Red (27 page)

T
he McCall shots were fabulous, so fabulous, in fact, that Garnet McCall signed Jack to a two-year all-inclusive contract. The account was huge: seasonal catalogs, advertising, collection promotion. And as the Garnet McCall name grew to include product endorsement, the account prospects only increased. On signing the contract, Jack had immediately hired a second assistant, had begun looking for a studio manager and had given Becky Lynn a fat raise.

Becky Lynn shifted the bottle of champagne and sack of groceries from her right arm to her left, no small feat considering the balloon bouquet she had tied around her right wrist. She fumbled in her pocket for her studio keys, the balloons bobbing crazily around her head. Jack had given her the afternoon off, claiming exhaustion and the need to crash. Before she'd left, he had given her an envelope with three hundred dollars in it. Her raise, he'd told her. Retroactive.

She hadn't known what to say, so she had kissed him instead, long and deeply. When she'd ended the kiss, he had looked so surprised and pleased that she'd kissed him again. And again.

One thing had led to another and they'd ended up on the floor, making love. Their lovemaking had been slow and sweet and more tender than it had ever been before.
She had been choked with tears afterward, choked with the need to tell him she loved him.

But even as she had opened her mouth to do just that, something had held her back—maybe something she saw in his eyes, as if he knew what she was contemplating and was begging her not to do it, or maybe some innate sense told her that she would regret it if she did. So, instead, she had snuggled up against him, telling him without words everything he meant to her.

That had been hours ago. She had used the time to put together a private celebration for just the two of them. She had all his favorite gourmet food items—Brie, pâté and imported crackers, marinated mushrooms, chocolate-covered strawberries, the brut champagne he favored and the balloons just because.

Becky Lynn smiled and batted at several, then let herself into the studio. The scent of flowers was almost overpowering, and she shook her head, amused. Carlo had sent them to her, a different arrangement every day since the McCall shoot. Each accompanying card had said the same thing:
Come to me, Becky Lynn. I'll make you a star.

At first, she had been annoyed. She thought his attempt to get at Jack through her cruel, beneath contempt. But after about the third day, her annoyance had shifted to amusement. If he wanted to throw away his money, it was fine with her. She liked the flowers.

She saw that a new arrangement had come while she was out, this one a shocking pink azalea plant. She set down the groceries and wine, and crossed to the plant. She touched one of the blossoms lightly, the blossom's feathery texture calling up memories of home, of spring. She had forgotten how beautiful spring had been in Bend: a riot of vivid
blossoms everywhere—the fuchsia azaleas, fiery red zinnias—together so brilliant they had almost burned the eye.

There had been something beautiful in Bend.

The realization eased its way through her consciousness, surprising her. She stared at the flower, a warmth blooming inside her, a sense of peace. Something beautiful in Bend, she thought once more, smiling. She snapped off a blossom and tucked it behind her ear.

Collecting the groceries and wine, she started for the loft. Halfway up, she heard the sound of hushed voices, soft laughter.
Jack had the television on.
She shook her head. He hated television, although on occasion he used it as a kind of pacifier to relieve total boredom.

She laughed to herself. It looked as if she had timed their celebration perfectly.

Two steps from the top of the stairs, she heard Jack's name, spoken softly on the end of a throaty laugh. Becky Lynn stopped, her heart beginning to pound.
That wasn't the television. It was Jack's voice. And a woman's.

With her free hand, she gripped the banister, her world tipping crazily on its axis.
Jack wasn't alone.

Oh, God.
She drew in a deep breath, her chest so tight it hurt.
What was she going to do? How could she face seeing Jack with another woman?

There was an explanation for this, she reassured herself. A simple explanation, an innocent one. She would laugh about her suspicions later. Sure she would.

Becky Lynn looked behind her, looked back the way she had come. She could leave now; Jack would never know she had been here, she could pretend this had never happened.

She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling as if her heart were splintering in two. If she was so sure nothing was going on in his bedroom, why was she so afraid to go up? Why was she so eager to run?

She couldn't pretend. She had to know.

She climbed the last stairs, legs shaking so badly she feared she wouldn't make it. The sounds from his bedroom became louder, more discernible. The door stood ajar. With the tips of her trembling fingers, she nudged it open.

Her heart stopped, and in that first moment, she thought she was going to die. She wanted to die.

Jack was in bed with another woman. He was making love to another woman.

The sack of groceries slipped from her hands, the bottle of wine with it, hitting the floor hard but not breaking. Jack and the woman sprang apart, and Becky Lynn got her first look at Jack's partner.

Garnet McCall.
Becky Lynn made a sound of surprise and pain, and took a step backward.
Jack was in bed with Garnet McCall.

“Jesus, Becky Lynn!” Jack jumped out of bed, grabbing the blanket as he did, wrapping it around himself. “Why didn't you call? I told you to call.”

She took another step backward, tears choking her. “I brought some…I thought we…” She moved her gaze from Jack to Garnet and back, her vision blurring. “Is this how you got the account?”

“Don't be hurt, honey,” Garnet murmured, sitting up and pushing a hand through her wildly disheveled hair. She met Becky Lynn's eyes, looking genuinely sorry. “Believe me, it doesn't mean anything.” She patted the mattress. “Join the party, you're more than welcome.”

The bile of disgust rose in her throat, and Becky Lynn made a strangled sound of pain. She shook her head, turning her gaze to Jack. “I can't believe you did this. I can't believe only a few hours ago you…and I, we—” Her words ended on a sob.

“Red…please. Let's talk about this.”

She shook her head again and took a step backward, the pain almost too much to bear. “Don't call me that. Not now.”

Jack started toward her, hand out. “Come on, babe. We'll go downstairs and—”

“Stay away from me! Don't touch me!”

“Becky Lynn, please—”

She turned and ran. She hit the stairs, almost falling. She grabbed the railing, and a pain shot through her hip as she slammed against it. She kept going.

Jack started after, calling her name. “Becky Lynn, wait! Please, let me explain.”

Sobbing, she reached the bottom of the stairs and flew through the studio. She knocked into an equipment trolley and sent it sailing across the floor. It crashed into a light stand, toppling it.

“Becky Lynn! Don't go like this!”

She heard him on the stairs behind her; he called her yet again. She didn't stop, didn't look back. She couldn't bear to see him wrapped in that damning blanket, his expression full of pity.

But not regret. He didn't even care that he had hurt her.

She burst through the front door and outside. It had begun to rain. For long moments, she stood frozen to the spot, heart racing, rain mingling with her tears. She realized the balloons were still attached to her wrist,
mocking her. She clawed at the ribbons, tearing them free. As the balloons drifted to the sky, she began to run.

Her feet pounded against the wet sidewalk, the sound mimicking the thunder of her heart. Jack had never said he loved her, but she had thought, had allowed herself to believe, that they had something special. Something important. She had believed in him. She had trusted him. She had thought he felt the same about her. It hurt almost more than she could bear.

Her head filled with bits and snatches from her past—her father forcing her to look at her reflection and demanding what man would ever want to touch her; Ricky and Tommy laughing as they dragged a paper bag over her head; the boys at school barking as she passed in the hall. The memories taunted her, calling her a fool, reminding her who and what she was.

How could she have allowed herself to forget?

She reached the bus stop, and curved her arms around her middle, doubling over in pain. Everyone had known about Jack, she thought.

Sallie and Marty. The guys at Tyler. Probably the whole industry. She thought of what she'd told Cliff that day he'd called about Jack's shot at McCall—
“The only extenuating circumstances were Jack's talent.”

Yeah, she thought, hysterical laughter bubbling to her lips, his talent in bed. How Cliff must have laughed at her. How they all must have laughed at her.

The bus pulled up to the stop, and she climbed aboard. The driver looked at her with concern. She ignored him and found a seat, folding herself into a tight ball of misery. Sallie had known this would happen. So had Marty. Even Carlo.

She had been such a fool. A naive idiot. Becky Lynn pressed her face to her knees and moaned. Everyone had seen the truth but her.

Zoe wouldn't laugh. Becky Lynn lifted her face and wiped her eyes. Zoe would understand; she would comfort her.

Becky Lynn endured the rest of the bus ride, hanging on by thinking of Zoe, by focusing on the fact that soon she would have her friend to hold on to, her friend's shoulder to cry on. Every time her head filled with the image of Jack in bed with the other woman, she would force it from her mind and imagine instead, Zoe's arms around her, Zoe's murmurs of comfort and support.

The bus finally reached her stop; she walked the block to her apartment building, too drained to run. As she walked, she prayed that Zoe would be home, the silent prayer running through her head like a mantra.

Becky Lynn made it to her floor, then to her apartment door. Her fingers shook so badly it took several tries to get the door unlocked and open; when she did, she stumbled inside.

“Zoe!” she called, starting to fall apart. “Zoe, where are you?”

“Here, Becky Lynn.” Zoe's head appeared over the top of the couch. She looked at Becky Lynn and her eyes widened. “What's wrong?”

“It's Jack…he…he…” She dropped her face into her hands. “Oh, Zoe, it was so awful.”

Zoe sprang up and came around the couch. She crossed to Becky Lynn. “Has something happened to Jack?” Her face pinched with alarm, she grabbed Becky Lynn's upper arms. “Has he been hurt? Is he ill?”

Becky Lynn shook her head, the tears she had managed
to hold through the bus ride beginning to fall. “He…I…I caught him…in bed with…someone else.”

Zoe dropped her hands. “Who?”

“Garnet McCall.” Becky Lynn curved her arms around her middle, her head filling with the image of the two in bed together, filling with the sound of their enjoyment. “It was so awful. He didn't even apologize. He just—”

“Why should he?”

Becky Lynn's breath caught in surprise. “What?”

“Why should he apologize? You don't own him.”

Becky Lynn stared at her friend, feeling as if the blood were draining from her body. Her fingers and toes started to tingle, and she felt cold, all over and to the bone.

“Did you really think he was being faithful to you?” Zoe laughed, the sound thin and angry. “A man like Jack? Get real, Becky Lynn.”

Becky Lynn brought a hand to her mouth. She couldn't believe what Zoe was saying to her. She couldn't believe the venom in her words, the…hatred.

Why did Zoe hate her so much? Becky Lynn wondered, light-headed. What had she done to cause the other woman to treat her this way?

“Did you think he loved you?” Zoe demanded, moving her gaze contemptuously over her. “Did you really think your relationship was an exclusive one?”

Becky Lynn backed away from Zoe, shaking her head. “Why are you doing this to me? Leave me alone.”

Zoe followed her, the expression in her eyes twisted and ugly. “You can't imagine what it's been like to be me, having to watch you two together. You can't imagine what it's been like to have to listen to you talk about him, like what you had was really special.”

“I thought you were my friend,” Becky Lynn whispered, realizing even as she murmured the words that Zoe had never been her friend.

“You make me sick. You're such a goody-goody little fool.” Zoe took a step toward her, her lovely face distorted with contempt. “Don't you know how the game is played? Don't you have any idea how this industry operates?”

Becky Lynn stared at the woman she had thought her friend, sick with betrayal and a dawning horror. Zoe had known about Jack's infidelities all along.

Infidelities? All along?

There had been others. She squeezed her fingers into fists. Lord only knew how many and with whom. She thought of how he had wanted to keep their relationship a secret, thought of all the beautiful models he had shot since they'd become lovers, thought of the times he had disappeared for a few hours. Despair choked her. Maybe he had slept with everybody, every model who had walked through the studio door.

Every model. Zoe.

She looked Zoe in the eye, thinking of the way the other girl sometimes gazed at Jack, as if she wanted to eat him up, thinking of the way she sometimes touched him, the way she sometimes hung on him.

Becky Lynn swallowed hard, already knowing the answer to the question she was about to ask. She asked, anyway, because she had to hear it from Zoe's own mouth. “Did you and Jack…were you…lovers?”