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“You think we should kiss. Now.” His words sounded like a statement instead of a question. My blood pumped.
“As a professional, I take my job seriously. I know this is an improvisational gig, but a certain amount of rehearsal seems wise. After all, we’ve been doing it, getting it on, Sugar and Charles that is, for a month. If you want people to believe we’re in lust…” Crap. I meant to say love. “Well, you know what I mean.”
Way to go, Miss Transparent.
He scraped his teeth over his lower lip. Nice teeth. Nice mouth. “Appreciate your dedication, Sunshine.”
I couldn’t tell if he was serious or sarcastic, and right now I didn’t care. I wanted him to kiss me, dammit. “Let’s just get it out of the way,” I ploughed on. “The awkwardness—misaligned mouths, bumping noses and all that.”
Except there was no awkwardness. He swooped in without warning, framed my face, ravished my mouth. He kissed the ever-lovin’ daylights out of me.
www.mirabooks.co.uk
This book is dedicated to Heather Graham Pozzessere—an inspiration and a treasured friend. Thank you for all you have done and all you continue to do. Your talent is exceeded only by your generosity and kindness.
Acknowledgements
To my agent, Amy Moore-Benson—You gave me the courage to spread my wings and now we’re flying high. Thank you for your constant support and guidance!
To my editor, Abby Zidle—You got me. You championed me. I am eternally grateful for your enthusiasm, storytelling expertise and advice. Keep smiling!
To Tracy Farrell, Dianne Moggy and everyone at my publisher who helped to make my dreams come true—thank you from the bottom of my heart.
To Cynthia Valero—Your spirit soars alongside mine on this one! To Mary Stella and Julia Templeton—You keep me sane and inspired! To my sister, Barb—Your honesty and support are priceless. And to my husband, Steve—Writing about true love is easy when you’re living it.
A special thank-you to John Ciotta (my brother-in-law) and Nicola Mooney (both professional performers and cruise ship veterans) for answering my gazillion questions regarding the ins and outs of cruising. Heartfelt thanks to Al, Alicia and Jean-Marie for sharing their “cruise” experiences, and to my friend Brooks for his “magical” expertise.
Dear Reader,
I’ve been a professional performer for, well, let’s just say a long time. I admit, some of Evie’s adventures and tribulations are loosely based on my own experiences within the entertainment industry; however, she and all the featured characters are purely fictional. In kind, although I extensively researched con artists and scams, Chameleon and AIA are figments of my overactive imagination. Welcome to my world.
Anchors aweigh!
Beth Ciotta
Chapter One
IT FINALLY HAPPENED.
I, Evie Parish, snapped.
At an audition no less. Me, the ultimate professional. In front of several peers and a table of entertainment and marketing executives.
Bad enough I even had to audition.
I’d performed in this casino on a number of occasions throughout the years as a singer, an emcee, a dance motivator and a character actress. Not just this casino, but every casino in Atlantic City. I was known as the poor man’s Tracy Ullman. I had versatility out the wazoo. A stellar reputation. A kick-butt résumé. I had more experience in entertainment than any one of the six stony-faced executives who’d insisted upon this live demonstration.
I also had sequined bras older than any of the people deciding my fate.
It wasn’t their youth I resented. Okay. That’s a lie. It was their inability to afford the performer their respect and attention. In between memorizing the script that I’d been handed on arrival and checking for the umpteenth time to make sure my blush and lipstick hadn’t faded, I peeked out from the wings to gauge the reaction of the powers-that-be to the actress on deck. I watched those suits yawn, mumble and fidget through five seamless auditions. The only time they showed interest was during a giggly, stilted presentation from a big-breasted twentysomething-year-old. Granted, Britney was young, stacked and beautiful, but she was as green as the bagel I’d found this morning in the back of my fridge.
I traded a disgusted, knowing look with two friends who were also auditioning for this gig, both in their late thirties. Talented, experienced and equally ignored by the Gen-X execs. Nicole and Jayne were already slipping into day clothes and trading their heels for flats.
I should have cut my losses then and there and followed suit. I should have collected my purple fake fur coat and I Love Lucy travel tote and vacated the showroom in a dignified manner. But no. I was stubborn, desperate and, dammit, hopeful. Hopeful that they’d see something in me that they didn’t see in my friends. Hopeful that talent and experience would win out.
Talk about idealistic.
When my time came I strode onstage with confidence and grace wearing a turquoise bikini top, flowered sarong, three-inch heels and a dazzling smile. I hit my mark and launched into the poorly written promotion intended to wow casino patrons. Me, Evie Parish, a mild-mannered, small-breasted, fortysomething.
Normally I excel when reciting monologues and pitches. I can sell camp like Liza Minelli. Unfortunately, I was distracted by an overly loud conversation from the vicinity of the “judges” panel. I stopped midsentence. Did I mention that instead of reading off of the page like Britney, I’d memorized the copy? But I digress. No one instructed me to continue, so I didn’t. Instead, I shielded my eyes from the bright wash of the spotlight in order to pinpoint the commotion.
I’d endured a lot of humiliation in my twenty-five year career—including a crotchety patron yelling, “You suck!” three inches from my face while I was performing—but this took the cake. Instead of watching me, the executives were scanning a menu, arguing over what to order for lunch. Three of them, anyway. Another yapped on his cell phone, while the remaining two studied me with bored expressions.
For crying out loud!
Seething, I tugged at the hem of my midthigh sarong. Michael, my agent, who also happens to be my ex-husband—don’t ask—had told me the theme was tropical. Show some skin, he’d said. Then again he always says that.
“Should I wait?” I asked. “Start over? Pick up where I left off?” Go tell it on the mountain?
“Are you wearing bikini bottoms under that skirt?” This from the bored, clean-shaven man who looked young enough to be my…younger brother.
Certain I knew where this was leading, I shifted on my strappy heels and cocked a recently waxed, perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Yes.”
“Would you mind losing the sarong?” This from the bored woman sitting next to him. At least she knew it was a sarong.
My heart pounded with fury. The last several months, months of being rejected solely on my advancing age, weighed on my shoulders like an unlucky slot machine. “Yes, I mind.”
I heard a collective gasp from the wings. I knew without looking that Nicole and Jayne stood side by side, shocked by my defiance. I didn’t cause scenes. I was the calm one, the logical one, the one who sucked it up and took the high road no matter how low the blow.
Up until now, that is.
Now this final injustice compelled me to raise a verbal sword in defense of belittled entertainers everywhere!
I stepped out of the spotlight, allowed my eyes to adjust to the low-lighted house and gave thanks that this was a closed audition. No casino patrons to witness this humiliating debacle. No bartenders, cocktail waitresses, dealers or slot attendants to instigate gossip. Just the six executives and two stage technicians. Oh, and seven performers, including my two closest friends. I glanced toward the left wing and sure enough, Nicole, the rabble-rouser of our clique, was giving me a thumbs-up while Jayne’s horrified expression shouted, Are you mad?
“Mad as hell,” I thought, my inner voice mimicking the deranged anchorman from Network, “and I’m not going to take it anymore!”
In that same instant, the woman who’d asked me to remove my sarong said, “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Parish.”
Since a gigantic vaudevillian hook didn’t emerge from the sidelines to yank me off stage, I stood my ground. Hands trembling, I tucked my processed blond hair behind my ears and faced the enemy. “Look, I’m auditioning for the role of an emcee, not a beach bunny.” Amazingly, my tone did not betray my inner frustration. Then again, I am a damn good actress. Too bad I seemed to be the only one aware of that.
The entertainment coordinator—was she even twenty?—crossed her arms over her chest and angled her head. She didn’t look happy. “As an emcee you’d be representing this property, Mrs. Parish.”
She might as well have called me ma’am. I curled my French-manicured nails into my sweaty palms. “It’s Ms. Parish and I realize that, but—”
“What does specialty performer mean?” This from one of the marketing dudes.
My left eye twitched. I tried to wet my lips, but anxiety had robbed me of saliva. I clasped my trembling hands and twirled my funky chrysoprase ring—a gift from Jayne—around my middle finger. She claimed that the mint-green stone would ease emotional tension and stress. I’m beginning to think she bought me a clunker. Even though I knew full well that, for the sake of my untainted reputation, I should swallow my anger, sarcasm tripped off of my fat, bone-dry tongue. “Excuse me?”
“On your résumé it says specialty performer. What, like an exotic dancer?”
They snickered, turned to one another and traded unfunny quips like the local news reporters at the end of a broadcast. What’s up with that? Laughing heartily over something that wasn’t clever or funny to begin with.
As I stood there, white noise roaring in my ears, I flashed back on all of the times I—and a slew of other entertainers—had lost a gig because of an unenlightened directive from a higher-up bean counter. A person with no background whatsoever in entertainment. A person who hired and fired acts based on personal taste.
I know amazing female singers who’ve been passed over because a casino president deemed their hips too big. One even cited a vocalist’s ankles too thick. Can you imagine? Never mind that she sang her butt off. Did you even notice that the audience, your patrons, were thoroughly enjoying themselves, Mr. President? If the ankles bothered you that badly, what about suggesting she wear pants instead of a dress? Wouldn’t that be a simple, creative solution? But wait, you’re not creative. You’re not a visionary. And neither, I concluded sadly, were the execs seated in front of me.
Heart pumping, I hopped off the stage and approached the long table, demanding everyone’s attention with a shrill whistle. Career suicide, my logical self warned. Only I wasn’t listening to my logical self. I was listening to the injured woman who’d endured a particularly rough year, personally and professionally. There comes a time when a person needs to speak up, to demand common courtesy, respect, no matter the cost, and for me that time was now. Why I hadn’t felt this righteous urge when Michael had dumped me for another woman, I couldn’t say. Maybe I’d been too stunned, too hurt to speak up. But now I was angry. Angry and insulted and really, really pissed.
I climbed up on my soapbox. If this were a TV sitcom, patriotic music would swell in the background.
“Listen up, kids. On behalf of all the other women who auditioned today, we are professionals and expect to be treated as such. Secondly, although the harem girl and French maid costumes stored in my closet might be considered exotic and although I do dance, I am not, nor have I ever been, an exotic dancer. Those costumes, by the way, hang right alongside my fuzzy bumblebee fat-suit and mad scientist lab coat. It’s all part and parcel of being a character actress. Translation—an actress with excellent improvisational skills who can represent any given character on any given day at any given private or corporate themed party. And that’s just one of my God-given talents. I also sing and dance. Hence the term specialty performer.”
“Thank you, Ms. Parish. We’ll be in touch.”
That was it? That was the payoff to my heartfelt tirade? An expressionless don’t-call-us-we’ll-call-you?
I nodded. “Got it.”
Actually, I hadn’t. It was the second time I’d been dismissed and yet there I stood, trembling with fury…and fear. Life as I’d known it was fast swirling down the toilet. Again, I twirled the ring. “Just so you know, I’m perfect for this job.”
One of the young turks straightened his tie then coughed into his hand. “Yes. Well, thank you.”
I didn’t budge.
Twirl. Twirl.
The pubescent woman seated to his left drummed her fingers on a stack of résumés. “As a professional, I’m sure you understand that we’re looking to please our demographic. We’re looking for someone…”
“Younger?” I’d been getting a lot of that lately. Even my husband had opted for a newer model, literally. Oh, yeah. This gig was going to the giggly twentysomething. Youth over experience. Mammary glands over memory skills. “Someone with a bright smile and perky breasts?” I just wanted to be certain I understood the criteria.
The panel of execs looked at me with a collective “duh.”
That’s when I snapped. “As it happens, I have both.” In a moment of righteous insanity, I flashed a thousand-watt smile in tandem with my perky 32Bs.
Chapter Two
YOU’LL NEVER WORK IN this town again droned in my ears as I parked my used Subaru on Atlantic Avenue. I’d heard those words before, but this time, for the first time, I feared they might actually be true. I didn’t regret my tirade, just the actions. I’d bared my breasts in public. And for what? It’s not as if the execs were amused or impressed enough to give me the job. Nope. No Hollywood moment for me.
Instead they’d had security escort me off the premises, my girlfriends trotting behind, simultaneously applauding and bemoaning my spontaneous wardrobe malfunction. That’s when it occurred to me that my antics had probably been caught on film. Casinos are rampant with strategically placed security cameras. Great. Next, they’d be selling the video on QVC. Specialty Performers Gone Wild.
Talk about an opening line for tonight’s diary entry. Twenty years from now, I’d relive the moment, recorded in vibrant purple-penned detail, and laugh.
Or not.
Back in the parking garage, I’d begged off lunch—Bloody Marys—with the girls, claiming an appointment. As much as I loved them, and as much as they commiserated, panic and despair had me racing toward Michael. He’d put a positive spin on my moment of insanity. He’d salvage my career. At least that’s what I’d told myself, over and over, on the three-minute drive from the boardwalk casino to his midtown office.
I left my car and entered the turn-of-the-century brownstone, oblivious to the sights, sounds and smells of town. Though branded a seaside resort, Atlantic City falls miles short of paradise. In order to compete with Vegas, politicians and investors are revitalizing, but mostly it feels like too little too late. Even the Miss America Pageant skipped town. So much for tradition. The only recent addition worth celebrating was an impressive development of designer outlets that appealed to both tourists and locals. Not that I’ll ever shop again. Hard to shop without moolah and, as I stated before, chances are I’ll never work in this town again.
I climbed the stairs to the second floor and walked toward the door marked Michael Stone Entertainment, Inc. Before I could second-guess the wisdom of this visit, I let myself in. My stomach churned as I hovered on the threshold of Michael’s private office. I wondered if he’d heard about the incident.
I knocked lightly on the doorjamb, trying not to notice how handsome he looked in his dress shirt and power tie. Trying not to admire his new funky reading glasses—sexy—and the fact that he was wearing his sandy-brown hair shorter and his sideburns longer—also sexy. Noticing would only depress me. He was no longer mine to admire.
He glanced up from a file and motioned for me to take a seat. He was on the phone. He was always on the phone…or the Internet. He made the majority of his living wheeling and dealing with clients and buyers via modern technology. I assumed he wasn’t talking to the people I’d just flashed, otherwise he would’ve spared me more than a two-second glance.
He didn’t know yet.
I blew out a tense breath and sank down on the brown leather wing chair. I should break the news myself, beat the execs to the punch, make my excuses. I could hear Michael now. Yeah, right.
Convincing him that I’d bared my boobies in public was going to take some doing. Although I’ve worn my share of skimpy costumes in the past, in everyday life, real life, I’m preppy-trendy. Kind of a funky, contemporary Doris Day. Even in the privacy of my bedroom. Michael had never appreciated my preference for cartoon pajamas over lace teddies. Oh, yes. He was going to have a very hard time digesting the flashing incident. I was having a hard time with it myself.
He hung up the phone, keyed up a document on his computer. “How did the audition go, hon?” Michael’s pet name for all of his female artists, including his ex-wife.
My cheeks burned. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t get it.” I twirled the cosmic green ring, scuffed my bargain sandals back and forth over the carpet in a bid to warm my frozen toes. Forty-five degrees outside and here I sat in a bikini, sarong and opentoed shoes. Thank goodness for my knee-length furry coat.
I hugged my arms around my middle, looked everywhere but at Michael. I wanted to confess my sin. My fears. I wanted to crawl onto his lap, to cry on his shoulder, to lament the fact that I was washed up at forty-one. I wanted to smack him because he’d made it impossible to take comfort in his arms by divorcing me and taking up with a lingerie model half my age. Not that I’m bitter. Okay. That’s a lie. I’m bitter. But it’s something I’m trying very hard to conquer. After all, it’s not as if I still love him. I don’t.
I don’t.
I blinked back tears.
Michael cleared his throat and tapped a Cross pen on his cluttered desk. “You know, Evelyn, I’ve been thinking about taking on an associate.”
The fact that he called me Evelyn instead of Evie signaled we were entering uncomfortable territory. Evelyn is my given name, but only my mom and childhood friends call me that. And Michael…when he has something unpleasant to discuss.
I picked imaginary lint off my sleeve, fidgeted in my seat. I chose to pretend that he wasn’t considering me for the associate position. In the past, predivorce settlement, on those occasions when I hit an abnormally dry spell and gigs were nonexistent, I did have to work a day job, aka real job. Jobs that require right-brain skills. I did not excel at or enjoy any one of those normal jobs.
To this day the term nine-to-five makes my eye twitch and my stomach spasm. You can imagine all the twitching and spasming going on just now. I focused on relaxing my clenched jaw. I’ve been struggling with TMJ—Temporomandibular Joint Syndrome—for months. Stress related, my doctor said. Avoid stress. Riiiight. This moment I was wired tighter than a newly tuned piano.
Temples throbbing, I massaged the right side of my jaw and prayed it wouldn’t lock open when I spoke. I’d hit my quota of embarrassing moments this day, thank you very much. “That’s great, Michael. I guess that means business is jamming.” Not that he ever suffered slow periods, but he’d always operated solo with the exception of a secretary.
He pushed his trendy glasses up his nose, nodded. “I’m really swamped. You’re diplomatic, organized and friendly. You know the business inside and out. You’d make a damned good agent.”
To my credit, I refrained from shrieking in horror. In my mind’s eye he morphed into Darth Vader. Come to the dark side, Evie.
I shuddered. “I appreciate your praise and the job offer, but you know me and nine-to-fives.” Wow. He was right. I am diplomatic.
“Office hours are ten to six,” he said, as if that one-hour difference mattered. It was still eight regimented hours, five days a week, and entailed—ACK!—computer skills. “The job would be steady, hon, with potential for growth.”
He rattled off a few more perks. For all my twitching, I had to admit, he knew how to pitch an idea. Then again, Michael could sell a Speedo to an Eskimo. I frowned. “Don’t you think that Sasha would have a problem with us working together?” Sasha’s the twentysomething hard-body who took my place in his bed. “I mean on a day-to-day basis? Same office and all?”
“She knows there’s nothing between us.”
Ouch. Okay. We’ve been divorced for several months, separated even longer. But, still. Didn’t fifteen years of amiable bliss count for anything?
The phone rang.
He mouthed an apology and snatched up the receiver. At this point I didn’t care if it was the corporate yahoos calling to report the incident. I needed a moment to recover from that zinger and to collect my thoughts.
Logically, I knew that Michael thought he was doing me a favor by offering me a job within my field. A job where I could make good money, steady money, if I learned to play both sides of the fence. There was definite longevity on the business side of entertainment and I couldn’t eke out a living by dipping into the proceeds from the sale of our house forever. But instead of doing me a favor, it felt as if he was putting me out to pasture.
I could feel my arteries hardening and the grey hairs sprouting.
My lungs constricted to the size of lima beans.
He hung up the phone, straightened his tie and glanced at his watch. Since he was wearing a suit I assumed he had an impending meeting with a client. Before he could dismiss me, I sucked air into my bean-size lungs and made a last-ditch effort. “I heard through the grapevine that Tropicana is starting up a costumed greeter program.”
He set his open briefcase on his cluttered desk. “Yeah, I got a call a couple of days ago. They’re looking for attractive, animated women who can interact easily with guests while providing information on sweepstakes, slot tournaments…you know.”
Yeah, I knew. That was the point.
“They’re looking for someone exactly like you.” He tossed three files and a bottle of Tylenol into his briefcase. “Only younger.”
He latched shut his case and glanced up, meeting my steady, albeit hurt, gaze. A slight grimace indicated he’d just realized how that sounded. The phone rang, saving us both from addressing what he’d been skirting.
My age.
“Pam, slow down,” he said into the mouthpiece as I massaged a sudden, crushing ache in my chest. “I can’t understand you. Calm down, hon. Take a breath.”
Was he talking to Pam or me? Sweat beaded on my forehead and my fingers tingled. What, I wondered, did a heart attack feel like? I was certainly old enough to have one. Actor John Candy keeled over at forty-four. Okay, he had weight issues, but still.