Lipstick Jungle

“Congratulations to you too.”

Jenny hung up and Wendy’s phone rang again. It was the director; apparently they’d been nominated for Best Picture as well.

She took several more phone calls, and when she looked at the clock, it said 5:45.

Was it too early to call Shane? Probably, but she didn’t care. She would wake him up. Let him suffer the way she was. Why should he be allowed to sleep when she couldn’t? Besides, after three hours of lying in bed agonizing over the situation, she’d decided that the best thing to do was to pretend that everything was normal—and then maybe it would be normal. And if things were normal, the first thing she would have done was to call Shane with the good news.

“Yeah?” he groaned into the phone.

“I just wanted you to know,” she said, her voice full of an edgy, false enthusiasm. “We’ve been nominated for six Oscars. For The Spotted Pig.”

“That’s good. For you,” Shane said. He sounded like he was trying to be happy for her, but she guessed that if he was, it was only because he thought it might neutralize her. If he thought she wasn’t going to put up a fight, he was in for a surprise. “And exactly when are you coming home?” she demanded.

“I told you,” he said wearily. “Maybe around seven or eight.”

That’s too late, she wanted to scream. Chloe needs to be in bed by seven . . . “I’ll meet you in front of the apartment,” she said.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he said warningly.

“Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do, Shane Healy,” she shouted, suddenly losing her temper. “You cannot prevent me from being with my kids.” Something in her head, a blood vessel maybe, exploded, and sharp pain hit her behind the eyes.

“That’s not what—” Shane began, but she interrupted him. “I don’t know who is advising you or what they’re telling you, but they’ve made a huge mistake. I’m going to sue your ass so bad you’ll never see our kids again. Never . . .”

Shane hung up somewhere in the middle of her diatribe. She stared at the phone blankly. The doorbell rang.

“Who is it?” she asked, walking through the small living room to the door.

“Room service.”

“I didn’t order room service.”

“Wendy Healy?”

“Yes?”

“Room service. I’m just going to put this inside the door.”

Leave me alone! She opened the door.

A young man, so good-looking that you had to notice, she thought angrily, who probably worked at the hotel because he wanted to be an actor and figured this was a good place to make connections, was standing outside the door holding a tray on top of which was perched an ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne. She could tell by the dark green label around the cork that it was Dom Perignon.

“Where should I put this?” he asked pleasantly.

She looked around the room in exasperation. Did he have any idea that it was six in the morning? “I don’t know. The coffee table, I guess.” He then made a great show of moving a small vase of flowers to a small table next to the couch. Could he be any slower? she wondered. He put the ice bucket down on the glass table, sliding a folded document to the side.

Oh Christ, she thought. She took a step forward and snatched up the document, shoving it into the pocket of her robe.

“There’s a card,” he said solicitously, handing her a small white envelope that was sitting on top of the tray.

“Thank you,” she said coldly, glaring at him.

He began arranging the white towel around the neck of the champagne. “Should I open this for you?”

“It’s six in the morning.”

“You never know,” he said, not getting the hint. “I mean, it’s a special day. You might want to get drunk. I know I would.”

I’m sure you would, she thought, looking him up and down. “I don’t drink,” she said pointedly. This was the problem with New York. Everyone was just too friendly and too familiar, especially in a place like the Mercer, which was basically a big party all the time. “Please,” she said, looking toward the door.