Lethally Blonde. Nancy Bartholomew

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      Aldo slides over, taking Emma’s seat, and begins talking about his recent trip to Greece. I listen to him, but the attraction I felt for him is gone. I am distracted, watching Emma and Ray, wondering what in the hell is going on?

      When they come back to the table, Aldo stays in Emma’s seat and so she takes his and begins laughing and flirting with Ray. I try to kick her and miss. She is too far away. I glare at her when the men are not looking. She ignores me. Many people come up and talk to us, more for Aldo than anyone, but still, I know people here, too, so for a while I bide my time and pretend to be fascinated by the acquaintances who drop by to chat.

      At last, I see an opportunity. I pretend to reach for a napkin in the center of the table, let my arm “accidentally” knock against Ray’s almost-full champagne glass and then gasp as it tips over, falling to spill icy liquid into his lap. He jumps up, I lean forward as if to help, and with one smooth movement, slip his billfold out of his suit coat pocket and slide it down my thigh and into the inside pocket of my faux chinchilla shrug.

      I am so-o-o apologetic! The waitresses come running. Emma shoots me the evil eye and Aldo misses most of the moment because he is temporarily distracted by the arrival of a new bevy of women at the door.

      Ray is the only member of our party who is not flustered. He is polite, and affects a very unconcerned manner, but for one brief slice of a second his eyes meet mine and look straight through to my soul. It is a bone-chilling search of my intent—at least, this is how it feels—and for a moment I am worried that he somehow knows what I’m up to, but then, how could he? I force myself to sit still for a minute before I excuse myself and wander off toward the ladies’ room again. I am surprised when Emma doesn’t join me.

      I dart into a stall, bolt the door and sit down on the toilet. I reach for Ray’s wallet, feel the smooth soft, leather and smile as I pull it from my pocket.

      “Thank you, Papa,” I whisper.

      I have one or two very vague memories of my real father. In one, he is a large man, but then, I was but a small child, and he is laughing as he pulls a quarter from my ear and a flower from my sleeve. My mother and Victor are watching and they are not happy, but Papa is very, very happy. Now I think, perhaps he was drunk, but then, he just seemed happy.

      “Leave us alone,” I hear my mother say, and she is crying. One day, my father leaves and never returns. When I am older, I buy a magic kit with my own money. I get very, very good at it, but Papa never returns. But when I have magic, he is never very far away.

      I open the thin, flat billfold and begin to examine it. There are the usual credit cards. Ray’s full name is Octavio Reymundo Estanza and while he lives in Manhattan, I do not recognize the address. His business card is printed on heavy, ivory stock and reads simply “Octagon Enterprises, Inc.,” with addresses and phone numbers in New York, Los Angeles and Madrid. I probe further, pulling out a picture of a beautiful dark-haired woman when the door to the ladies’ room bursts open. A female voice is speaking in harsh, rapid-fire Spanish.

      “Watch the door. If someone wants in, tell them it’s broken and they must use the other restrooms.”

      A second voice, also female, agrees as the door closes behind her. What I hear next turns my stomach and I pull my feet up onto the seat so I won’t be seen. It is Emma.

      “I don’t understand,” she says. “What is going on?”

      The other woman switches from Spanish to flawless English. “Whore! You know why we are here.”

      I peek through the crack in the door and see a flash of silver. I think maybe it is a gun. I look at the floor and see three sets of high heels. Shit!

      “Listen, if that’s your husband,” Emma begins again. She is cut off by the sound of a slap that echoes through the tiled bathroom.

      “Shut up, bitch!” the other woman cries. “There is no more time for lies. Tell me who you work for or I’ll kill you.”

      Emma says nothing. She cries out as the woman hits her again, only this time I don’t think she has used her hand. What am I going to do? I don’t have a weapon. If I try and call for help, they’ll shoot us both.

      “Who are you working for?” the woman demands. “Who is she? Tell me now and you die quickly—delay and your death will be very painful.”

      Shit! Victor and Mother were always insisting I hire bodyguards and I was always giving them the slip. Why didn’t I listen to them? I draw in a deep, silent breath and think, well, at least it will be an honorable death. I place my feet down onto the floor, flush the commode and slowly open the door.

      I can’t tell who is more shocked, the two women holding Emma, Emma herself, or me. I step out, just as if nothing whatsoever is happening and smile brightly at them all.

      “Hello!” I say. I let my eyes come to rest on the gun and then look at the woman holding the gun. She is the same woman as the one whose picture is in Ray’s wallet. Great, the irate spouse.

      “Oh, dear me!” I say. “I know you! I just saw your picture! Here, look!”

      I shove the small wallet-size picture at her. For a moment she is distracted, and this is all the time it takes. Emma darts around me and does the most amazing kick-thing with her right leg. The gun goes flying in one direction and Emma’s attacker is suddenly on the floor staring up at a very irate Emma.

      Emma doesn’t see the other woman coming for her, but I do. I don’t really have any time to think. I just reach out, grab her long, black hair in one hand and yank her backward, hard, into the frame of the metal bathroom stall. Emma springs forward, retrieves the gun from its resting place under a sink and stands up, covering both women with the weapon.

      Emma Bosworth has never held a gun in her life, at least as far as I know. Her family is Quaker. They don’t believe in it. Yet here’s my Emma holding the little silver gun and looking positively violent!

      She reaches her free hand into her pocket, pulls out a tiny cell phone, hands it to me and says, “Hit one on the speed dial.”

      So of course I do. A woman answers and says, “Emma?” in a voice I don’t recognize.

      I look at Emma who says, “Tell her that I need a pickup in the ladies’ room.”

      Now I know the world has turned upside down because Emma Bosworth would never be doing these sorts of things. But I do as I’m told and the woman on the other end says, “Right.” But she never asks where we are or what’s going on. She just hangs up.

      “What about the one guarding the door?” I ask Emma.

      Emma looks a little uncertain and appears to be mulling over her options. While I, on the other hand, am completely undone and wish like hell for another Bemelmans Cosmo to settle my nerves. Of course the bathroom door just has to open then, and as I’m standing right by it, I am the one who must deal with the problem.

      I grab her arm and pull her forward into the room before she can say or do anything. Emma lifts the gun just slightly so the newcomer can see that someone will surely die if she doesn’t behave and says, “Search her.”

      “Emma,” I say, starting to do just as I’m told. “Are you a cop?”

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