California Girls. Susan MalleryЧитать онлайн книгу.
How was she going to survive? She glanced at the teleprompter and breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God.
Good morning, everyone, and welcome to the show. We have something very special in store for you today, although based on the demographics of my audience, word has already spread—Pause for laughter.
She stepped into place and waited for the countdown to live. Normally she would have chatted with the audience a little, but not only wasn’t there time, she couldn’t have done it. Not today.
“Five, four, three.” She watched the fingers indicate the silent “Two, one,” then thought of puppies and kittens playing and how drunk she was going to get later. When the red light on the camera illuminated, she was fairly confident her smile was something close to genuine.
“Good morning, everyone, and welcome to the show.”
Finola worked the introduction. She never fully felt like herself, but the shock and pain faded just enough that she could inhale. She consciously relaxed her body and focused on what she had to get through.
“Here she is, and I’ll confess I’m a little starstruck myself. Treasure!”
Finola turned to where the singer would enter. Treasure sauntered across the set, her familiar coltish walk and easy smile bringing the audience to their feet. There were plenty of screams and whistles. Treasure waved at everyone, then looked at Finola. For a second something dark and evil seemed to turn her face into a sinister mask, but then it was gone, leaving Finola to wonder if she was imagining things or if, in fact, the superstar was about to discuss her affair on television.
They sat angled toward each other. Finola was grateful her overly efficient team had loaded questions into the teleprompter. She didn’t have to think, she reminded herself. She simply had to look engaged and ask the prewritten questions.
“Your new album is doing incredibly well,” she began. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks. I’m really happy with the way my fans are responding. Especially to the first single.” She flashed the audience a smile. “‘That Way.’”
“It’s a provocative song.”
Treasure leaned toward her and lowered her voice. “It’s about sex.”
The audience laughed.
Finola couldn’t tell if she was blushing or if she’d gone totally white. She was light-headed and hoped she wasn’t swaying in her seat. The potential for disaster was massive and if Treasure said anything...
Treasure sighed. “You know, there are men who just get how to please a woman. The way they touch you and kiss you—it’s magic.”
There was more laughter. Finola did her best to join in.
“You’ve always played with unexpected topics in your songs. This album continues that tradition.”
“I know.” Treasure winked. “I’m not a sweet person. I’m not mean, but when I want to talk about something, or have something, I make it happen. So what was your favorite sexual experience, Finola?”
The question hit her like a slap. Finola managed to hang on to her composure enough to chuckle and say, “Treasure, I’m old enough to be your aunt. No one wants to hear about that from me. You’re going on tour in a couple of months. What does it take to get ready for a show as big as yours?”
“I need to be rested and happy. You know what that’s like. To be with the right person. It’s such a good place to be.”
Tell us about the man in your life.
Finola stared at the teleprompter and knew God had moved on to helping someone else. She couldn’t do it, she thought grimly. She couldn’t keep talking, couldn’t keep it together. She was going to fall apart on live television and then the whole world would know everything. She would be a laughingstock, she would be pitied, she would go viral in the worst way possible and at the end of the day, her husband would still have cheated on her with Treasure.
“All this talk about your album makes me want to hear you sing,” she said, not caring she was two minutes early for the transition.
“Finola?”
Melody’s voice was questioning in her ear, but Finola only motioned to the other side of the set where they’d set up a microphone in front of a screen. Treasure’s music video would play behind the singer.
“Okay,” Melody murmured. “We’ll go early.”
The spotlight came on and the music cued.
Treasure hesitated just long enough for Finola’s stomach to cramp. Go, she thought desperately. Just go sing your damn song and get out of here.
Treasure stood and walked toward the microphone. Finola knew she had four minutes for the song, then two minutes more for the commercial break. Six minutes to figure out how on earth she was going to get through the rest of the show.
She waited until Treasure started to sing before standing up and quietly slipping off the set. Rochelle met her in the corridor.
“Are you all right?” her assistant asked, looking worried.
Finola pressed both hands to her cheeks, trying to physically hold herself together.
“I think I have food poisoning,” she lied. “My stomach is writhing.” It was the only explanation she could think of and had the added benefit of explaining why she was off.
“Is that what’s going on?” Melody asked in her ear. “I wondered. Honey, I’m so sorry. Can we get you anything?”
“Just some cold water,” she said. “I’ll hang on through the show and then I’ll be fine.”
Another lie. The bigger of the two but at this point, honestly, who cared?
Rochelle looked sympathetic. “I’ll go get it right now. And some ginger ale. I think we have it in one of the vending machines. Let me check. I hope you feel better soon. You and Nigel are flying to Hawaii tomorrow. You wouldn’t want to miss your flight.”
Finola lowered her hands to her sides without saying anything. Fortunately Rochelle didn’t seem to expect her to answer. Instead she hurried off to get ice water and ginger ale. Not that either would help, Finola thought, doing her best not to give in to tears. Nothing could help. Nigel had cheated and destroyed their marriage and possibly their lives.
She pressed her hands against her stomach as acid churned and she fought against the need to vomit. While that would make the food poisoning fib more believable, she would prefer to avoid it as long as possible. She had—she glanced at the countdown clock—forty-three minutes left. Just forty-three minutes. Then she would be alone and have the time to figure out when, exactly, she’d lost everything.
Oh good, you’re still here, were not words Zennie Schmitt wanted to hear eight minutes before the end of her shift. She’d been on her feet for ten hours already. The relatively light day had included two angioplasties that had gone surprisingly well, considering the age and physical condition of the patients. She’d been on her way to the locker room to grab her things when she’d heard herself being paged over the intercom.
Dr. Chen had expressed his relief that she was still in the hospital. “I have an emergency bypass surgery. Are you up for it?”
Zennie understood the question. She’d already put in a full day. She was tired and if she didn’t think she had the stamina to assist Dr. Chen through a coronary artery bypass operation, then she was expected to tell him. She was more than a perioperative nurse—aka scrub nurse—she was part of an elite nursing team that worked in one of the country’s most prestigious and busy cardiac care hospitals. They saw some of the sickest patients in the world and