Hide & Seek - James Patterson [12]
There was, I knew, no “elsewhere.”
There was Jennie, of course. The “motormouths” were alive and well.
There was Lynn Needham, who had turned into a real pal, an occasional sitter, my official New York tour guide, my shoulder to lean on.
There was our West Side walk-up, the den of iniquity, which had only one really cool feature—a turn-of-the-century bathtub built right in the kitchen. I loved taking hot bubblebaths in the kitchen!
There were occasional dates, but nothing even close to anything serious. I began to remember what I'd felt like before Phillip—too tall, too gawky, a little tongue-tied, inadequate for all the wrong reasons, not big enough breasts, too many bad hair days. But really, what it all came down to, was that I was afraid to get involved again. I didn't want to have to tell anyone what had happened with Phillip—no, to Phillip. I had this huge scarlet M on my chest, and I didn't think it would ever come off, wash off, whatever.
Nope, there was no “elsewhere.”
CHAPTER 10
SO, I WAS the coffee-and-sandwiches person, but do you know what—it was so much better than my life had been. It really sucked sometimes, I hated those despicable runs to the Famous deli, hated being “blondie with the coat,” but I also loved it. It was writing, composing, learning. I was part of something that on occasion could be very beautiful and moving.
One morning at the “music factory,” my buddy Lynn Needham peeked into my cubicle/storage bin. “You better drop everything, except maybe that hot coffee. Mr. Wonderful calls.”
Barry tried to reserve some time for me at the end of most days, so this was an unusual summons. I hightailed it to his office. His time was still precious.
“I've got good news, and unfortunately, bad news,” Barry said as I entered the room where I had once auditioned to be his gofer.
I could feel my pulse racing a little. Tell me what's happened! Don't drag it out.
“I sent one of your songs to California,” he continued. “ ‘Loss of Grace.’ The revision you showed me last week. Someone likes it out there. Wants to record it.”
Impulsively, I ran and hugged him. I don't think I'd ever done that before. I know I hadn't.
He smiled and gently pushed me away. He looked me squarely in the eye. “Now for the bad news. That ‘someone’ wants to sing it herself.”
It was my song. “Tell her no,” I said. Suddenly, I was crestfallen. “No. Barry, please.”
“Don't you want to know who that someone is? I had to agree she could sing it. That was the deal breaker.”
I had a nightmarish vision of some third-rater, some other up-and-comer getting my song all wrong. “Of course I want to know who she is. But if she messes up, I'll murder her!” Bad choice of words, I know.
“I think she'll get it right.” He grinned like the sweet person he could be sometimes. “It's Barbra Streisand. She wants to record ‘Loss Of Grace.’ And she wants you out there with her.”
I hugged Barry again. I crushed him and kissed him on both cheeks. Good-bye to shlepping for coffee and pastrami sandwiches—hello to Hollywood!
CHAPTER 11
I BOOKED A flight to Los Angeles for Jennie and me. We deserved it; we'd earned it. Once we got out there, I found myself driving a rented Saab Turbo up to the Beverly Hills Hotel. It seemed as though we were a million miles from West Point.
“It's pink!” Jennie exclaimed as we curled up the hotel driveway and stopped in front. “My favorite color. It's pink everywhere.”
“I had it painted, just for you,” I told her. “I called ahead. I told them to think pink.”
“Motormouths!” Jennie yelled as we sat in the impressive hotel carport.
“Forever!”
A handsome, beachboy-blond bellhop carried our beat-up overnighters as if they were Louis Vuitton. He led us to a lovely cottage tucked behind the main hotel— Bungalow Six, our own private pied-à-terre, all arranged by Barry (“so you and Jennie make exactly the right impression”). He would know about that—I sure didn't.
“This is you, ma'am.