I make it through the week in relatively good shape. Of course, I have help. On Monday I receive two dozen long-stemmed roses. On Tuesday, a case of the wine I’d liked while at his house arrives. Fed Ex delivers a package on Wednesday with a CD he’d burned with songs he thought I might enjoy, and Thursday a gorgeous little black dress and black lace lingerie are delivered. The shelf bra is scandalous—it barely covers the girls. Still, when I try it on I have to admit it’s sizzlingly hot.
Mariah can’t help but notice Ian’s attention. This is so not good.
“Ella, looks like someone is smitten. Doesn’t it now?”
I don’t care for the scrutinizing look she gives me. “I suppose he enjoyed my company last weekend?”
“Uh-huh. Not just last weekend, either. He did come looking for you right after you left for London last year and I could see some serious panic in his eyes when I told him you’d left the country. You didn’t say fare thee well to him before you flew across the pond?”
Now I’m feeling desperate. Mariah’s no dummy. She can so easily figure out that my little fiction book is actually nonfiction if she makes some very simple connections—especially now that she knows that Ian is a member of that stupid BDSM club. Damn, but I should have seen this coming—preferably before I wrote the stupid book. I have to do damage control and fast.
“Um,” I say, my thoughts frantically cobbling together a response, “we only dated once or twice and I realized he was just miles out of my league. The fellowship award came and I kind of just booked. I’m sure I left a message with his assistant. No biggie.” I force myself to casually shrug.
She gives me a skeptical look. Uh-oh. “Really? I wonder why he came running over here looking for you then? Maybe she screwed up and didn’t give him your message?”
“Yeah,” I say, looking down so she won’t see my telltale lying face, “that must have been it.” I make a show of glancing at my watch. “Oh, shoot! Look at the time! I have an appointment in less than twenty minutes. I better fly. See you later, Mariah.”
I’m not sure I dodged that bullet but there’s nothing to be done about it. If she knows, she knows. I recall Stephen’s words to me about the story having identifiable details even if I didn’t realize it. He was surely right.
Here’s what happens on Friday: at seven a.m. I get a call from a man named Lucien Phillips. My friend Lara in L.A. gave him my number when he mentioned to her he was looking for someone to work with him on his documentary film on the women of famed artists of the early to mid twentieth century. His project is still in early stages of compiling research and taping subject interviews. He was so happy to reach me so quickly, he says.
“I’m leaving for Paris tomorrow evening, Ella, and I really need someone here to keep working on the research and possibly shoot an interview or two. Is there any way you can get to New York before tomorrow afternoon to meet with me?”
“Uh, I suppose I could do that.” The voice in my head is screaming, No, No, No. You’re going to be with Ian this weekend. But I hear the sensible girl looking for something worthwhile to do with her life agree to get to New York by tonight.
“Excellent, Ella! I’m really looking forward. Call me as soon as you get to the city, no matter the time and we’ll set up a meet. I have a good feeling about this partnership—it’s going to work. We’ll talk soon.”
I flop down on Mariah’s sofa, wondering how best to handle this situation. Ian will be displeased. More important to me, he’ll be disappointed—as I am. Then a thought occurs to me: perhaps he can come with? We could have a weekend in New York together. I decide to call him.
And that’s the precise moment I realize he never gave me his cell phone number. I used to have it but I don’t anymore. Glancing at the clock I see it’s just after eight. A bit early for him to be at the office so I use the next hour to make my travel arrangements and pack a bag for the trip. My flight leaves at noon and I need to be at the airport by ten so I jump in the shower, write a note for Mariah, and by 9:15 I’m in a taxi on my way to the airport. I pull out my phone and call Ian’s office. His admin picks up his line.
“I’m sorry. Mr. Blackmon is not in the office today.” A crisp, professional voice informs me.
“I see. Do you know when he’ll be in?”
“Mr. Blackmon will be away most of the day, I’m afraid. May I take a message?”
“Uh, it would probably be best if I left my message on his voice mail…”