Punchline (4 page)

Maybe she should spray-paint everything red. That might do the trick.

The food helped settle Belle’s stomach. She ought to start a load of laundry; she ought to open her mail; she ought to pay some bills. But the same sense of exhaustion that had dogged her for days kept her rooted to the chair.

Wondering why her feet had begun to swell, she kicked off her shoes and groped behind her on the sideboard until she found the remote control.

She clicked to the news, which appeared on the oversize TV set positioned across the living room. The headline items were footage of two politicians shaking hands over a treaty, and a government expert announcing that the economy was finally booming, or it was crashing, or
it was leveling off, depending on which set of statistics you used.

The anchorpersons returned. “Earlier, you saw our interview with Belle Martens, who edits the women’s magazine
Just Us,”
said the female half of the duo. “Witnesses claim that she and rival editor Darryl Horak drank spiked punch and landed in bed together.”

“We promised to get a response from the man himself,” said her male counterpart. “Belle denies the claim, but does he? Here’s Kate Munro with Darryl Horak’s side of the story.”

The scene switched to a beach at sunset. There stood Darryl, dark hair finger-combed away from his forehead, sweaty T-shirt clinging to his muscular chest, a volleyball under one arm. The picture of virility.

“Does Belle Martens ring
my
bell? I’m too much of a gentleman to say.” His cocky grin made her itch to tell him what she thought of his claim to good manners. “But you know, in my position, I’m surrounded by gorgeous ladies. One more or less would hardly be noticed.”

From off-camera, he pulled a woman, her camera-ready smile glittering with perfect teeth. The other volleyball players visible in the background ogled her abundant dark hair and “Baywatch” figure.

Mercifully, the camera cut to Kate Munro. “People say that opposites attract. Now tell the truth, Mr. Horak. Belle Martens has gone home with you, and there she is lying on your bed zonked out of her mind. Can you honestly say you wouldn’t take advantage of the situation?”

“I’d cover her with the biggest blanket I could find and check into a hotel,” Darryl responded, to the laughter of his friends.

“Thank you, Darryl Horak.” The reporter stared directly out from the screen. “Now back to the studio.”

The co-anchors returned. “I think we’d have to term those two a real odd couple,” said the woman.

You’re not kidding,
Belle snarled silently, and switched off the set. She felt like calling the station to report that, far from covering her with a blanket, Darryl had leered at her that very afternoon and proposed a rematch.

Great idea, Belle. Why don’t you go stick your finger in a light socket next?

She had known she was upset but she hadn’t realized how upset until she felt her entire Chinese dinner begin an upward march through her esophagus. Choking it back, Belle raced for the bathroom.

A few miserable minutes later she emerged, aware for the first time that her stomach troubles meant more than just mild indigestion.

She’d been nauseated on and off for days. Her feet hurt and her energy hovered near zero. When she’d put on her bikini today, she’d noticed that her breasts were swollen, but had attributed it to a general weight gain.

Belle’s calendar wouldn’t be much help because she never kept track of things. She had to rely on her memory, which said that she’d begun her most recent period the day of Janie’s twenty-eighth birthday party.

That had been the last day of July. Six weeks ago.

She was two weeks late. She was nauseated. And for some subconscious reason, she’d thrown a pregnancy test into her cart.

Grimly, she took the test and marched back into the bathroom. The directions told her to wait until first thing in the morning, but she never paid attention to details like that.

It wouldn’t have mattered, anyway. The tube turned blue as the sky, blue as Lake Tahoe, blue as the white underwear Belle had washed with a navy sweater.

She sank onto the Regency couch and thumped her feet onto the brass-and-glass coffee table. Of all the impossible, unforeseen, dreadful things Darryl Horak could have done to her, this one deserved a prize.

It was horribly unfair. She couldn’t even remember having fun.

Hands clenched in her lap, Belle gave herself a pep talk.

It isn’t that bad. Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. You’re thirty-one and you’ve always wanted kids. This way you don’t have to marry some creep to get them.

She thought about her four-year-old niece, Mikki. Usually the child was a blazing bundle of energy, but once when Belle had put her to bed, she’d nestled close like a kitten.

Belle remembered the warm feel of the girl, and the sight of that sweet face softening into slumber. Raising a child might be difficult at times, but she wanted that challenge and the rewards that came with it. This pregnancy might be unexpected, but it wasn’t unwelcome.

The one thing she didn’t want was any further involvement with Darryl Horak. She must figure out a way to present her pregnancy so no one would suspect what had happened.

Lots of women got artificially inseminated, didn’t they? So why not claim that she had, too?

Even if he suspected the truth, Darryl would probably steer clear. He might have planted his seed inside Belle, but if she got her way, that would be the last thing he would ever have to do with this baby.

“T
HAT MARKETING DIRECTOR
should be here any minute.’ Janie Frakes peered toward the restaurant door. “Are you tense? Do you have butterflies in your stomach?”

“I have a great void in my stomach’ muttered Belle, reaching for another piece of bread. She caught Janie’s disapproving frown, but the fashion editor kept silent.

Everyone had noticed how Belle was gaining weight. She’d sworn to keep her secret as long as possible, intending to be one of those women so svelte that no one realizes they’re pregnant until they give birth to triplets. But her appetite, in combination with a queasy stomach, defied her.

Today, she didn’t care about her burgeoning figure. She was more concerned about gaining the good opinion of Mira Lemos, the marketing director of the future High Desert Megamall.

If Mira chose
Just Us
to cosponsor the mall’s opening weekend, it would be a major coup for the magazine. It would mean more ads, more publicity, more subscribers and more prestige.

With Mira’s busy schedule, it had taken weeks to arrange this lunch. Its vital purpose was to promote a “Just Us” theme for the opening weekend.

The mall’s grand unveiling would take place in June. Since it was only early November, under ordinary cir-
cumstances that would leave plenty of time for Belle to organize her plans.

But the way pregnancy was sending her body into new and unexplored realms of discomfort, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to prepare for the opening unless she got a big head start. Doggone Darryl Horak and his overachieving sperm!

Since September, Belle had only seen his arrogant self twice, at press parties. Both times she had glimpsed him across a crowded room, in the company of gorgeous women. His air of virulent self-confidence had made her stomach churn. But then, it didn’t take much to make her stomach churn these days.

She twisted in her seat and gave the door another glance. The trendy Beverly Hills eatery was crowded today, its outdoor terraces packed with the well-dressed and the dying-to-be-seen. She hoped Mira wouldn’t have any trouble finding them.

Across the table, Janie reached into a portfolio and pulled out her notes. “Okay, so we’re going to emphasize that ‘Just Us’ is a terrific theme because it sounds cozy. And the mall needs to cultivate that image because it’s so huge and impersonal. Belle? Are you listening?”

“Sure.” Actually, she had been trying to remember whether her ultrasound was scheduled for tomorrow or the following day. The way she was gaining weight, the doctor wanted to make sure everything was progressing normally.

Normal? A child fathered by Darryl Horak? Belle would be relieved if the kid didn’t have horns and a tail.

“I wish the pink ghost were here,” Janie muttered, stowing away her notes. “For moral support, if nothing else. What do you suppose she has to do today that’s more important? This magazine is her baby and she should give it more tender loving care.”

“The pink ghost” referred to Sandra Duval, publisher and owner of
Just Us
magazine. Pink stood for the color she preferred for her stylish and very expensive clothes. Her staffers called her a ghost because she was seldom seen.

At eighteen, Sandra had been Belle’s roommate at Cal State Fullerton, also majoring in communications. At twenty she’d fallen in love and had left college to marry a multimillionaire three times her age. Widowed at twenty-five, she had purchased a struggling women’s magazine called
You and Me.

Sandra’s two major contributions had been to rename it
Just Us
and to hire her old roommate as editor. For the past six years, she had left almost everything to Belle.

But it never hurt to have the glamorous pink ghost, known for her extravagant parties and movie star escorts, show up to impress a potential advertiser. Sandra always managed to be charming, even if she did give the impression of having just blown in from another planet.

“I haven’t seen her in weeks,” Belle said. “I left an e-mail message on her computer but…Oh, no. Tell me it isn’t true.”

Janie followed her gaze. “Ugh. Please tell
me
it isn’t true.”

In rapt conversation with the maître d’ stood Darryl Horak. From the tilt of his chin above the Italian leather jacket to the precise angle at which he braced his cashmere-encased legs, he was every inch a man about town.

Beside him stood the slightly taller figure of his entertainment editor, Greg Ormand. Less of a clotheshorse, he wore a russet turtleneck sweater whose chief asset was to reveal every carefully cultivated muscle in his chest and shoulders. He gave new definition to the phrase “Flaunt It.”

“The man has no class,’ growled Janie, who still hadn’t forgiven her ex-boyfriend for slighting her. “At least yours wears decent clothes.”

“Mine?” returned Belle. “Are you referring to Darryl Horak as mine?”

Janie bit her lip. The subject of that drugged night together had been mercifully allowed to die, except for occasional joking references on Channel 17.

“I certainly hope they don’t see Ms. Lemos before we do,” Janie said. “They’d steal her in a minute. Does Greg have morals? No, he does not!”

“Let’s go stand in the doorway so we can spot her first,” said Belle.

“You mean…
near
those two?” said Janie.

“We’ll eclipse them.” Belle stood, then wished she hadn’t. Her center of gravity had slipped to somewhere around her knees, and she had to grip the back of the chair for support.

“I’m going to save our seats.” The fashion editor remained planted in her chair. “It’s so crowded in here, the waiters have been eyeing our table like jackals.”

No way was Belle going out there alone. She reached down, seized Janie’s portfolio and slammed it onto the center of the table, barely missing their water glasses. “They won’t give our table away
now,
” she said. “Come on.

As they neared the restaurant’s entrance, Darryl’s head swiveled toward them, and one eyebrow arched in the perfect delineation of mocking curiosity. “Ladies, what brings you here?”

“We’re watching for someone,” Belle announced, stationing herself as far from him as possible while she scanned the restaurant’s outdoor terraces below.

“Hello, Janie.” Greg eyed the fashion editor with appreciation. “Your hair looks cool.”

Janie fingered her coiled braids. “Just a little something I threw together.”

Belle, who had heard Janie cursing about the hours it took to fix her braids, struggled to keep a straight face. She couldn’t understand how an otherwise rational woman could behave so foolishly around a man.

“Why don’t you fellows go and sit down?” she asked. “
You
aren’t looking for someone, are you?”

“We’re waiting for a table,” Darryl said. “Mind if we share yours?”

“Sorry. We won’t have any spare seats when—” Belle stopped as Janie grabbed her arm.

Sunshine gleamed off Mira Lemos’s raven hair as she made her way up the terraces. In her suit and pumps, the marketing director formed a picture of crisp professionalism.

“Go on!” Belle gave Darryl a shove. “Take our table! We’ll wait!”

But his eye had fallen on Mira, as well. “Don’t be silly. We’d be happy to join you. I’m sure Ms. Lemos wouldn’t mind.”

As the marketing director came through the door, Belle made a feeble attempt to divert the woman’s attention. “I’d like you to meet my fashion editor, Janie Frakes,” she blurted. “Why don’t we go sit—”

“And of course you remember me.” Darryl favored the woman with a dazzling smile.

To Belle’s dismay, Mira wouldn’t hear of banishing Darryl and Greg. The more, the merrier, she insisted.

It was hard not to grumble as the men rearranged the plates and swiped vacant chairs from nearby tables. Those big masculine bodies crowded Belle and Janie, but left extra room for Mira.

However, Belle knew better than to make a fuss. Sometimes a person had to accept defeat gracefully, and then watch for any way to turn it into a victory.

They made small talk through the antipasto. Once their meals arrived—fettuccine for Belle and Greg, salad for everyone else—Mira asked about their preliminary ideas.

Glancing at Belle for approval, Janie said, “We’d like to focus on coziness and intimacy. A ‘Just Us’ theme could help humanize the mall.”

‘“That’s a good idea.” Mira made a note.

“I’d say you need a larger idea to match your grand scale“, Darryl interjected. “‘Just Us’ makes me think of linens, tableware and lingerie. Whereas ‘About Town’ includes the whole range of shops, not to mention the Cineplex and the restaurants.”

“It has a more sophisticated connotation,” added Greg.

“This is the age of the family,” countered Belle. “Commitment is in style. ‘Just Us’ connotes nesting and homebuilding.”

“I like that.” Mira made another note.

From the grim set of his jaw, Darryl wasn’t about to concede the advantage. “And men can’t build families?” he challenged. “Men can’t maintain intimacy? Haven’t you heard how many dads are becoming single fathers, and doing it successfully?”

“A tiny minority,” Belle objected. “Then they complain and play on everyone’s sympathy.”

“Interesting points,” said Mira. “Sometimes an interchange like this is more productive than meeting with people separately. It generates creativity.”

Belle didn’t consider today’s meeting productive. In fact, her whole presentation had somehow gotten lost in the squabbling between her and Darryl.

Then, glancing out the window, she saw the one person who could rescue them. The pink ghost, blond hair squiggling loose from her chrysanthemum-trimmed hat, sauntered up the terraces waving and smiling like Carol Channing making an entrance in
Hello Dolly.

People waved, eager to catch the eye of the city’s preeminent arts patron and hostess. The maître d’ scurried forward solicitously, and Sandra accepted his welcome with a gracious tilt of the head.

Perfume wafted from her fluttering hands and every eye in the room fixed on the layers of hand-painted silk adorning her slim frame as Sandra advanced across the room. There were hundreds of actresses in Los Angeles and dozens of socialites, but only one Sandra Duval.

Belle jumped up to greet her. The sudden movement made her feel lumpish and wrinkled, and she smoothed down her smock. She could feel Darryl’s gaze rake her body, and hoped he hadn’t noticed her weight gain.

Halfway across the room, Sandra stopped to chat with an acquaintance. Belle was about to go shanghai her boss when a waiter with the world’s worst timing pushed up a dessert cart and halted, blocking her path.

“We don’t want anything, thank you,” she said.

“We have a wonderful cherry cheesecake today,” the man announced as if he hadn’t heard. “And have you tried our chocolate raspberry torte?”

“Didn’t you hear the lady?” snapped Darryl. “If she says she doesn’t want dessert, you shouldn’t tempt her.”

“Sorry, sir.” The waiter angled the cart away.

Belle glanced at Darryl with a trace of annoyance. “Thanks for the help, but I can handle temptation all by myself.”

His glance flew to her waist. “You used to have a terrific figure.”

She knew she ought to ignore the remark, but she couldn’t. Maybe it was a hormonal surge, but these days she found it almost impossible not to lash out when provoked. “Why don’t you come right out and say I’ve been overeating? Isn’t that what you mean?”

“Overeating?” Sandra arrived at the table like the
Queen Elizabeth II
cruising into New York Harbor. She
spread her arms in a gesture of delight. “Why, just look at the woman. This increasing girth is not the result of morsels passing her lips, I assure you!”

Sandra Duval might appear to have a heart and mind of fuzz with her displays of imperious frivolity, but, as Belle recalled from their student days, she was a sharp observer. Sandra often saw clearly what everyone else missed.

Before Belle could signal or do anything more than stand there with a sinking sensation, she heard her employer proclaim, “How could you possibly think Belle is fat? Where are your eyes? Anyone can see the girl is pregnant!”

D
ARRYL SANK INTO
the chair in his office, feeling as if he had been thumped on the head by a dozen volleyballs in rapid succession.

Belle Martens was pregnant. That was one possibility that had never occurred to him. For a sophisticated man about town, he had sauntered through the past few months like an ignorant schoolboy.

At first, as he’d sat in stunned silence at the table, he had been willing to believe her proclamation that she’d had artificial insemination. Why not? Everyone else had bought it.

Okay, maybe that fashion editor had regarded him with a flash of disgust, but he might have misinterpreted. It was the kind of gaze Janie Frakes usually reserved for Greg, and it was possible Darryl had intercepted it by mistake.

Certainly Sandra Duval hadn’t batted an eye. Well, that wasn’t quite true. Actually, she’d batted her eyes frequently, showing off long lashes that had probably once graced the butt end of a mink. But certainly she hadn’t questioned the provenance of Belle’s baby.

Baby.
The word clanged through his head like a bell. The End of Your Liberty bell.

On the desk, Darryl’s phone rang and he let the machine answer it. It was a free-lance writer calling to pitch him story ideas. He couldn’t deal with routine matters, not now.

He made a bleary assessment of his office. The building had needed a face-lift when he’d purchased it three years ago. It still did. Beneath the old movie posters, the paint was peeling. The entire Roman Empire could have suffered lead poisoning and died from his windowsill alone.

It had seemed like a good idea to buy
About Town
its own offices. And what a steal it had seemed when, in the middle of a recession, a building had come on sale at a reasonable price right on Wilshire Boulevard.

Darryl had admired the open courtyard in the center and the balconies running around each floor. But the most attractive part of the deal had been the fact that the first level was occupied by shops.