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"No, ma'am. I mean because this is Cobb Hartley we're dealing with. We've blocked off access to the ICU, and no one will be permitted on or off the floor without a higher level of clearance and security than normal."
"Oh," Marigold says, blinking rapidly. She knows this is where she should express her gratitude for this level of confidentiality and care. "Thank you so much. I'll have them call you when I get there."
"See you soon," William Masters says, ending the call.
Marigold's knees are quaking uncontrollably, and her teeth begin to chatter. This physical response reminds her of what it felt like to come out of the water at the beach as a kid and to be so cold that her body would tremble against her will. She can't make herself stop shaking.
"Hey, Goldie," Jagger says gently, coming forward and reaching out for her. "What's going on?"
Everyone else on set remains exactly where they are, even Bennett James, whose annoyance has turned into silent contemplation.
"It's Cobb," she says, although everyone has heard her end of the phone call. "He's in the hospital--in the ICU."
There is a sharp intake of breath from all around the studio. Bennett is the first to speak.
"Someone call her a cab, but tell them to pick her up in an hour."
Marigold's eyes fly to Bennett's face and she looks at him with disbelief. "But--"
"There is nobut," Bennett says. "The client is paying you more money for this one shoot than my brother makes in a year as a policeman in Hartford."
"Bennett," Marigold protests. "Cobb is in the hospital. He needs me. Tell the client I don't care about their money."
Again, there is a sharp intake of breath from the various assistants, interns, stylists, and the makeup artist. No one can believe that a model as young as Marigold would simply "not care" about making thirty thousand dollars in one afternoon. This is a gargantuan fee for a model to charge, even considering the chunk that will go to her agency for their commission. This is enough money to impress anyone in the industry. This is supermodel money.
Bennett looks up from the spot on the floor that he's been focusing on for most of this conversation. "If you leave now, you're committing career suicide, Goldie. No one will book you." The studio has gone silent, the music turned down to the lowest volume so that Sinead O'Connor is nearly whispering "Nothing Compares 2 U."
Marigold makes the decision without even a moment's hesitation. She carefully steps out of her five-inch heels and leaves them standing side by side on the painted concrete floor, but even without them, she still towers over nearly everyone else on set.
"Then I guess I'll have to go back to pouring coffee and paying my bills with the tips I get for making a decent cup of java." She gives Bennett one long look and then walks across the cold floor in just her fishnet stockings, leaving everyone on set staring after her.
Marigold takes off the Thierry Mugler black underwear set and hangs them carefully on the rack in the dressing room, but doesn't stop to wipe off her makeup or tamp down her inflated hair. Instead, she buttons her own white men's shirt over a pair of frayed 501s and tugs on her black snakeskin cowboy boots in a hurry, then she slips out the side door and down a set of metal stairs that shake and make a metallic clang with every single footstep as she descends them at top speed.
She'll get to Cobb as quickly as she can. Nothing can keep her away from the man she loves with all her heart when he needs her, not even the promise of a huge payday or the threat of losing it all.
And who cares, anyway?she thinks. The heavy steel door bangs against the wall as she exits the building and ends up on a street full of dock workers and men dressed for hard physical labor, all of whom look her way curiously and with open appreciation.I'm dating Cobb Hartley. I won't need to go back to pouring coffee, I can just be a rockstar's girlfriend.
The sky above is slate gray and threatening to dump rain like its going out of style. Marigold looks back and forth, dismayed by the lack of cabs or any type of public transport. She's about to give up and ask one of the men in overalls or Carhartt work clothes if they'll give her a lift back to midtown when a tiny Volkswagen Bug pulls up beside her, its engine idling loudly. The driver leans over and opens the door, looking up at her as she stands on the sidewalk.
"Need a lift?" It's Jagger, the stylist, and he's got a smirk of admiration on his face. "No one walks out on Bennett James, and I gotta hand it to you, Goldie, he wasn't expecting a twenty-year-old model to tell him off." Marigold cringes at this. "But girl, listen--he had it coming. Now get in."
Marigold looks up the street one last time as a gust of wind blows her hair and lifts the hem of her button-up shirt. She tosses her leather bag into the backseat of Jagger's Bug and climbs in.
"New York-Presbyterian," she says hurriedly, buckling her seat belt. "I just need to get to Cobb."
* * *
The floors of the hallways shine and reflect the fluorescent lights overhead. From the various ICU rooms come beeps and ticks: the sounds of machines keeping fragile beings alive. The elevators make a muffleddingfrom beyond the locked doors each time someone arrives on the floor.
Marigold rushes up to the nurses' station on the heels of William Masters, who met her in the lobby when she arrived, as promised.
"Checking in for Mr. Hartley's room," William Masters says to the nurse on duty. She glances up from her stack of files, looking tired. When her eyes land on Marigold, she visibly changes.
"Oh," she says, looking flustered. "Please sign in here." She pushes a clipboard and pen across the tall desk, staring at Marigold.
Whether the long look is in response to the absolutely over-the-top hair and makeup, or to the fact that Marigold is a well-known model at this point, she isn't sure. But either way, Marigold smiles at her politely, signing her name on the sheet and passing the clipboard back.
"This way," William says, guiding Marigold down the hall.
