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If only Jean-Phillipe were here. She could say anything to him, that the blonde in silver sequins looked as if she'd had cantaloupes implanted in her breasts, that the fat German playwright over near the bar seemed to have put his hairpiece on backwards. But Jean-Phillipe was on the Cote d'Azur. He'd been there all week. His movie had wrapped, as expected, but the director had decided he needed to re-shoot the ending.
"I am sorry, cherie," he'd said, "but it cannot be helped, tu comprends?"
Of course, she understood. And there was no good reason he had to be here with her. She knew practically everybody in the crowd and the ones she didn't know would inevitably trip over themselves to impress her, like Brian what's-his-name, who'd managed to box her neatly into a corner.
What was it, then? What was getting her down? Because something certainly was. She couldn't relax and just have a good time.
Conor O'Neil, she thought suddenly, that's what it was. She hadn't spotted him yet; she might even have escaped him by dressing at Nita's but it didn't matter because here she was, on edge anyway, looking around and knowing, just knowing, that he was going to appear any minute and put a damper on things.
That's what a week's worth of having him hovering over her had accomplished.
She'd phoned Eva, as she'd promised she'd do, and they'd had a stilted, five-minute conversation during which Eva had assured her that O'Neil was, indeed, in her employ.
"Accept his presence, Miranda," Eva had said coldly.
She had, the way you accept a necessary evil, but after a couple of days, the awful impact of the note and the picture had begun to fade. She'd thought back to the stuff she'd heard over the years, the weird notes and gifts that some of the other girls had received. Yes, what had been tucked beneath her door had been nasty but it hadn't been lethal.
Besides, she'd grown tired of having O'Neil around. He made her feel uncomfortable. She couldn't lead any kind of life with a silent but glowering stranger following at her heels like a suspicious rottweiler.
A couple of mornings ago, she'd sailed out of her apartment building and gone straight to where he stood waiting for her across the street.
"Don't you have anything better to do than follow me?"
He hadn't answered or even acknowledged her presence, which had only made her angrier.
"Go home, O'Neil," she said, "and tell Eva thanks but no thanks. I don't want your services."
She'd headed for the Metro and he, damn him, had fallen in behind her.
She tried losing him there, waiting till the last second to exit the subway car, then racing for the exit—but he made it out the door and after her, just in time. She took a taxi to Versailles, stuffed herself into a huge group of American tourists—and found O'Neil wandering alongside. She strolled into her favorite bistro, dashed madly through the kitchen and exited by the rear door—and found him leaning against a wall in the alley.
He was like the poem Hoyt used to read her when she was little, the one about having a shadow that followed you about.
No matter what she did, where she went, Conor was always there. And even when he wasn't, like right now, he occupied her thoughts so that she had no idea what in heaven's name the man from the modeling agency had just finished telling her. Whatever it was, he was waiting for her response.
"So, what do you think?" he said. "Sounds like a good deal, doesn't it?"
Miranda cleared her throat. "Well, Brian, I don't really know what to say."
"Just say yes. I don't want to be pushy but hey, we both know you've got to make the jump soon or forget about it." He smiled, his teeth an artificial flash of fish-belly white against his sunlamp tan. "We don't want to lose our chance at the Big Apple, do we? Trust me, dear, I know what I'm talking about. Not to be immodest, but I only book for the top girls."
The crowded room was warm. Brian's smile was unctuous and her twitching nostrils told her he must have dumped half a bottle of cologne over his head before coming here tonight.
Help, Miranda thought desperately and at that moment, a hand closed around her arm. Her skin tingled, and she looked up.
"Conor," she started to say...
But it wasn't Conor who'd come to her rescue, it was—it was...
"How lovely you look tonight, Miranda."
It was the man she'd met at the party after the Diderot showing. What was his name?
"Hello," she said, and gave him a glowing smile. "How are you?"
"Miranda." The man from the agency frowned and dipped his head to hers. "I was hoping we could go someplace quiet and talk. A late supper, maybe, or a drink."
"Thank you, Brian, but really—"
