Gently, a security guard took my elbow and escorted me to the exit without even stopping at the goody bag table. I tossed the mike/phone to Martin, who was too busy sniffing his hand to make the catch. I prayed that Martin could pull a rabbit out of his yarmulke.
Isn’t It a Pity
IT WAS FOUR P.M. when I was booted out of the What’s My Line? tent. Tomorrow, Tanya would make me pay.
Feeling light-headed and lousy, I dragged myself home to Alessandro. What kind of jerk breaks off a serious relationship by text message? That’s worse than a Dear John e-mail, which is harsh enough. I’m well rid of the bum, I thought. But where will I live? What will I do? Dear God, I hope he paid the orthodontist in full.
“Did you get my text message?” Alessandro asked as I trudged inside. He was lying on the couch in his yoga pants, shirtless, watching Dr. Phil. The air smelled of burned popcorn. There were silver Hershey’s Kisses wrappers everywhere.
“Child molester,” I muttered, tromping to the bedroom, throwing on a pair of sweats. “What, no theater tonight?” I said when I emerged, clicking off the television. I felt like hurting Alessandro.
“They put me on indefinite leave,” he said. “Because of the headlines. My lawyer is going to fight it.”
“Good luck with that.” I rolled my eyes and sank into the sofa next to his feet, which reeked of toe jam, so I did a flying leap to the other side of the room.
Alessandro sat up. “It’s an illness, you know. I need help.”
“And I might have been willing to help you if you’d given me half a chance.”
Alessandro nodded. “Dr. Blumstein be…she believes I was unconsciously sabotaging our relationship because I didn’t want to get married.”
My stomach dropped like a glass elevator in a Hyatt atrium. He was really breaking up with me. Right here. Right now. It was happening.
“Blumstein gets me,” Alessandro said, not much louder than a whisper. He looked at me with those (formerly) irresistible eyes. “That’s why I text messaged you.”
“Classy, Alessandro, really classy.”
“I was trying to show you mercy,” he explained. “Blumstein said you’d need time to process the blow.”
“But…but what about your nightmare? What about my mother’s message?” I pleaded, not knowing why I was trying to save us. Alessandro had done me a favor. It’s what I should have done the moment I found out he was cheating. But I’d been afraid to let go. I’d been counting on Alessandro to be my happily ever after.
“My nightmare? I lied,” Alessandro admitted. “Last night I was so freaked out, I wanted to hang on to you no matter what. Dr. Blumstein helped me see that I need to be on my own, to take time to get to know the real Alessandro Vercelli, whoever he may be.”
“But we have a cat together,” I implored, pacing. “What did Blumstein say about that?”
“Kitty is the least of my problems. Right now, I’m all about getting into detox,” Alessandro said. “Blumstein’s working on it.”
“You’re not an alcoholic.”
“It’s part of our legal strategy,” Alessandro explained. “Break the law; go to detox; beg forgiveness: Mel Gibson, Kate Moss, the black dude from Grey’s Anatomy, blah blah blah.”
I plunked myself into a chair and looked around the apartment where I’d hoped to build a home for us. My eyes began to fill and an errant tear escaped. “Yesterday I thought I’d be getting married in a month,” I said, wiping my face with my sleeve. “Now you’re telling me it’s over. This is not how my life is supposed to go.”
Alessandro waxed philosophical. “Life isn’t always what you like, you know.”
How dare he tell me that! As if I didn’t already know. “You are such an ass. First you cheat on me. Then it turns out to be with a minor…”
“Good, Blumstein says anger is good,” Alessandro started.
“Then we get our pictures in the paper. Our friends saw that picture. My boss saw that picture. She refuses to be seen with me anymore…”
“Whoa there, Nelly! Is that all you can think about—yourself? How do you think I feel? I’m looking at jail time.” Alessandro seemed incredulous that I could be so selfish.
I growled and wagged my finger at him. “Whoa, Nelly? What am I, a horse? You listen to me, Alessandro. You do not get to do the breaking up. If anyone gets broken up with, it’s you.”
“Fine,” Alessandro said. “If it’s that important to assuage your ego, we’ll tell everyone you did the breaking up.”
“Fine,” I said.
“Fine,” Alessandro answered.
“Fine,” I said.
“But you and I will always know I’m the one who called it off.”
Why did Alessandro always have to have the last word? Why?
“I need the ring back so I can sell it to pay for Suzy Hendrix and detox. Lawyers cost a fortune these days. And Promises in Malibu is eighteen hundred dollars a day.”
I flashed him a look of disdain. “So go somewhere cheaper.”
“All A-list actors go there,” he said. “Suzy says if I don’t do the right kind of damage control, I could spend the rest of my career in regional theater or reality TV. No, it has to be Promises. Besides, the contacts I’ll make there will be invaluable for my future.”
I glanced at the rock on my finger. It was a two-karat round cut that, if sold, could pay my rent for months to come. I marched over and stuck the ring in his face. “Can you not think of anyone besides yourself? You’re putting me out on the street. Do
