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“No. My husband is in meetings until this afternoon. Would you like to join me?”
Looking pleased, Ingrid nodded and eagerly pulled out the other chair. “Guess what I've been doing this morning.”
Though B.J. was surprised by the other woman's chatty manner, she played along. “Practicing your singing?”
“Yes. The band in the lounge helped me work up a set-three songs. I'm going back to practice again after their lunch break, just to make sure everything will be perfect tonight.”
“I'm sure you'll be wonderful,” B.J. said, though she was sure of no such thing. For all she knew, Ingrid had a voice like a frog.
Drake certainly hadn't seemed enthused about giving her a gig in the lounge, but that could well have nothing to do with her talent. More likely, he preferred his women to stay quietly by his side, looking pretty and warming his bed without drawing too much attention to themselves.
“I'm a little nervous,” Ingrid confided, accepting a glass of iced mint tea from a server with a smile of thanks.
“That's understandable. Aren't you going to order lunch?”
Though she looked a bit wistfully at the basket of bread, Ingrid shook her head. “I never eat before I perform. I just came here for a glass of tea.”
She didn't look as though she ate much, period. B.J. was naturally slim herself, but she could tell when a woman stayed thin by depriving herself as Ingrid, with her natural curves, apparently did.
Giving the bread basket a little push, she said casually, “At least have a little bread. You need something to give you the energy for a dynamite performance tonight.”
“Maybe just a bite.” Ingrid plucked a slice from the well-filled basket and then, apparently deciding it wouldn't hurt to embellish it a bit, spread a thin layer of honey butter on top.
Watching in satisfaction, B.J. distracted her by asking, “You said you're nervous about your performance tonight. Is this your first time to perform in public?”
“Oh, no. I've been in lots of beauty pageants, and singing was always my talent. I was first runner-up in the Miss Minnesota pageant two years ago. I should have won, but the winner founded some sort of charity for underprivileged kids and the judges made a big deal out of her, like she was Mother Teresa or somebody.
“Anyway,” she added, shaking off a scowl, “I'm nervous because it's been a while since I've sung with a real band and everything. And I know Judson didn't really want me to sing here, so I want to do an especially good job and make him realize he was wrong about my talent.”
“Have you and Mr. Drake been seeing each other long?”
“Oh, we aren't really seeing each other, if you know what I mean. We met at a big party a few months ago, and I've been sort of staying with him since.
“He told me he would hel
p me with my career,” she added with a renewed flash of bitterness. “So far all he's done is line up a couple of modeling gigs to keep me busy when he's off traveling. Probably has other women everywhere he goes—and he probably makes big promises to them, too.”
B.J. noted that Ingrid seemed more annoyed by the lack of career opportunities than the fact that Drake was seeing other women. “Have another slice of bread.”
Ingrid took another slice without seeming to notice what she was doing. “Your husband is really good-looking. Nice, too. He's always been real polite to me, without ever getting weird about it, you know?”
Since B.J. couldn't say the same about Drake, she merely smiled.
“How long have you been married?”
“Two years.”
“No kids?”
“No.” B.J. made an effort to look sad again. “I had a miscarriage last fall. We're still trying, but no luck yet.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“It's okay.” B.J. was particularly uncomfortable with this part of the story she had been instructed to give.
“I'm sure you'll have a kid soon,” Ingrid offered encouragingly. “And I bet it's fun trying, right? After all, you're married to a hunk, and he's obviously crazy about you.”
Rather amused by Ingrid's awkward effort to make her feel better—something the other woman obviously didn't have much experience with—B.J. smiled. “He is a hunk, isn't he?”
