One True Love?. Stephanie Doyle
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exchanged a glance that was all too easy to interpret, but Corinne didn’t have the energy to fight them. “I just don’t understand. Where did I go wrong?”
“Cheer up,” Matthew said, bucking her on the shoulder. “And stop thinking about Brendan. You never know. You might meet some fabulous man and have a wild vacation affair.”
She lifted her left eyebrow into a perfect arc over her eye. “Don’t be ridiculous, Matthew. I am a one-woman man. One-man woman. Oh, you know what I mean.”
Although, the idea did have a little merit. If she could send back pictures of her and some handsome stranger to her buddies in the office to view, and say Darla happened to accidentally drop one or two on Brendan’s desk, well then that might be just the thing to push him over the edge. And if that didn’t work, she could always literally push him over an edge!
“Uh-oh. I know that look,” Darla warned, studying her friend’s suddenly diabolical expression. “And it usually means involving me in one of your plots.”
“Scripts,” Corinne corrected. “And it does. I’m thinking about a whole new approach. What about jealousy?”
“You’re always jealous,” Darla reminded her. “You know, because Brendan’s always messing around with other women behind your back?”
Corinne scowled at her alleged friend. “Not me. Him. What if I set out to make Brendan jealous? Of course, given my deep and abiding love for him, it would be almost impossible for me to flirt with another man…”
“You mean like what he’s doing now with Marjorie from human resources?”
Matthew pointed to the scene just outside the door. Brendan was bending down to pick up a pencil Marjorie had accidentally tossed into the middle of his path, the whole time keeping his eyes pinned to her protruding breasts.
Matthew was amazed. “How does he manage to follow the conversation when he’s got his eyes glued to her…”
Corinne shot him a menacing glare, and he quickly closed his mouth.
The bastard. The poor pathetic lonely…Nope, sometimes Brendan could be just a bastard. Corinne crunched her teeth together and squared her shoulders. She was going to be damned before she was made a fool out of by Marjorie from human resources. Calling upon all of her training, she focused on making herself taller with larger breasts. It was a visualization technique her seventh-grade acting teacher had taught her, and it had stayed with her ever since. Visualize yourself as you want to be seen and people will see it, too.
“Go get ’em, tiger.”
“Give him hell,” Darla added.
This from her cheering section. With the regal air of a queen she stepped out into the hall. Cubicles lined up along the hallway were filled with not-so-busy customer service representatives who had been enjoying the Marjorie and Brendan Show. Now that Corinne had added herself to the mix, the scene took on a whole new tension.
The question was, how did she want to play this particular act? All fifty employees of the small company knew about her on-again, off-again relationship with Brendan. Most thought he was playing her for a fool, but that was because they didn’t understand him. Now here she was with her newest competition, who, if it was at all possible, was wearing an even shorter skirt than hers. The woman must have had her legs genetically engineered. It was the only explanation.
So did she go for catty? Explosive? Sorrowful and betrayed? Better yet, it was time for the old standby. She would play the bigger person. Not an easy task, considering she was playing the scene with an Amazon.
As cool as lemonade in summer, she strolled up to the couple standing too close together for company etiquette, and nodded her head. “Marjorie. Brendan. See you both when I get back.” Enough said. She continued her march down the hall and out the door.
She didn’t hear it, but she felt Matthew and Darla’s applause accompany her all the way out the door.
IT WAS TOO EARLY for it to be hot. April was supposed to be about cool temperatures and soft breezes. But in New Jersey, when the humidity started to spike, anything was possible. Oh well, Corinne decided philosophically as she shucked her grasshopper blazer and noted the sweat stains, all the better to get her acclimated to the weather in the Bahamas. Still, it would have been the cherry on top to leave New Jersey while the weather was lousy for her two weeks of fun in the sun.
Dropping her suit into the dry-cleaning bin, Corinne checked the suitcase open on her bed one more time. Sundresses. Long flowy skirts. Strategic hip wraps. Three bathing suits. And SPF40 sunblock. For a redhead, frolicking in the sun did have its down side and its name was freckles.
The phone rang, and Corinne skipped through her condo to get to the kitchen before her answering machine picked up. When she missed the call by one ring, she decided she really was going to have to get another phone for her bedroom. But, since the only jack available was used for her modem, another phone also meant another line.
“Damn, I hate these things. Pick up dear. It’s your mother.”
Corinne cringed and considered playing not at home. She held her breath and waited.
“Damn it, Corinne, I know you’re there. I can hear you breathing. Now pick up the damn phone.”
Damn was her mother’s favorite word. She said it was because back in the fifties it was the only swear word they would let a woman say on film. It sort of became one of her trademarks—the sultry eyes, the husky voice and the fact that she said damn before almost every line. The first few times it could be highly effective, but after the tenth or so damn, it started to lose its impact.
Knowing there was no way out, she picked up the phone. “Hello, Mother.”
“Ah-hah, I knew you were there,” Grace Weatherby said as if she had uncovered some dark and diabolical plot.
“I was in the bedroom,” Corinne explained, not like that meant anything to her mother, who had only seen her condo once. And even that had been just a glimpse.
“I have tragic news. It’s absolutely damning!”
Corinne waited.
“Your sister is refusing to go to the damn Cannes Film Festival. Can you believe it? I’ve told her, her only hope of winning an Oscar is if the critics start to see her as a serious actress. And she refuses to listen to me.”
Serious actress. Myra? Corinne didn’t think so, not when her last film had starred an alien and the film before that a ten-foot gorilla. “Myra is a Hollywood box-office star. Maybe she’s content with that.”
If you asked Corinne, Myra would have been content as a toll taker. Blessed with her mother’s flaming-red hair and endless legs and her father’s fine cheekbones and green eyes, she was destined to be Hollywood’s girl for however long the ride would last. And, of course, the Weatherby name didn’t hurt. But Myra’s heart was never really into it.
“The money isn’t enough. Damn!” her mother exploded. “How long have I tried to instill in all of you that a Weatherby has won an acting award in each generation? Your father for best actor, me for best supporting actress, and even your brother managed to walk away with a Tony.”
“And there was my plaque for employee of the month,” Corinne added with her tongue in her cheek.
“Yes, of course,” her mother agreed.
Corinne could almost hear her mother struggling to recall what it was that she did for a living.
“Darling?”
“Yes, Mother?” Corinne knew what was coming.
“What exactly do you do for a living?”
She was twenty-seven and had been working as a financial controller for the same company for the last six years. However, her mother chose to block such horribly dull thoughts as finance from her mind. So, each time Corinne mentioned her work, Grace would