Sweet Valley Confidential: Ten Years Later (14 page)

“
Nice airport,
s’il vous plaît.”

“Oui, Madame.”

Gorgeous luck to get the cab so fast. But we don’t move.

Mainly because the taxi in front of us is still waiting for the famous M. Marville.

By now I’ve given up any attempt at French and ask my driver in a kind of fractured English, loudly and slowly, if he can go around the first car. He shrugs his shoulders, which like means either Huh? or I can’t do it.

“Plane!” I add the wings with my arms. “Please, do something!”

Again he shrugs, so I get out of the car and, without taking my eyes off the hotel entrance, ask the first taxi in my loud and slow facsimile of French if he can move just to let us pass.

He adds the outspread hands to his shrug.

He watches while I dig into my purse past all the makeup and under the heels and pull out a twenty-euro note.

Now he understands my English/French perfectly and pulls the car up onto the walkway far enough over to let us pass.

But my moron driver doesn’t get it. I race back to my taxi and frantically wave him to pass the first car. He starts the motor and I jump in.

Just at that moment, M. Marville—how I remember his name in all my panic, I can’t imagine, but I do—leisurely comes out of the hotel with his wife or whoever.

Before we can pass, the driver of the first car gets out and opens the back door and then the trunk.

I like slide down low in my seat and peek out the window to see if Regan has come out. He can’t just be sitting there waiting for me to come out of the ladies’ room all this time. Regan is not the waiting kind.

And where is Georges with the car?

There’s nothing to do but wait for the Marville party to put their suitcases in the trunk and get into the car. But they’re in no hurry.

Actually, maybe I’m building this up too much. What would really happen if Regan found me? Like could he force me to stay? This is my first time in Europe, and I don’t know the language or the customs and even though Regan’s French is far from fluent, he can be so forceful, even overwhelming. I know it’s just panic taking me into this craziness, but what if he said I was stealing from him? He could make up anything.

Just as I’m working myself up to hysteria, the Marvilles close the doors on the first car and my guy turns on the motor. That’s it. I sit up just in time to see Regan pushing open the hotel door.

I’m back like flat down on the backseat when we pass the Rolls waiting with Georges at the wheel.

How long before Georges tells Regan about the airport? He couldn’t have bought the perfume business. And what would Regan do? Would he go to the airport to stop me? Could he?

For the twenty-five or so minutes it takes to get to the Nice airport, I’m
so
a wreck. My imagination is leaping off the charts. At best he would be fifteen minutes behind me. In the old days, before all this security, it would be enough time to jump on any plane, but now with all the checks, it like takes forever.

I try to control myself and think rationally. Regan would expect me to go to New York, probably on the flight we came on, the Delta direct. So I won’t consider that at all. The best thing would be a flight to Paris or some major city where I can pick up a plane to New York.

The driver asks what terminal I want. Of course, I don’t know. With hand motions I limit my words to “New York” and “Fast, fast!” It doesn’t sink in until I bring on the tears. Now he gets it.

“Air France à Geneva. Après New York,”
he says, and takes me to Terminal Two.

I pay him, jump out, and race into the terminal. The big sign with the departures says my plane leaves in twenty-five minutes.

With security today in the United States, it would not be possible.

Nothing to do but try. Of course, there’s no line at the counter. I gear myself up for a long tearful story about why I so must be on that plane, but when I say first class to Geneva, the ticket agent just prints one out. It’s probably a commuter flight, but the magic words are first-class.

Getting through security, I have to stop myself from turning my head constantly to make sure I’m not being followed, which, of course, probably makes me look like a terrorist except there’s no way, even without my heels, I look like someone who’s going to waste two-hundred-dollar jeans on a bomb.

Inside the plane, seated in the luxurious second row, I stuff my bag under the seat in front and, reaching some sort of calm, let out a huge sigh of relief. I was more frightened than I’d thought possible. The back of my T-shirt is damp with sweat and the heat from my head makes strands of hair stick to my neck. My makeup is probably running, and I’m traveling first-class in sneakers. But I got away. I’m safe. For now.

Soon I’ll be in the arms of my sister, the safest place in the world, and exactly the reason why I wouldn’t trade being a twin for anything. I have what everyone yearns for, another human being who will always be there when I need her and who keeps me from ever having to be alone.

But not anymore. Now Jessica was just like everyone else; the uniqueness of the twinship was gone. She and Elizabeth had been like one person divided in half, viscerally connected, but not anymore. Now they weren’t even sisters.

It’s true, she wasn’t alone. She did have Todd and he loved her and he’d be there for her, but it would never be the same. He was another person, a separate human being, not a part of her.

She knew that she and Todd would have to deal with the Elizabeth problem in the future, but for now they felt like they were safe; they felt certain that Elizabeth would never come to Grandmother’s dinner.

7

New York

The Wicked Teapot was a quiet bar in the early afternoon, but in the evening it metamorphosed into singles’ hell. The street in front was jammed with smokers and drinkers and smoker-drinkers.

Elizabeth was not in the mood for this kind of scene. She’d just say hi to Liam and ask hey, could he maybe reserve a quiet table for her interview tomorrow? That sounded good.

She squeezed her way inside only to find it even more solidly packed than the sidewalk. Behind the bar were two bartenders, neither of whom was Liam. Maybe he was on a break.

“Is Liam working tonight?” She managed to get close enough to ask the young woman working the bar.

“He’s through for the night. Got off a few minutes ago.”

“Thanks,” Elizabeth said, and turned to tunnel her way through the crowd toward the door.

“You might still catch him over there near the kitchen doors,” the bartender called out over the crowd.

Elizabeth smiled a thank-you and shifted direction toward the kitchen where it was, thankfully, less crowded.

But Liam wasn’t there. It was probably a dumb idea anyway.

Elizabeth turned to go, then heard her name.

“Elizabeth!”

It was Liam, just coming through the swinging door. He looked even better than he had earlier. He was dressed in a perfectly fitted navy blazer with beige pants and a soft-looking beige-colored shirt. Not flashy, just cool. And very expensive-looking. Not at all like a bartender/out-of-work actor.

“Hi,” Elizabeth said. “I just stopped by to reserve a quiet table for tomorrow afternoon. I’m going to interview Will. You know, the playwright.”

“Sure, the guy from this afternoon. I’ll take care of that.”

“Hey, thanks. That’s great.” Elizabeth waved and turned to go. “See you tomorrow.”

“Wait up!” Liam called out. “As long as you’re here, can I buy you a drink?”

“This is a madhouse.”

“I don’t mean here,” Liam said. “I know a little café a couple of blocks away that should be quieter. Okay?”

“Sure, maybe a cup of coffee.”

On the walk over to the café, Liam told her a little about his life. The accent was real; he grew up in Dublin but had been living in the United States for six years. He had a degree in English lit from UCLA; his father was a surgeon on loan to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles. His mother was a psychologist with a private practice.

Elizabeth told him about growing up in Sweet Valley just ninety minutes outside of L.A. Turned out they were two California transplants with a lot in common.

Additionally, what she’d taken for romantic interest on his part wasn’t really there. And that nonfeeling was mutual and very comfortable. They were having a conversation like friends, good friends, in fact. Strange, considering they had just met. But Elizabeth could tell when she had a friend, and she could tell when it was something else. Without any words, she could feel that something else, because it was physical, and it wasn’t there with Liam. But the friendship was.

“Have you gotten any parts yet?” Elizabeth asked.

“One. Last winter I was in an Off-Off-Broadway piece called
Warfrats
at a loft in SoHo. Did you happen to cover it?”

“No. We only do Off Broadway.”

“Good, ’cause I was naked for most of it, and it was damn cold in that loft. After that I got a job as a waiter here.”

“How did it go?”

“First day I spilled the soup. Fred, the owner, figured the customers would be safer with me behind the bar. He’s an ex-actor himself, a great guy, and good about giving me time off for auditions. Right now I’m up for a part in a revival of an Odets play at a café in the Village. I think I’ve got a pretty good shot. Still nothing my father can brag about so far.”

“Will they come in for it?”

“Probably, but I owe them a visit now.”

Elizabeth nearly jumped out of her seat.

“When?”

“When what?”

“The visit?”

“It’s not set. I can go anytime. Why?”

“This is such a weird coincidence. I have to go back to Sweet Valley for my grandmother’s birthday, and I would really love to bring someone.”

“I think I saw that movie.”

“Me, too. But I promise you it wouldn’t be an acting job. No pretending you’re anything but a friend. I just want the company so I don’t have to do it alone. It’s going to be hell either way, but I have to do it for my grandmother. So, how about it, Liam? But only if you happen to be going at the same time. Of course, you could let me tell them you’re a New York actor, which would give me a little upgrade. But no romantic thing.”

“When is the party?”

“Next Thursday.”

“That’s a possibility. Fred might give me a couple of days off if I said I’d be back by Saturday night.”

“That would be perfect! I plan to be in for the party and out on the red eye that same night.”

“Can’t you get more time off?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Feel like telling me?”

It turned out she did.

They sat at the café for more than an hour, and at the end Elizabeth was feeling pretty good. She’d made two new New York friends in one day. Maybe with Will it was more like friends plus, but whatever, they were two people she actually liked.

It wasn’t until she got home that the enormity of what she’d done hit.

First she tried telling herself that she’d invited Liam just for the company. That worked better before she did it, but after, it didn’t feel so good. It felt like she was lying to herself, hiding behind a ridiculous excuse, which was an oxymoron, since how could you hide something from yourself when you’re right there, listening?

Maybe she wasn’t planning something exactly like Will’s scene, but was there still some evil intent hidden there?

What if she was just moving up the inevitable? Jessica was never going to be faithful to anyone. It was her weakness. Always had been. There was no reason that should change. Elizabeth knew her sister better than anyone else did. Better than Todd, for sure.

Poor Todd. The guppy in the path of the shark. He didn’t know it, but he was in for big trouble. He was definitely going to get hurt. But, of course, that wasn’t her problem anymore.

If she could push away the ugly thoughts and just remember his sweetness, how he had always tried so hard to please her. Like that time when Jessica left Regan. Todd wasn’t happy about having her stay with them, but he tried.