like for me to be there when these photos are showing my ex-wife stealing my child?
He phoned the Central Park Precinct and was put through to a detective who told him that it would be at least twenty-four hours before they could verify that the pictures were not doctored. At least if I’m questioned by the paparazzi, I can tell them that, he thought, as he changed his shirt and rushed back to the car.
The paparazzi on the sidewalk outside the popular café were kept back behind velvet ropes. One of the bouncers had held the door of his car open and he had ducked out toward the entrance. But then he stopped, unable to ignore the shouted question, “Have you seen those photos yet, Ted?”
“Yes, I have and I have been in touch with the police. I believe they are a cruel hoax,” he snapped.
Inside the café he braced himself, knowing he was a half hour late meeting Melissa. He fully expected to find her in a filthy mood, but she was sitting at a large table with five old friends from the band she had once been in as the lead singer. She was clearly enjoying their adulation. Ted knew all of them and was grateful for their presence. If Melissa had been waiting alone, there would have been hell to pay.
Her greeting to him, “Hey, you’re getting more coverage than I am,” was met with hoots of laughter from her tablemates.
Ted leaned over Melissa and kissed her on her lips.
“What’ll you have, Mr. Carpenter?” The waiter was at the table. There were already two bottles of their most expensive Champagne chilling in a bucket beside him. I don’t want that damn Champagne, Ted thought as he sat down next to her. I always get a headache from it. “A gin martini,” he said. Only one, he promised himself. But I need it. What in the hell does it look like for me to be here when there may be a break in the search for my son?
He was careful to drape his arm lovingly around Melissa and keep his eyes fixed on her for the benefit of the stringers who were paid to contribute items to the columnists. He knew that tomorrow Melissa would want to read something like “Top recording artist Melissa Knight has bounced back from her well-publicized breakup with rock singer Leif Ericson and is now madly in love with public relations dynamo Ted Carpenter. They were canoodling at Lola’s last night.”
I remember hearing about the time Eddie Fisher, then married to Elizabeth Taylor, sent a telegram from Italy signed “The Princess and her love slave,” Ted thought. That’s the kind of rot I’m supposed to provide for Melissa. She’s kidding herself into thinking that she’s in love with me.
But I need her. I need her nice fat check every month. If only I hadn’t bought the building when our lease was up. It’s been draining me dry. Melissa will move on from me fast enough, he thought, as he gulped rather than sipped the gin martini. The trick is to make sure that when she decides to drop me, she doesn’t go to another PR firm and take her buddies with her.
“The same, Mr. Carpenter?” the waiter asked when he came by.
“Why not?” Ted snapped.
At midnight Melissa decided to leave for the Club. Another four a.m. morning once they get settled there. Ted knew he had to escape. There was only one way he could do it.
“Melissa, I feel lousy,” he said, speaking under the din of the noisy café. “I think I may be getting a bug or flu or something. I can’t expose you to it any longer. You’ve got a full schedule and you can’t afford to get sick.”
Keeping his fingers crossed, he saw the appraising look she gave him. Odd how her genuinely exquisite features could suddenly become distorted and lose all semblance of beauty when she was upset or angry. Her depth-of-the-ocean dark blue eyes narrowed and she twisted her long blond hair into a single curl that she pulled forward over her shoulder.
She’s twenty-six years old and as totally self-centered as any personality I’ve ever dealt with in this business,
He phoned the Central Park Precinct and was put through to a detective who told him that it would be at least twenty-four hours before they could verify that the pictures were not doctored. At least if I’m questioned by the paparazzi, I can tell them that, he thought, as he changed his shirt and rushed back to the car.
The paparazzi on the sidewalk outside the popular café were kept back behind velvet ropes. One of the bouncers had held the door of his car open and he had ducked out toward the entrance. But then he stopped, unable to ignore the shouted question, “Have you seen those photos yet, Ted?”
“Yes, I have and I have been in touch with the police. I believe they are a cruel hoax,” he snapped.
Inside the café he braced himself, knowing he was a half hour late meeting Melissa. He fully expected to find her in a filthy mood, but she was sitting at a large table with five old friends from the band she had once been in as the lead singer. She was clearly enjoying their adulation. Ted knew all of them and was grateful for their presence. If Melissa had been waiting alone, there would have been hell to pay.
Her greeting to him, “Hey, you’re getting more coverage than I am,” was met with hoots of laughter from her tablemates.
Ted leaned over Melissa and kissed her on her lips.
“What’ll you have, Mr. Carpenter?” The waiter was at the table. There were already two bottles of their most expensive Champagne chilling in a bucket beside him. I don’t want that damn Champagne, Ted thought as he sat down next to her. I always get a headache from it. “A gin martini,” he said. Only one, he promised himself. But I need it. What in the hell does it look like for me to be here when there may be a break in the search for my son?
He was careful to drape his arm lovingly around Melissa and keep his eyes fixed on her for the benefit of the stringers who were paid to contribute items to the columnists. He knew that tomorrow Melissa would want to read something like “Top recording artist Melissa Knight has bounced back from her well-publicized breakup with rock singer Leif Ericson and is now madly in love with public relations dynamo Ted Carpenter. They were canoodling at Lola’s last night.”
I remember hearing about the time Eddie Fisher, then married to Elizabeth Taylor, sent a telegram from Italy signed “The Princess and her love slave,” Ted thought. That’s the kind of rot I’m supposed to provide for Melissa. She’s kidding herself into thinking that she’s in love with me.
But I need her. I need her nice fat check every month. If only I hadn’t bought the building when our lease was up. It’s been draining me dry. Melissa will move on from me fast enough, he thought, as he gulped rather than sipped the gin martini. The trick is to make sure that when she decides to drop me, she doesn’t go to another PR firm and take her buddies with her.
“The same, Mr. Carpenter?” the waiter asked when he came by.
“Why not?” Ted snapped.
At midnight Melissa decided to leave for the Club. Another four a.m. morning once they get settled there. Ted knew he had to escape. There was only one way he could do it.
“Melissa, I feel lousy,” he said, speaking under the din of the noisy café. “I think I may be getting a bug or flu or something. I can’t expose you to it any longer. You’ve got a full schedule and you can’t afford to get sick.”
Keeping his fingers crossed, he saw the appraising look she gave him. Odd how her genuinely exquisite features could suddenly become distorted and lose all semblance of beauty when she was upset or angry. Her depth-of-the-ocean dark blue eyes narrowed and she twisted her long blond hair into a single curl that she pulled forward over her shoulder.
She’s twenty-six years old and as totally self-centered as any personality I’ve ever dealt with in this business,
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