Doppelgangster - Laura Resnick [5]
Lopez had spent enough time with me by now to know that actors differentiate between a real job, which means acting, and just earning money—which means waiting tables, office temping, and other between-job gigs that keep us from starving. In New York, an actor who is “resting” is usually working fifty hours per week somewhere to pay exorbitant rent on an apartment the size of a phone booth. I was lucky, at least, in that I could reduce my expenses by getting a roommate for the second bedroom in my rent-controlled apartment. Although what qualified as a “second bedroom” in Manhattan would scarcely have passed as a small walk-in closet in most other cities.
However, I really liked my space and my privacy; and I also hoped Lopez might start coming over more often. So I’d rather work for a change in my fortunes than let someone move into my apartment. Especially since this city (brace yourself for a shock) is full of weirdos.
“Look,” Lopez said, giving my shoulders a gentle squeeze, “why don’t you change—um, shower and change—and I’ll take you out for a nice dinner. Maybe it’ll cheer you up a little, and we can come up with some ideas for—”
“I can’t,” I said apologetically. “I’ve spent the past two hours making phone calls, and now—”
“I thought you spent two hours being depressed and forgetting I was coming over,” he said.
“I did that, too. I’m a multitasker.” I shrugged. “I’m freaking out right now, but this kind of thing is a standard part of my profession. When you’re suddenly thrown out of work, you have to get on the phone right away to start looking for another job and figure out how to keep paying the bills. No delays, no moping. Even if you’re flat on your back and crawling into a pint of Ben and Jerry’s at the exact same time you’re making those calls.”
“So you were on the phone looking for work today?” he said in surprise. “On Sunday?”
“It’s a twenty-four-seven city. A cop ought to know that.”
“Good point.” He took the spoon from me and helped himself to another bite of ice cream as he asked, “Any luck yet?”
“I don’t know. I had to leave messages with everyone.”
“So bring your cell phone to dinner,” he suggested, “and let’s go out.”
It was a generous offer. I’d have been tempted to strangle a date who spent half the evening on the cell phone, but he was evidently willing to put up with it under special circumstances.
I considered it briefly, but I thought of the effort it would take to shower, get dressed, and primp for a nice evening out with a well-dressed man, and I felt exhausted. Then my stomach churned again, reminding me that eating a lot of ice cream when you’re upset isn’t always such a good idea.
“I’m really sorry,” I said. “I just don’t feel up to it right now.”
He looked disappointed but said, “Okay. I can understand that.”
I felt terrible. A man who didn’t sulk under such circumstances was worth more than rubies. “I’ll make it up to you,” I promised. “But I’d be rotten company tonight. Now that I’ve made all my calls . . . now I just want to lie on my couch moping.”
“So you’re saying sex is also off the menu tonight,” he guessed.
I jumped a little, startled. It was the most direct he’d ever been about wanting to get me into bed.
The blue of his eyes suddenly looked darker. “I had plans.”
“And you dressed for the occasion,” I noted.
His gaze dropped to my mouth. “I didn’t do that for you. I did that for the hostess at Raoul’s. I hear she’s hot.”
“You were going to take me to Raoul’s?” It was a pricey restaurant in Soho with a reputation for good food and a romantic ambience. I felt even worse about canceling our date when I recalled, “Oh! You said you had something to celebrate tonight?”
“Yeah.” He removed his arm from my shoulders. Leaning back against the cushions, he said, “But I see it’s not a good night for a celebration. So we’ll do it next time.”