"You can't just drop news like that and goback to your breakfast," said Neely.
"Details," said Rica. "Now."
I swallowed, took a sip ofwater, and looked around to make sure we were out of earshot. SinCity was crawling with television executives for the annualconvention, and news like this sure wouldn't stay in Vegas. Twohuge old women with fanny packs who had bathed inJean Nate' occupied thenearest table and were totally focused on their food, shoveling itin so fast that sparks were probably imminent from their knives andforks, so I figured we were safe.
"Okay," I said, lowering my voice a bit.They all leaned forward. "Last week he shows up at the hotel roomafter the Friday late newscast, just like always. Only this timehe's got a dozen roses."
"Sounds like a real gentleman," saidNeely.
"He also had a ring," I said.
"Oh, shit," said Rica. "An engagementring?"
I nodded.
"What did you do?" asked Jillian.
"Well," I said, "let's just say that after Itold him our working relationship was part of his job description,he would have needed a tub of Viagra and a forklift."
"He really believes that you're romanticallyinterested in him?" asked Jillian.
"Scott Harry is notexactly Stephen Hawking," I said. "One day I was talking about howyou remember where you were on important days in history, like on9/11 or the day Kennedy was shot. And he says, 'Ted Kennedy got shot?'"
"Good God, what a complete moron," saidNeely, who then added the Southern disclaimer. "Bless his littleheart."
"What exactly does that mean anyway?" askedRica, turning to face her.
"What?" asked Neely.
"The bless his little heart thing," saidRica. "You always say that."
"It's considered impoliteto say something bad about someone else in the South," said Neely,"so you just add bless his littleheart at the end and it cancels out theinsult. Why, how would you say it?"
"He's a friggin' idiot," said Rica, justbefore taking a bite of a bagel.
Jillian started frantically waving herhands. "Can you two stop with the North and South stuff? We'redealing with some serious shit here. Syd's eaten two plates ofpancakes because she's not getting any y-chromosomes and her mainanchor is hopelessly lovesick while trying desperately to rememberwhat the hell he was doing when Ted Kennedy was shot."
"If this convention were in Dallas, they'dturn that into a country song," said Neely.
"So what's his current status?" askedJillian.
"His performance has slipped," I said.
Neely furrowed her brow. "You already toldus he couldn't--"
"On air, for God's sake," I said,shaking my head. "He looks like a lost puppy."
"So waddaya gonna do?" asked Rica, spearinga sausage with her fork.
"He's got a two yearcontract," I said. "His ratings are great. There's really not muchI can do."
"What about your to-do list?" asked Jillian."Can you live with a blank one?"
The image of our last liaison flashedthrough my brain and I felt a charge of electricity run through mybody. "Oh my God, it'll be tough," I said. "For both of us."
***
You see trophy wives all the time in NewYork. The couple always looks the same. Rich old fart who couldraise a "separated at birth" question with a Sunsweet prune and atwenty-something vapid blonde on his arm. He only wants sex, sheonly wants money, bada bing, bada boom, let's draw up a pre-nup.She multitasks in the bedroom, either counting the cracks in theceiling or the days till she can bail with enough for a Palm Beachcondo.
Old joke about trophy wives:
Man walks into a bar and sits next to areally attractive woman. "Would you sleep with me for a milliondollars?" he asks.
"Absolutely," she says, suddenly sitting upstraight on her barstool.
"How about a hundred bucks?" he asks.
She gets indignant. "What kind of a girl doyou think I am?"
"We've already established that," he says."Now we're just haggling about the price."
So now I sorta know how a man feels, except,being a woman, I'm not as shallow. (Stop laughing. Stop! Okay, yougot me.) While I need my trophy buck, actually sharing the rest ofmy life with someone who could moonlight for Chrysler as a crashdummy isn't on my to-do list.
Scott showed up at my townhouse after thelate Friday newscast like nothing happened, the wrong head incontrol. He apparently (like any man would) thought that all Ineeded was a reminder of how much he belonged on my list.
Then I would come to my senses.
While my senses suffered the usualhigh-speed blowout on the sexual Autobahn, and the Zorro outfit hewore was a nice new wrinkle, I regained my faculties duringre-entry.
"You look like you enjoyed that, Ms. Hack,"he said, looking down at me while propped on one elbow.
I let my body melt into the 500 thread countEgyptian cotton sheets as my brain synapses continued to firesparks. "That's an understatement." I closed my eyes, my face stillflashing like a firefly, hoping he would just shut the hell up andlet me--
"You can have that every night for the restof your life."
Annnnnnd…. Cue the cold shower!
I slowly opened my eyes and saw the puppydog with the granite body just inches from my face, about to kissme. I sat up before he had the chance. "Scott, I thought we alreadyresolved this."
"I thought you might miss me in Vegas andchange your mind."
"Yes, I missed our regular Friday nightencounter as you probably gathered. But no, I haven’t changed mymind."
He leaned over to the cherry end table andpicked up a glass that had a touch of scotch left in it. "Maybe youneed some time to think." He downed the rest of the liquor.
"Maybe you need to remember who hired you."I leaned back against one of the four posts of the bed which hadmoments before served as an impromptu stripper pole. "I'm yourboss. Why do you call me Ms. Hack in the bedroom if you think Ilove you?"
"I thought it was part of the dominatrixthing you had going."
Dear God…
I couldn't help but roll my eyes, wonderinghow low the wattage on this bulb could be. "Scott, one of yourduties is to keep me satisfied in the bedroom. And you do thatextremely well."
"So that's all I am to you? A piece ofmeat?"
Oh, man, I wish I'd
