holding my stomach with both hands, hoisting the load off my bladder. Peter gripped me by the elbow, propelling me through the throngs of hysterical kickboxing fanatics, many of whom actually seemed to be practicing their favorite moves while they waited for their idol to appear.
“Hey, watch it, pregnant woman here!” he said, deflecting a Nike that grazed my belly.
We finally made it to the police barricades set up to keep the crowds off the red carpet leading into the theater. Peter thrust his engraved invitation into the face of one of the security guys manning the entrance. The guard motioned us through a gap between two barricades, andwe stepped up on the red carpet. The area in front of the theater was lit by a huge phalanx of hot, white Klieg lights. The carpet was crowded with reporters fawning over stars and thrusting microphones in their faces. As we stepped up, the crowd of hoi polloi behind the barricades turned in one motion to look at us. An audible sigh of disappointment escaped them as they realized we were nobody. A camera operater who had turned his oversized video camera in our direction snapped off the light and turned away, leaving us in a little, dark island of anonymity in the midst of the bright, star-filled field of red. Peter and I looked at each other and smiled ruefully. There’s nothing like a Hollywood opening to make you feel like you don’t exist.
We walked quickly up the carpet toward the door of the theater. Suddenly, a hand reached out and grabbed my arm, jerking me roughly. I staggered, my balance thrown off. Peter threw his arm around my waist to keep me from falling, and I turned around to see where the hand had come from. I found myself staring up at the beet-red face of none other than Bruce LeCrone. He was already screaming by the time I turned my head.
“Who do you think you are, you bitch! I’m going to have you arrested for stalking! What the hell do you think you’re doing? Do you know who I am, you disgusting cow?”
My mouth dropped open and I stared at him blankly, utterly taken aback by his invective. Not even my creepiest clients had ever abused me that way.
Before I could gather myself together to blast him back, Peter took hold of LeCrone’s hand, wrenching it off my shoulder and pushing it away.
“Back off. Back off, now,” Peter said quietly.
LeCrone leaned into Peter’s face. “Your wife has been following my nanny around, accusing me of beating up my kid. I’ll kill her
and
you!”
Peter, his white face and set chin the only outward evidence of how truly angry he was, put his hand on LeCrone’s chest and pushed him gently but firmly away.
“No one has accused you of anything. Now we’re going to turn around and go into the theater and I suggest you do the same.”
By now everyone was staring at us. The reporters had stopped in midinterview. The videographer who had previously considered us too boring to merit his attention had his camera trained firmly in our direction. From the corner of my eye I could see two security officers rushing our way.
“Look, I happened to bump into your nanny at the park and we got to talking, that’s all,” I said, hoping to calm the furious man down. What had possessed Lola suddenly to turn loyal? Peter turned to look at me in surprise.
“You just happened to ask her if I beat up my kid? Bullshit!” LeCrone said, his voice only slightly quieter than a shriek.
“Can we just cut out the screaming?” Peter said. “There’s obviously been some kind of misunderstanding here.”
“Exactly,” I interjected. I decided to go for broke. After all, I couldn’t get the guy any
more
furious than he already was. “I was actually trying to find out if you had an alibi for the night Abigail Hathaway was killed.”
LeCrone exploded. With a bellow, he reached his arm back and shot out a fist, aiming it directly at my face. Peter jumped in to deflect the blow, managing to put his shoulder between LeCrone’s balled
“Hey, watch it, pregnant woman here!” he said, deflecting a Nike that grazed my belly.
We finally made it to the police barricades set up to keep the crowds off the red carpet leading into the theater. Peter thrust his engraved invitation into the face of one of the security guys manning the entrance. The guard motioned us through a gap between two barricades, andwe stepped up on the red carpet. The area in front of the theater was lit by a huge phalanx of hot, white Klieg lights. The carpet was crowded with reporters fawning over stars and thrusting microphones in their faces. As we stepped up, the crowd of hoi polloi behind the barricades turned in one motion to look at us. An audible sigh of disappointment escaped them as they realized we were nobody. A camera operater who had turned his oversized video camera in our direction snapped off the light and turned away, leaving us in a little, dark island of anonymity in the midst of the bright, star-filled field of red. Peter and I looked at each other and smiled ruefully. There’s nothing like a Hollywood opening to make you feel like you don’t exist.
We walked quickly up the carpet toward the door of the theater. Suddenly, a hand reached out and grabbed my arm, jerking me roughly. I staggered, my balance thrown off. Peter threw his arm around my waist to keep me from falling, and I turned around to see where the hand had come from. I found myself staring up at the beet-red face of none other than Bruce LeCrone. He was already screaming by the time I turned my head.
“Who do you think you are, you bitch! I’m going to have you arrested for stalking! What the hell do you think you’re doing? Do you know who I am, you disgusting cow?”
My mouth dropped open and I stared at him blankly, utterly taken aback by his invective. Not even my creepiest clients had ever abused me that way.
Before I could gather myself together to blast him back, Peter took hold of LeCrone’s hand, wrenching it off my shoulder and pushing it away.
“Back off. Back off, now,” Peter said quietly.
LeCrone leaned into Peter’s face. “Your wife has been following my nanny around, accusing me of beating up my kid. I’ll kill her
and
you!”
Peter, his white face and set chin the only outward evidence of how truly angry he was, put his hand on LeCrone’s chest and pushed him gently but firmly away.
“No one has accused you of anything. Now we’re going to turn around and go into the theater and I suggest you do the same.”
By now everyone was staring at us. The reporters had stopped in midinterview. The videographer who had previously considered us too boring to merit his attention had his camera trained firmly in our direction. From the corner of my eye I could see two security officers rushing our way.
“Look, I happened to bump into your nanny at the park and we got to talking, that’s all,” I said, hoping to calm the furious man down. What had possessed Lola suddenly to turn loyal? Peter turned to look at me in surprise.
“You just happened to ask her if I beat up my kid? Bullshit!” LeCrone said, his voice only slightly quieter than a shriek.
“Can we just cut out the screaming?” Peter said. “There’s obviously been some kind of misunderstanding here.”
“Exactly,” I interjected. I decided to go for broke. After all, I couldn’t get the guy any
more
furious than he already was. “I was actually trying to find out if you had an alibi for the night Abigail Hathaway was killed.”
LeCrone exploded. With a bellow, he reached his arm back and shot out a fist, aiming it directly at my face. Peter jumped in to deflect the blow, managing to put his shoulder between LeCrone’s balled
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