The delivery guy scans the room, his gaze stopping on me. For that matter, everyone’s eyes are now on me. The delivery guy glances down at a piece of paper, then boogies over. “Nikki Fairchild?” he asks, a little too loudly, presumably so he can hear his own voice over whatever he’s jamming to.
“Thank you,” I say as he puts the flowers down and strolls out, shimmying in time to whatever tunes are blaring through his earbuds. Around me, the other customers flash quick smiles, then return to whatever they were doing. One girl, a few years older than me with a pixie face and fabulous auburn curls, mouths nice before turning back to the screenplay that is open on the table in front of her. I totally agree.
“Wow,” Lisa says, sliding back into her seat.
“Damien is all about the wow-factor,” I say with a grin. I pull out the card, then smile even broader when I read it.
Tonight I’ll show you just how much a woman with her own business turns me on. Until then, imagine me, touching you. -D
“So now that I’ve told half the world I have an office,” I say, “I guess we ought to do the paperwork.” She and I spend the next hour going over the lease and also over some basic business information that Lisa shares with her clients. She gives me a few recommendations for attorneys who can advise me about incorporation, but also concedes that I might just want to ask Damien.
“Not to be crude,” she says. “But you’re sleeping with the best business resource around. Take advantage of it.”
“Oh, I fully intend to,” I say, with just enough of a leer that we both start laughing. Yeah, I think, Lisa and I are going to be friends.
As if to illustrate the point, she tells me that the restaurant two doors down has an amazing happy hour. “Want to check it out next week? You can tell me all about your first few days among the self-employed. Or, hell, drag along your roommate and we’ll talk about men. I’m engaged, but that doesn’t mean I can’t dish.”
I laugh. “It’s a date.”
“Excellent.” She stands and hooks her briefcase over her arm. “I’ve got to go meet a client. You walking back or hanging out?”
“I’m going to finish my coffee and make some notes while all this is fresh on my mind,” I say, indicating the folio. I don’t tell her that I’m seriously considering a second coffee before I head back to the office. After last night—both the good and the bad—I’m operating on very little sleep.
As soon as she leaves, I scoot my chair over a bit so that the walkway between my table and the next isn’t quite so crowded. As I do, I catch the eye of the auburn-haired woman I noticed earlier. Her finger marks a page in her script, and she is looking my way, her brown eyes fixed unabashedly on me. I shift uncomfortably and turn sideways, trying to focus on the folio that is open in front of me.
A moment later I hear the chair across from me scrape the floor and look up to find the woman taking a seat at my table. “I really don’t mean to be a huge pest,” she says in a voice that is crisp and precise, making me think of the Northeast and prep schools. “But it’s driving me crazy. I know you from somewhere and I can’t figure it out.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t think so.” I don’t bother to tell her that I get this a lot. It comes with the whole Golden Girl of the Tabloids thing.
“Are you sure? You look so familiar. I’m Monica, by the way. Monica Karts.” She eyes me hopefully, then frowns. “Doesn’t ring any bells, huh?”
“Sorry,” I say. I start to gather my things, my Polite Nikki smile on my face. My mother may have tormented me through most of my youth, but she also drilled good manners into my head. “I probably just have one of those faces,” I say with a smile. “But it was lovely to talk to you.”
“Oh, hell,” she says. “My agent is always telling me I come on too strong.” She pushes the chair back and moves to her table. “Sorry if I bugged you. You don’t have to leave. I need to get back to this anyway. Audition’s this afternoon.”
“You didn’t run me off,” I lie. “I just need to get back to my office.” Just saying that gives me a little trill of pleasure. My office. Seriously, how cool is that? “Good luck with your audition,” I add as I gather my things, and am surprised to find that I mean it. She has a bubbly personality that reminds me of Jamie. Besides, I’m in a pretty good mood.
Since I’m carting a flower arrangement, I decide to blow off the second coffee. I’m almost to the door when I hear Monica call out, “Jamie Archer.”
I turn. “You know Jamie?”
“Weren’t you at The Rooftop bar about a month ago with her? One of Garreth Todd’s parties?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Well, so was I!” She says it in the kind of excited tone I’d expect if we’d both just pledged the same sorority.
“So you’re a friend of Jamie’s?”
She waves her hand in dismissal. “I barely know her. But I was at an audition with her once, and I remember seeing her there. And you, too. But I think I’m mostly remembering you from the newspapers.”
“Great,” I say dryly.
“That stuff they said about you was shit,” she says earnestly. “Except the part about a reality show. If that’s true you should totally take it and make as much money as you can and tell them all to go to hell.”
I laugh, because as much as I do not want a reality show, telling them all to go to hell sounds like a grand plan.