“You’re right,” I say, even though the idea of Damien Stark wrapped around any woman’s finger remains a little fuzzy. “I’ll see you at home.”
“If I’m asleep, wake me up. I want to hear everything.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I say.
“Liar,” she chides, then clicks off.
I slide my phone into my purse and head back to the bar—now I want that champagne. I stand there holding my glass as I glance around the room. This time, I see Stark right away. Him and Audrey Hepburn. He’s smiling, she’s laughing, and I’m working myself up into quite a temper. I mean, he’s the reason I’m stranded here, and yet he hasn’t made any effort to speak to me again, to apologize for the whole “be my decorating wench” fiasco, or to arrange a ride for me. If I have to call a cab I am absolutely going to send a bill to Stark International.
Evelyn passes by, arm in arm with a man with hair so white he reminds me of Colonel Sanders. She pats him on the arm, murmurs something, then disengages herself. The colonel marches on as Evelyn eases up next to me. “Having a nice time?”
“Of course,” I say.
She snorts.
“I know,” I say. “I’m a terrible liar.”
“Hell, honey, you weren’t even putting any effort into that one.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just …” I trail off and tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I’d curled it and pinned it up in a chignon. A few loose curls are supposed to hang free and frame my face. Right now, the damn thing is just annoying me.
“He’s inscrutable,” Evelyn says.
“Who?”
She nods toward Damien, and I look in that direction. He’s still talking with Audrey Hepburn, but I’m struck by the certainty that he had been watching me only moments earlier. I have nothing to base that on, though, and I’m frustrated, not knowing if the thought is wishful thinking or paranoia.
“Inscrutable?” I repeat.
“He’s a hard man to figure out,” Evelyn says. “I’ve known him since he was a boy—his father signed me to represent him when some damn breakfast cereal wanted his face on their television spots. As if Damien Stark with a sugar high was the way we wanted to go. No, I landed the boy some damn good endorsements, helped make him a goddamned household name. But most days I don’t think I know him at all.”
“Why not?”
“I told you, Texas. Inscrutable.” She draws out each syllable, then punctuates the word with a shake of her head. “ ’Course I don’t fault him, not with the shit that was piled onto that poor kid. Who wouldn’t end up a little bit damaged?”
“You mean the fame? That must have been hard. He was so young.” Stark won the Junior Grand Slam at fifteen, and that had pushed him into the stratosphere. But the press had latched onto him long before that. With his good looks and working-class background, he’d been plucked out of the flurry of hopefuls as the tennis circuit’s golden boy.
“No, no.” Evelyn waves her hand as if dismissing the thought. “Damien knows how to handle the press. He’s damn good at protecting his secrets, always has been.” She eyes me, then laughs, as if to suggest she was only joking. But I don’t think so. “Oh, honey, listen to me ramble. No, Damien Stark is just one of those dark, quiet types. He’s like an iceberg, Texas. The deep parts are well hidden and what you do see is hard and a little bit cold.”
She chuckles, amused at her own joke, then waves at someone who’s caught her attention. I glance toward Damien, looking for evidence of the wounded child that Evelyn has recalled, but all I see is unerring strength and self-confidence. Am I seeing a mask? Or am I really looking at the man?
“What I’m trying to say,” Evelyn continues, “is that you shouldn’t take it personally. The way he acted, I mean. I doubt he meant to be rude. He was probably just off in his head and didn’t even realize what he was doing.”
I, of course, have moved past the snub at our meeting, but Evelyn doesn’t realize that. My current issues with Damien Stark are wide and varied—ranging from the simple problem of a ride home to more complicated emotions that I’m not inclined to analyze.
“You were right about Rip and Lyle,” I say, because she keeps looking in Stark’s direction, and I want to head off any suggestion that we edge our way into that conversation. “My roommate is in awe that I’m in the same room with them.”
“Well, come on, then. I’ll introduce you.”
The two stars—both polished and shined within an inch of their lives—are perfectly polite and perfectly dull. I have nothing to say to them. I don’t even know what their show is about. Evelyn can’t seem to wrap her head around the possibility that anyone could either not care or not know about all things Hollywood. She seems to think I’m merely being coy and is about to leave me alone with these two.
Social Nikki would smile and make polite small talk. But Social Nikki is getting a bit frayed around the edges, and instead, I reach out, snagging a bit of Evelyn’s sleeve before she escapes too far. She looks back at me, her brows raised in question. I have nothing to say. Panic bubbles in me; Social Nikki has completely left the building.
And then I see it—my excuse. My salvation. It’s so unexpected—so completely out of place—that I half wonder if I’m not hallucinating. “That man,” I say, pointing to a skinny twenty-something with long, wavy hair and wire-framed glasses. He looks like he belongs at Woodstock, not an art show, and I hold my breath, expecting the apparition to vanish. “Is that Orlando McKee?”
“You know Orlando?” she asks, then answers her own question. “Of course. The friend who works for Charles. But where did you two meet?” She nods goodbye to Lyle and Rip, who could care less about our departure; they’re back to arguing between themselves and smiling brightly at the women who sidle in close for a snapshot.
“We grew up together,” I explain as Evelyn steers me through the throng.
The truth is our families lived next door to each other until Ollie went off to college, and even though he’s two years older than me, we were inseparable until Ollie turned twelve and was shipped off to boarding school in Austin. I had been beside myself with envy.
I haven’t seen Ollie for years, but he’s the kind of friend that you don’t need to talk to every day. Months can go by, and then he’ll call me out of the blue, and we pick up the conversation like it had never stopped. He and Jamie are my closest friends in the world and I am beyond giddy that he’s here, right when I need him so desperately.