Summer Island

She frowned. “You sound pretty goddamn happy, considering that my career is circling the hole in the toilet bowl. ”

“I am happy. Heres the scoop. Yesterday I called everyone I could think of to hire you. And baby, I hate to say it, but no one wanted you. The only nibble was from that shit-ass, low-rent cruise line. They said theyd take you for the summer if you promised no foul language . . . and agreed to wear an orange sequined miniskirt so you could help out the magician after your set. ”

Rubys head throbbed harder. She rubbed her temples. “Let me guess, youre calling to tell me theresa man named Big Dick who has a night job for me on Hollywood and Vine. ”

Val laughed. It was a great, booming sound, with none of the strained undertones she was used to hearing. A client got to know the subtle shades of enthusiasm-it was a skill that came with being at rock bottom on the earning-potential food chain.

“You wont believe it. Hell, I dont believe it, and I took the call. Im going to make you guess who called me today. ”

“Heidi Fleiss. ”

There was a palpable pause; in it, Ruby heard Vals exhalation of breath-he was smoking. “Joe Cochran. ”

&nb

sp; “From Uproar? Dont screw with me, Val. Im a little-”

“Joe Cochran called me. No shit. He had a sudden cancellation. He wants to book you for tomorrows show. ”

How could a world spin around so quickly? Yesterday, Ruby had been pond scum; today, Joe Cochran wanted her. The host of the hottest, hippest talk show in the country. It had been patterned after Politically Incorrect, but because Uproar was broadcast on cable, the show explored racier issues-and foul language was encouraged. It was a young comedians dream gig. Even if she wasnt so young anymore.

“Hes giving you two minutes to do stand-up. So, kiddo, this is it. Youd better spend the time between then and now practicing. Ill send a car around to pick you up at eleven tomorrow morning. ”

“Thanks, Val. ”

“I didnt do anything, darling. Really. This is all you. Good luck. ”

Before she hung up, Ruby remembered to ask, “Hey, whats the topic of the show?”

“Oh, yeah. ” She heard the rustle of papers.

“Its called ”Crime and Punishment: Are Mommy and Daddy to Blame for Everything?"

Ruby should have known. “They want me because Im her daughter. ”

“Do you care why?”

“No. ” It was true. She didnt care why Joe Cochran had called her. This was her shot. Finally, after years of crappy play dates in smoke-infested barrooms in towns whose names she couldnt remember, she was getting national exposure.

She thanked Val again, then hung up the phone. Her heart was racing so hard she felt dizzy. Even the empty room looked better. She wouldnt be here much longer, anyway. She would be brilliant on the show, a shining star.

She ran to her bedroom and flung open the louvered doors of her closet. Everything she owned was black.

She couldnt afford anything new . . .

Then she remembered the black cashmere sweater. It had come from her mother, disguised in a box from Caroline two Christmases earlier. Although Ruby routinely sent back her mothers guilty gifts unopened, this one had seduced her. Once shed touched that beautiful fabric, she couldnt mail it back.

She grabbed the black V-necked sweater off its hanger and tossed it on the bed.

Tomorrow shed jazz it up with necklaces and wear it over a black leather miniskirt with black tights. Very Janeane Garofalo.

When Ruby had picked out her clothes, she kicked the bedroom door shut. A thin full-length mirror on the back of the door caught her image, framed it in strips of gold plastic.

It was hard to take herself seriously, dressed as she was in her dads old football jersey and a pair of fuzzy red knee socks. Her short black hair had been molded by last nights sweat fest into a perfect imitation of Johnny Rotten. Pink sleep wrinkles still creased her pale face. Remnants of last nights makeup circled her eyes.

“Im Ruby Bridge,” she said, grabbing a hairbrush off the dresser to use as a mike. “And yes, youre right if you recognize the last name. Im her daughter, Nora Bridges, spiritual guru to Middle America. ” She flung her hip out, picturing herself as she would look tomorrow--hair tipped in temporary blue dye, a dozen tacky necklaces, tight black clothes, and heavy black makeup. "Look at me. Should that woman be telling you how to raise kids? Its like those commercials on television where celebrities come on and tell you to be a mentor to a kid. And who does Hollywood pick to give out advice?

“A bunch of anorexics, alcoholics, drug addicts, and serial marriers. People who havent spent ten minutes with a kid in years. And theyre telling you how to parent. Its like-”