All About Evie

“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 for my high-top sneakers. My feet smarted as badly as my conscience. I still hadn’t told him about my botched audition. The words wouldn’t come. Instead I said, “I need to get out of town for a while.” I pictured Michael and that barely legal model doing the horizontal mambo, let the hurt and anger swell. I nabbed his yellow-and-blue-striped tie and jerked him down to my eye level. A considerable distance since I was a foot shorter than his six foot two. “You owe me.”

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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