Lipstick Jungle

“Are you having fun?” Lyne Bennett purred. Victory turned—Lyne was sitting two tables away, with the porky billionaire George Paxton. They both turned around and waved.

“Hi there,” Victory said, not unhappy to see him. She hadn’t seen him for at least a week, due to both of their schedules.

“George wants to know if we want to go to his house in St. Tropez,” Lyne said, in his smooth, low voice.

“And you couldn’t walk over and ask me this?”

“It’s sexier this way.”

Victory laughed and hung up. “i m a little biz-e. hello? Fashion show?” she texted. She turned back to Wendy. They talked for another few minutes, and then Victory’s phone rang again. “I just want you to know, I don’t do text messages,” Lyne purred.

“Technologically deficient, are you? I’m glad to know there are some things you can’t do.”

“Don’t want to do.”

“Why don’t you have Ellen text for you?” Victory said, turning her head so that Wendy couldn’t see her smile. She hung up.

Wendy’s cell phone rang. She picked it up and looked at the number. It was her office. “This is it,” she said grimly.

She stood up to take the call outside. If it actually was Bob Wayburn, the director, the conversation would probably get heated. “Yes?” she said.

It was Josh, her assistant. “I have that call for you.”

“Bob?” she asked.

“No, Hank.”

“Damn!” she said. Hank was her production executive. This meant that Bob Wayburn, the director, was probably refusing to speak to her, using this ploy as a power play to get her to go to Romania. “Put him through.”

“Wendy?” The connection wasn’t that good but she could tell, nevertheless, that Hank was scared. That wasn’t good either. “I’m standing outside his trailer.”

That would be Bob Wayburn’s trailer. “And?” Wendy said.

“He slammed the door. He said he’s too busy to take any calls.”

“Here’s what I want you to do,” Wendy said, stepping outside the restaurant and onto the sidewalk. “I want you to go into his trailer, hold out the phone, and tell him you’ve got me on the line. And that he’d better take the call.”

“I can’t tell him that,” Hank said. “He’ll throw me off the set.”

Wendy took a deep breath, willing herself to be patient. “Don’t be a wimp, Hank. You know this goes with the territory.”

“He can make my life a stinking hell.”

“So can I,” Wendy said. “Just go up the stairs and open the door. And don’t knock. He’s got to know he can’t get away with this. I’ll hang on,” she said, after a beat.

>

She rubbed one arm against the chill, huddling against the wall of the building as if that might somehow keep her warmer. Two police cars raced up Sixth Avenue, their sirens piercing the air, while ten thousand miles away she heard the faint clomp of Hank’s work boots on the metal steps leading to a production trailer in the mountains of Romania.

And then Hank’s labored breathing.

“Well?” she said.

“The door’s locked,” Hank said. “I can’t get in.”

The world suddenly telescoped and she had the sensation of looking into a black hole. She took a deep breath, reminding herself not to explode. It wasn’t Hank’s fault that Bob wouldn’t talk to him, but she wished Hank could manage to do his job. “Tell Bob that I’ll see him tomorrow,” she said grimly.

Hank hung up. “Josh?” Wendy said, into the phone. “What are the flights?”