engagement? What’s the pay?” Never mind that I was prone to motion sickness. I was desperate to do what I love, what I was born to do, for as long as I could. Even if it meant existing on Dramamine.

      “Eight days for three plus all expenses,” he mumbled, distracted.

      The timing was sweet, but the money…“Three hundred dollars?” For eight days of my life?

      “Three thousand.”

      Zowie. If I rushed home I could pack and be on my way within thirty-five minutes.

      Michael chucked the files back into the drawer with a curse, scraped a hand over his cropped hair. “Either they don’t have the right look or they’re not qualified. What the hell am I going to tell Arch?”

      Arch Productions? Never heard of the company, but if they were clients of Michael’s they had to be reputable. I stood, looped my travel tote over my arm. “Tell them I’m on my way.”

      He met my gaze, bit the inside of his cheek. He wasn’t sold.

      “I’m a quick study, Michael. If you’re worried about me learning my lines—”

      “No script. There’s a character profile, but mostly this job hinges on improvisation.”

      “Bonus.”

      He peeled back his shirt cuff, checked the time. “You’d have to participate in passenger activities.”

      “What, like bingo and shuffleboard? Is that supposed to scare me? Me, who’s led many a conga line not to mention limbo and hula hoop contests?” I rolled my eyes. “I can’t believe you’re hesitating. This job has me written all over it.”

      Visibly frustrated, he braced his hands on his hips and raised one brow. “You’d have to room with a man.”

      That was a problem because…? I knew only headliners rated private cabins. So my roommate would be a guy. So what? If he was a dancer, ten to one he was gay. If not gay, he was probably in his twenties, which also nixed hanky-panky. Although I hadn’t had sex in a year, good sex in even longer, I couldn’t imagine screwing around with someone young enough to be my…well, I just couldn’t imagine. That didn’t mean I wouldn’t appreciate the company and the view. I’m divorced, not dead.

      I matched his stance and expression. “Not to repeat myself, but, bonus.” I waited a beat. Two beats. Three.

      Not a flicker of jealousy.

      Irritated, I narrowed my eyes. “I’m perfect for this job and you know it.”

      My ex-husband, soon to be ex-agent if he didn’t buckle, sighed. “This isn’t a normal gig, Evie.”

      But it was a gig. I shifted my weight, wishing I’d had time to swap my high-heeled sandals СКАЧАТЬ