Chasing Stars (16 page)

“Wow, I’ve died and gone to baby heaven.” Who would have thought they had designer lines for babies. No wonder women learn early in life to slave ourselves for beauty and fashion. The process begins in the cradle.

I know it is going to sound weird, but when I see baby things, for a moment, maternity doesn’t seem like such a horrendous thought.

After purchasing the clothing for Chloe, I visit Tiffany’s to purchase a final gift. When I glance at my watch, I am disappointed that it is only noon and time is dragging. I add a little hatred to my arsenal of nasty feelings toward Ray. Because of him, I have to shop alone, which takes away half the fun.

Tonight I will film a skyscraper sunset scene, so I am not due at work until later.

Without my explicit consent, I catch myself wishing I could return to Will’s place. In sync with my reverie, my cell buzzes, and a text message from an unknown number awaits me. I know it is Will. I smile, remembering this morning when he asked me for my number. He seemed a little insecure, which I thought was cute, in a very teenager kind of way.

Will:
Hey, baby. Now you have my # too.

Me:
Thanks

I want to leave it at that. My conversation with Niki is still swirling in my mind. This is the defining moment where I should discard my flourishing desire to pursue his eyes’ secretive and unknown promises. But in spite of my better sense, my fingers type.

Me:
Want to have a late lunch and go to film set with me?

Will:
Sure. Have nothing for this p.m. anyway.

Me:
Meet me @ 1?

I forward my dad’s address.

Will:
;0

Again, I swoon at the simple fact that in a little while, Will’s arms will surround me.

Oh well, distractions should not be dull, right?

My hand is midair and reaching for the door’s polished copper handle when, magically, a white-gloved concierge opens the tall iron-wrought doors. He politely inquires, “May I be of any assistance?” Pathetically, I give him my first and last name and then I mumble, “Will,” which brings awareness to his decorous face.

“Right this way, sir. Miss McGee is expecting you.”

That’s exactly how it happened, and those were exactly his words, honest truth. I thought things like this only existed in movies from the turn of the century.

After crossing a luxurious reception, he ushers me into the elevator, and pushes a key on the panel. He offers a restrained nod and retreats, granting me solitude on the gilded elevator.

With a snobby ding, the doors part at the top floor and I step into a vast foyer leading to an open living room with a dramatically high ceiling space. The room is sophisticated with a modern design. A black grand piano faces the floor to ceiling window that offers a breathtaking view of Central Park.

Before I take another step, a woman in a formal black-and-white uniform materializes before me. Seriously? Servants to the wealthy must have some sort of mental powers.

“Please, make yourself comfortable. Miss Portia will be right with you,” she informs me through her thick accent. “Can I offer you something while you wait?”

“No, thank you.”

She disappears into the imposing apartment. I rub my hands against my jeans, and stride across the room, examining some of the sculptures. I recognize a few pieces—tasteful, expensive, and rare. I examine the paintings on display, in awe of the peculiar and extravagant collection. Wow. I am not in Kansas anymore.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” I turn in time for Portia to throw her arms around my neck.

“Hey, beautiful.” I kiss her full lips. “Some place you got here.” I enlace her waist with my arms.

“Do you like it? Priscilla just had it redecorated.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Unbelievable artwork, I can’t believe you have a Botticelli.” I point to the piece.

“My dad spent years in pursuit of an original. He acquired this piece for
a bargain
of 13 million at an auction.” She shrugs. “It was an anniversary gift. Priscilla is fascinated by Early Renaissance art. You two would have lots to talk about.”

Is Botticelli my favorite artist? No, not really. But it is unfathomable how, over five hundred years after someone splatters paint on a canvas, the work still holds people’s interest.

Portia gives me a brief tour of the astounding penthouse and we go to the kitchen where we will have lunch. Portia introduces me to Estela, who, after a while, speaks more casually to us. The food is delicious and, though I don’t care that we are eating in, Portia apologizes and explains the hazards of eating out. Paparazzi and all.

After lunch, we go to her room. From her bed, I see Central Park and it gives the illusion that if I reach out the window I can touch the green canopy of trees. I sit on her bed and pull her to my lap.

“Are you close with your sisters?” I ask.

“No.” She pauses. “Priscilla takes them to The Hamptons whenever I come home.”

“You don’t get along?” I ask.

“I think we would, if we ever interacted. I don’t think Priscilla dislikes me, but since Caroline was born, she avoids me.” She shrugs. “She just doesn’t think I am a suitable companion for her daughters.”

“But they are your sisters.”

Portia slides from my lap to her bed, resting her head on my thighs.

“She is from a very traditional family in Manhattan.” She glances at me and her lips offer a sad smile.

“Why did your parents divorce?”

“No special reason. Incompatibility, I guess.”

“It must be hard to grow up bouncing around between divorced parents.”

“They were OK. Mom kept me year-round, and I spent my summer vacations here.” She closes her eyes. “That’s the only time they ever had a disagreement.”

My fingers run through her hair. “Over who kept you for the summer?” I ask idly.

“Yeah, neither one had the availability. My mom always won the argument and Dad was stuck with me.” She opens her big blue eyes. “But right after the boarding school experience, I put my foot down, and my time here became restricted to two weeks out of the year.”

My hand halts, I recognize in her voice, the familiar pain of rejection. I look down and notice her eyes are devoid of any trace of sadness, just a hollow stare. It’s difficult to describe.

At the filming location, I sit on a tall chair and watch Portia. The orange hue from the sunset tints her alabaster skin. She is in her element, surrounded by the incredible world of hers. I wonder how she took notice of me. Every detail of her life and of mine intensifies the abyss between us.

I think of her dating reputation, wonder why we are together for two consecutive days, and recognize that she is way out of my league. The thought is daunting, since I really have enjoyed being with her.

Her lips are glued to Jason’s as she kisses her costar for the seventh time. I hate the way the asshole spreads his hands over her, even though I know better.

The sun is almost fully hidden behind the Manhattan skyline, which will end the filming.

She is in her glory, and I can’t help but admire her most incredible beauty. I think about
The Merchant of Venice
where, in order to marry the heroine Portia, potential suitors had to choose the right casket containing her portrait. Yeah, I reread the Shakespeare’s play. Judge me if you will. And, yes, it scares the shit out of me that I may choose the wrong casket.

OK, I am being melodramatic. Screw it, but I am extremely insecure regarding this woman.

Lights, reflectors, and microphones surround Portia and Jason. The director, pacing from side to side, barks orders at the crew after the cameras capture another kiss.

“Enjoying the filming?” Stefan hands me a Starbucks coffee along with packets of sugar and cream.

“This is great. Thanks, man.”

“They will be done soon.” He smiles, a line of tiredness appears on his face.

“Yeah, who would have thought a twenty-second kiss took so many takes, huh?” I taste the coffee.

“Welcome to the shallow world of Hollywood.” He grins and then sips from his Starbucks’ cup.

I smile at him. “Granted that they make more money in one day than most people makes in a lifetime, they work their asses off,” I reply.

A gush of anger runs up my spine, spreading tension to my shoulders, when Portia’s costar smirks at me before fondling her ass.

“I can testify that our girl is as hard a worker as it gets,” he nods toward Portia.

“Can this be done already?” I cringe when the dude sticks his tongue down Portia’s throat for the eighth time, not that I am keeping tabs.

“Jason is trying to antagonize you. C’mon man, don’t let the ass crawl under your skin.” I hear in Stefan’s voice a dislike of the actor.

“Is it going to be much longer?” I ask, glancing at my watch.

“It will be over in a few. The director wants it to be perfect. This is the very first love scene in the movie. If he is unsatisfied, they will have retakes tomorrow,” he looks at me. “Will, I like you.”

“Well, thanks, I guess,” I reply, unsure.

“Be careful, though. Portia is not the frivolous person she leads people to think. Underneath the shallow persona hides a sensitive and caring woman.” Stefan looks at her adoringly.

“Whoa, we are just getting to know each other.” I raise my hand, defensively.

“No shit. In almost ten years together, I haven’t seen her glance at anyone more than once. Just don’t hurt her,” he says.

I am pissed at him for getting in my business with Portia, but I see genuine concern in his expression. So I stay quiet.

“It’s a wrap,” someone yells.

I can’t believe that’s what they really say on the film set, but it sounds good to me.

Portia strolls to Stefan, grabs her coffee, and says, “Thank you, master of all spoiled actresses.” She kisses him on the lips.

“Hey, watch it so Romeo here won’t figure you’re undeniably in love with me because of my uncanny ability to produce caffeine.” Stefan gives her a charming smile.

She is flirty with Stefan, but there is a fraternal texture to their interaction, that puts my sorry ass at ease.

“Oh, before I forget.” she fishes inside her purse for a small blue box, “I got this for Chloe.” She hands the box to him.

“Are you kidding me? You bought her an entire Burberry collection. They just delivered the packages. I can barely walk through my room. Marina is going to go into cardiac arrest when she sees it.” He shakes his head.

“I couldn’t help it, the outfits were so cute.” She smiles broadly.

“Your lavishness to Chloe knows no boundaries,” he reprimands her, though his grin betrays him.

“Hey, she is my goddaughter and I have a sacred right to spoil her rotten.” She grins and kisses his lips. Again.

“Thank you,” he says hugging her.

Turning to me, she asks, “Your place or my place?” She gazes at me seductively, a smile dancing across her lips. I wonder if I look as pathetically molten as I feel. I hope not, honestly. She can puppet me around when she smiles the way she just did.

“My place.” I wave bye to Stefan, and pull her to me as we walk by the film crew and by the dumbass who just mauled her during the damned kissing scene…Yeah, I feel a little territorial. OK, a lot territorial.

Just saying.