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  And how would they both cope with the fact that they were destined to spend more time apart than together? Could he expect a girl as young as Gabrielle to remain interested in a man she might see only once or twice a month? And would he be able to handle the demands that loving a young, incredibly beautiful celebrity would bring?

  If the examples of her predecessors were any indication, Gabrielle could count on being pursued by royalty, musicians, movie stars, and professional athletes—all anxious to pump up their own egos by acquiring a supermodel “arm piece.” The antique bracelet from Greg von Ulrich was just the first of many lavish and expensive gifts men would use to woo Gabrielle.

  Could he deal with all this and more? Granted, as a prize-winning journalist with an international reputation, Doug was no lightweight, but he had neither the disposition nor the inclination to join the ranks of the coveted “beautiful people.” Doug also had never considered himself to be a jealous man, but this was an entirely different ball game. Did he have a big enough bat to play in the major leagues?

  Doug’s thoughts were interrupted when an exuberant Gabrielle jumped into his arms. She was flying high. She gave him an excited hug and kiss, her face flush with excitement.

  “I take it all went well,” he replied with the greatest understatement of the year.

  “Can you keep a secret? What I’m about to say is strictly off the record.”

  “You have nothing to worry about,” he assured her.

  “Kiss me, I’m a millionaire!”

  Doug let out a gigantic shout and twirled Gabrielle around in a circle. He silenced her joyous screams and cries of delight with a long congratulatory kiss, a spectacle greeted by their fellow pedestrians with applause. A street cleaner tipped the fluorescent-green bristles of his broom in a congratulatory salute. “Aime, et fais ce que tu veux,” he advised as he swept past the couple. Love, and do what you will.

  26

  “Good morning, Bright Eyes,” Albert Wilcot’s voice sang out over the phone.

  “Papa! When did you guys get into town?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  “Where’s Mama?”

  “In the bathroom trying to steam the wrinkles out of her outfit before your lunch. She’s really looking forward to seeing you.”

  “Me, too,” Felicia responded, hoping she sounded more sincere than she felt. When Jolie suggested accompanying her husband to New York so mother and daughter could spend time together, Felicia had unsuccessfully tried to discourage her, citing an extraordinary workload as her excuse. As much as she loved her mother, she couldn’t bear the idea of setting off Jolie’s ultrasensitive maternal radar and having to answer a barrage of questions about her strange behavior of late. “You’re sure you can’t join us?”

  “I’m afraid not, honey. This medical conference has me tied up morning till night, which is why I’m calling so early. I wanted to at least speak with you and my son-in-law while I’m in the same city.”

  “I’m afraid you’re stuck with just me, Papa. Trace already left for court,” Felicia informed her father.

  “That’s too bad. When do you expect him this evening? Maybe I can catch him during the dinner break.”

  “It’s hard to say. You know how Trace is when it comes to his work.” She didn’t bother to add that his early departure was directly related to yet another heated argument between them. In fact, she and her husband hadn’t spoken to each other in days.

  “Yes, I do. Both of you work a bit too hard, if you ask me. But since you didn’t, I’m not going to butt in. I’ll leave that to your mother,” Albert said, causing Felicia to chuckle. “Good to hear you laugh, sweetheart. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “I’m sorry Papa couldn’t join us,” Felicia told her mother after placing her lunch order with the waiter.

  “He is, too, but I’m glad we have this chance to talk alone.”

  “How is he? Is he sticking to his diet?”

  “Reluctantly.”

  “What’s up with Lindsay? She called me the other day, but I haven’t had a chance to get back to her,” Felicia said.

  “Lindsay’s busy being Lindsay,” Jolie remarked, smiling. “I think she’s finally picked a major—two, actually—dance and psychology. She’s decided to become a dance therapist.”

  “And how are you doing, Mama?”

  “I’m okay. Just a few worries rattling around in my head.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “What makes you think there’s something wrong with me?” Felicia asked, avoiding her mother’s inquisitive eyes.

  “Maybe because we rarely hear from you these days, or because you and Trace continually avoid being around us lately. And look how your clothes are hanging off you. Just how much weight have you lost?”

  “I’ve been working very hard, Mama. We both have. There just hasn’t been time to eat, or call, or run down to D.C. to visit.”

  “Does hard work explain away the pain and confusion in your eyes? Felicia, what’s wrong? Is everything all right between you and Trace?”

  Felicia could feel the tears welling up in her eyes. Just as she knew it would be, it was a futile exercise to try to hide her problems from Jolie. Maybe a little mother’s love was exactly what she needed right now. Maybe some maternal TLC could make her feel less guilty and confused about what a mess her life was in. “No, Mama, it’s not.”

  “Honey, why didn’t you say something sooner? You know I’m always here to help you.”

  “I don’t know. I guess I was too embarrassed or afraid you’d think I’d let you and Papa down.”

  “Licia, every marriage has its problems. Your father and I have been married for thirty-six years. Do you really think that all thirty-six were blissful and problem-free? Honey, marriage is hard work. There are peaks and there are valleys. The key is to store the love and respect you gather during the high times to help get you through the low. Tell me, what’s going on between you two?”

  “We’re having some problems. Problems that we’re seeing a marriage counselor about,” she admitted.

  “Is there another woman?” Jolie probed gently. “Is Trace cheating on you?”

  Felicia didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Laugh at her mother’s assumption that it was Trace who’d been unfaithful, or cry because only she knew the truth. How heartbroken and disappointed would her parents be if they knew that it was their “perfect” daughter who’d made love to another man and then aborted their grandchild because she was unsure of its paternity? “No, Mama, there definitely isn’t another woman,” Felicia assured her. “It would be so much simpler if there were.”

  27

  “Will we be done soon?” Gabrielle asked nervously. Laslo was putting the finishing touches to her makeup. The press conference to announce her working relationship with Scarborough Designs was scheduled to begin in little over half an hour, and Gabrielle wanted to review her statement one more time.

  “All done,” Laslo announced, brushing away some excess powder. “Beautiful as usual.”

  “Thanks, Las.”

  “Here’s your dress,” announced one of Maynard’s assistants, walking through the door. She helped Gabrielle slip into the short emerald-green dress that Maynard had chosen especially for her. Inspired by his new muse, he had designed a fresh line of outrageously sexy, make-the-most-of-your-body cocktail dresses. The line would be introduced as part of his new collection.

  “You look magnificent.”

  “Thanks. Could you find Beatrice for me?” Gabrielle wasn’t concerned about her appearance. Right now she was more interested in how she was going to sound when she stepped up to the podium.

  “I’m right here,” Bea said, stepping into the room. “What do you need?”

  “Could we go over this statement one more time, please?”

  “Sure, if you really think you need to. You knew it perfectly last night.”

  “Just once more.”


  “Okay,” Beatrice agreed. She sat down in the makeup chair and listened as Gabrielle ran through her lines. She recited them flawlessly. Her delivery was easy and fluid and did not sound scripted or rehearsed.

  “Perfect.”

  “Good. I just want this to go very smoothly. I’d hate for Maynard to think it was a mistake to hire me.”

  “He’s lucky to have you,” Bea assured her.

  “Maynard, good to see you,” Greg said, greeting the designer with a strong handshake.

  “Hello. Do you know where I can find Gabrielle? I had a brainstorm over breakfast. I want to make some changes in her statement.”

  “She’s in makeup, but we’re only a few minutes away from getting started. Are you sure you want to make changes now?”

  “She can read them off the cards if necessary.”

  “Well, if you don’t have a problem with that, she shouldn’t either.”

  The two men walked into the makeup room to find Gabrielle, Beatrice, and Felicia huddled together. Gabrielle was again rehearsing her copy.

  “Mr. Scarborough, Greg, how are you this afternoon?” Felicia asked. “The house is packed, and the reporters have just about finished their requisite snacks and coffee, so I think we’re about ready to begin. Bea, why don’t you come with me and I’ll help you find your seat?”

  “Break a leg, honey,” Beatrice encouraged as she lightly hugged Gabrielle and followed Felicia out the door.

  “Well, young lady, how do you feel?” Maynard inquired.

  “Terrific. I appreciate the opportunity, and I’ll do the best job I possibly can.”

  “I have no doubt you will. I’d like you to add this to your statement this afternoon,” Maynard said, handing Gabrielle a piece of paper.

  Gabrielle felt herself go pale under her foundation. What was she going to do with these late changes? Beatrice had already taken her seat, and even if she were still around, there was no time to learn these new lines.

  “I know I’m springing this on you at the very last minute, but don’t worry about memorizing it. You can read it right off the cards.”

  “Gabrielle, you look positively petrified,” Gregory observed. “Are you okay?”

  “Just a little nervous about the changes. Could you read this to me, Maynard? Hearing it will help it sink in.” There was no way that in this short bit of time that she was going to memorize his words verbatim, but if she got the gist down, she could wing it.

  “Sure. It’s quite short, so don’t be nervous,” Maynard said as he began to read. “Epictetus once said, ‘One who desires to excel should endeavor in those things that are in themselves most excellent.’ This is the philosophy behind every Scarborough design. Our goal is to design clothes that emphasize and flatter the wearer, not just the dream. That’s why I’m proud to represent—so on and so on.”

  “Very nice,” Gabrielle commented.

  “I’m glad you think so. It’s important you believe the words, not just read them.”

  “I absolutely believe in your clothes and your vision. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here,” Gabrielle assured him. “Don’t worry, I won’t let you down.”

  “I know you won’t.”

  “Well, kids, it’s show time,” Felicia returned to inform the group.

  “Let’s get out there,” Greg said as the three left the room. Walking down toward the auditorium, Gabrielle worked hard to compose herself and put a check on her panic. Frightened as she might be, there was no way she was going to blow this now.

  Gabrielle took her seat in the first row. As Felicia took the podium and proceeded to introduce Maynard Scarborough, she glanced around the crowded room. There had to be at least forty reporters and photographers in attendance. Among the several television crews set up in the back, she recognized Cynthia Bagby, host of “Fashion Forward,” a popular cable-TV show that chronicled the comings and goings of the industry’s players. Gabrielle also noticed Stephanie with an armful of press kits standing among the various assistants in the back of the room. Up front, Maynard was still speaking, though Gabrielle had no idea what he was saying. She was too busy concentrating on her upcoming role. All too soon, she heard her name announced. Before leaving her seat, she sent a silent SOS, first to her mother in heaven and then to Doug in Boston. She needed all the help she could get.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to present to you now the new face of Scarborough Designs, God’s most beautiful idea, Ms. Gabrielle Donovan,” Maynard said, gesturing Gabrielle to the front.

  Gabrielle rose and walked slowly to the podium. Turning toward the audience, she looked out into a pool of reporters, pens and tape recorders poised, all waiting for her to say something, if not brilliant, at least interesting. With television cameras rolling and flashbulbs going off in her face, Gabrielle opened her mouth and found herself unable to speak. She smiled broadly, fighting to maintain control and remember what she was there to say. To her dismay, even the original statement she’d memorized was nowhere to be found in her head. Moments passed, several lifetimes it seemed to Gabrielle, before the words “Good afternoon” finally escaped her lips. Behind the podium she crossed her fingers and began to ad-lib.

  “My mother always used to tell me that when life gives you a pimple, make a beauty mark,” Gabrielle began, reciting one of Helene’s homespun quotes. The folksy humor prompted a friendly chuckle to ripple around the room. It was a sound that put Gabrielle at ease and encouraged her to continue. “She was trying to tell me that every human being has imperfections, that the trick to looking and feeling good is to take what God has given you—flaws and all—and make the best of it. Well, that’s the genius behind Scarborough Designs. Maynard Scarborough not only dresses a woman’s body in luscious fabrics and creative designs, but her mind and ego as well.

  “As every well-appointed woman knows, the secret to great style is confidence. Maynard’s clothes give a woman the confidence to be her own fashion accessory, to emphasize her positives, and to create a unique look for herself. That’s why I am so pleased to be representing Scarborough Designs. I’m confident that this relationship will be long and fruitful, because while fashions may fade, style—Scarborough style, that is—remains. Thank you.”

  The audience, led by Maynard himself, burst into applause. The sound of such magnanimous approval was music to Gabrielle’s ears. The designer hurried toward her and embraced her, while the photographers in attendance captured the exuberant moment on film. It was clear that the creative union of this divine woman and this powerful designer was going to be a force to be reckoned with.

  God’s most beautiful idea, Stephanie thought. Isn’t that going a bit far? This entire Gabrielle affair was going way too far, in Stephanie’s opinion. Why was Gabrielle getting all this adulation, not to mention cash for doing nothing but standing around while someone took her picture? And to really make this entire thing a major Maalox moment, it was part of Stephanie’s job to see that the girl went even further.

  “Maynard, it’s obvious you’ve picked a very beautiful and able representative for your company, but why a novice? Why not a more famous face?” inquired a reporter from Women’s Wear Daily.

  “At Scarborough Designs we constantly try to dazzle our customers. If we use a girl who is already too famous, we lose our cutting-edge appeal. We weren’t looking for a star, but it just so happens that when we found Gabrielle, we found one.”

  “Gabrielle, how does all this make you feel?”

  “Very lucky,” she answered, smiling.

  “And very wealthy perhaps? Can you tell us the details of your contract?” asked a journalist from the New York Post.

  “I can tell you that while I hope to be associated with Scarborough Designs for decades, our initial contract is for three years. My salary is confidential, but Maynard has been very generous.”

  “Generous to the tune of three million dollars,” the girl standing next to Stephanie remarked.

  “He’s paying her a million
dollars a year? How do you know this?”

  “It’s the gossip around the office.”

  “Whose office?”

  “The guy’s up front.”

  “You work for Maynard Scarborough?”

  “Not directly. I usually work in personnel, but this week I’m filling in for his assistant who’s on jury duty. I heard some people talking about this girl’s deal.”

  “What people?”

  “Well, they were secretaries. They were griping about having to bust their behinds every day while he gave this new model a million dollars a year, plus fifteen thousand per fashion show. All for working less than a month all year.”

  “They have a point,” Stephanie answered dryly. Wasn’t this just delicious? Ever since Gabrielle had signed this contract, Stephanie had been trying to find out the details. And now she’d managed to scoop every reporter in the room simply because she’d had the dumb luck to stand next to a bigmouthed temp who worked with bigmouthed secretaries.

  “Is she lucky or what?”

  “Yeah, lucky—real lucky.” How is it that women like Gabrielle get handed the magic wands in life, while I’m left holding a fuckin’ pooper scooper? Stephanie stood up and made her way across the row of seats and out the ballroom. I’m tired of having nothing and being a nobody, she decided as she headed for the phone. It was time to call Harry Grain. Stephanie was about to offer up Gabrielle as her sacrificial lamb.

  “Harry, this is Stephanie. I want to talk to you about my roommate.”

  “Who’s your roommate?”

  “Gabrielle Donovan.”

  “You live with that delicious little tidbit? The woman who Vogue says is going to be the supermodel of the century?”