When they stopped laughing, Marci said, "Okay, my giving the local guys an interview didn't do the trick. What the hell – whaddaya say we stop trying to unring the bell and have fun with this thing?"
"De Wynter is running the idea of free national publicity by the suits upstairs," Jaine said.
"Like they won't fall on this like a starving woman on a chocolate bar?" T.J. scoffed. "I'm with Marci. Let's punch up the list and really have some fun with it; you know, add some items to it, expand on our discussions and explanations."
David and Shelley were going to have cows, Jaine thought. Well, they probably needed the milk. "What the hell," she said.
"What the hell," Luna seconded.
They looked at each other, grinned, and Marci whipped out her pen and pad. "We might as well get started, give them a story worth printing."
T.J. gave a rueful shake of her head. "This will really bring the crazies out of the woodwork. Did any of you get any weird calls last night? Some guy – I think it was a guy, could have been a woman – whispered, 'Which one are you?' He wanted to know if I was Ms. A."
Luna looked startled. "Oh, I got one of those. And a couple of hang-ups that I thought might be him again. But you're right; the way he was whispering, you couldn't really tell if it was a man or a woman."
"I had about five hang-ups on my answering machine," Jaine said. "I had the phone turned off."
"I went out," Marci said. "And Brick threw the answering machine against the wall, so I'm temporarily messageless. I'll pick up a new one on the way home this afternoon."
"So probably all four of us got calls from the same guy" Jaine said, feeling a little uneasy and grateful that she had a cop living next door.
T.J. shrugged and grinned. "The price of fame," she said.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Jaine grumbled to herself all the way home, though she did remember to stop at the clinic and pick up a three- month supply of birth control pills. Upper management had decided that milking the situation for all the publicity they could was nothing but good, and things had happened fast after that. On behalf of the others she had accepted an interview on Good Morning America, though why a morning news show would be interested when it obviously couldn't get into the racier items on the list, she couldn't fathom. Maybe it was nothing more than network one- upmanship at work. She could understand the print organizations being interested – say, Cosmopolitan, or even one of the men's monthlies. But what could People print, other than a personal slant about the four of them and the impact the list had made on their lives? Evidently sex sold even when it couldn't be discussed. The four of them were supposed to go to the ABC affiliate there in Detroit at the supposedly reasonable hour of four A.M. and the interview would be taped. They were to be dressed, coifed, and mascaraed before they arrived. An ABC correspondent, not Diane or Charlie, was flying to Detroit to conduct the interview, rather than have them sit on an empty set with tiny plugs in their ears, talking to the air while someone back in New York asked the questions. Having an actual live person doing the interviewing was evidently a great honor. Jaine tried to feel honored, but merely felt tired in anticipation of having to get up at two A.M. in order to dress, coif, and mascara herself. There was no brown Pontiac in the driveway next door, no sign of life in the house.
Bummer.
BooBoo had cushion stuffing clinging to his whiskers when he greeted her. Jaine didn't even bother to glance into the living room. The only thing she could do at this point to protect what was left of her sofa was close the door so he couldn't get into the living room, but then he would transfer his frustration to some other piece of furniture. The sofa already had to be repaired; let him have it. A sudden suspicious feeling and a trip to the bathroom told her that her period had arrived, right on schedule. She heaved a sigh of relief. She was safe from her inexplicable weakness for Sam for a few days now. Maybe she should also give up shaving her legs; no way would she embark on an affair with bristly legs. She wanted to hold him off for at least a couple more weeks, just to frustrate him. She liked the idea of Sam being frustrated.
Going into the kitchen, she peered out the window. Still no brown Pontiac, though she supposed he could be driving his truck as he had yesterday. The curtains were closed on his kitchen window.
It was difficult to frustrate a man who wasn't there. A car pulled into her driveway, parked behind the Viper. Two people got out, a man and a woman. The man had a camera slung around his neck and carried a variety of bags. The woman carried a tote bag and was wearing a blazer despite the heat.
There was no point in trying to evade any more reporters, but no way was she allowing anyone in her stuffing-strewn living room. Going to the kitchen door, she opened it and stepped onto the porch. "Come in," she said tiredly. "Would you like some coffee? I was just about to make a fresh pot."
Corin stared at the face in the mirror. Sometimes he disappeared for weeks, months, but there he was again in the reflection, as if he had never left. He hadn't been able to work today, afraid of what would happen if he saw them in the flesh. The four bitches. How dare they make fun of him, taunt him with their List? Who did they think they were? They didn't think he was perfect, but he knew better.
After all, his mother had trained him.
Galan was at home when T.J. arrived. For a moment her stomach knotted with nausea, but she didn't allow herself to hesitate. Her self-respect was on the line. She lowered the garage door and entered the house through the mudroom, as always. The mudroom opened into the kitchen, her beautiful kitchen, with its white cabinets and appliances and gleaming copper pots hanging on the rack over the center island. Her kitchen was right out of a decorator's book, and it was her favorite room in the entire house – not because she liked cooking, but because she loved the ambience. There was a small alcove full of ferns and herbs and small blooming flowers, filling the air with freshness and perfume. She had snuggled two easy chairs and a table into the alcove, plus an overstuffed footstool for weary feet and tired legs. The alcove was mostly glazed glass, letting in plenty of light but repelling the heat and cold. She loved to curl up there with a good book and a hot cup of tea, especially during the winter when outside the ground was blanketed in snow but inside she was all snug and comfortable, surrounded by her perpetual garden.