Page 3 of The Cruiser
ChapterTwo
It’squiet this morning in the offices of Sevruga, the luxury PR company I co-founded with my partner, Vaughn. On casual Fridays, no one shows up before ten a.m. That’s usually when I wake up, but after tossing and turning all night, I gave up on the notion of sleep. Derek was already gone when I came downstairs to make coffee. The only sign of him was the cashmere throw draped along the sofa where he’d slept.
I don’t want to think about where he went.
I don’t want to think.
I’m a ghost of myself this morning, fighting back tears and this close to indulging in scream therapy.
Damn you, Alistair Noelle.
I scroll through his Instagram feed a fifth time but the only photos of him and Derek from South Africa are group shots with the crew. Never together, just the two of them. He’s been careful, like Derek.
Alistair’s a grip, one of those guys on set who pushes the dolly or moves cranes. I remember him clearly. Hard to forget the only man at the wrap party last year who wore a kilt, gladiator sandals and nothing else. He had this Viking quality to him, strutting around with two blonde braids hanging down his back and drinking out of a deer-horn beer stein. Quick to smile, he approached me guilelessly, flirted even.
Looking back, it’s impossible to say if he and Derek were ever in the same space that night. I barely saw Derek. The club they’d rented out for the night was packed, and for most of the evening, I hung out in a private booth with the director, and long-time friend, Stryker Talone. I kept a low profile because wrap parties are strange, incestuous things. One final, drunken blowout for cast and crew who had been under pressure together for months. I let Derek work the room and wasn’t looking for signs of infidelity. But he and Alistair had already been involved.
That’s what Derek told me last night.
It’s been almost a year.
I toss my iPhone onto my desk, massaging the throb in both temples. I’m running on three hours of sleep and a quattro Americano. Forget about the plans to reconnect with Derek this weekend. Project number one is re-evaluating my life.
“Hey, Vans!” a familiar voice shouts from down the hall. “Are you actually here?”
I jolt upright in my chair. Vaughn Scriller is the only person who calls me Vans, or should I say, the only one who gets away with it. Moreover, why is he here? His wife Lindsay is supposed to be dragging him off on vacation, their first getaway in five years. Their flight leaves in three hours. I compose myself and poke my head into the hallway.
His face lights up when he sees me. “Ha! I knew I smelled your perfume.”
Vaughn's a youthful fifty-five, one of those distinguished, timeless men with salt-and-pepper hair and beard who only look better as they age. Better yet, we look good together, and that goes a long way toward caché in this town.
"What's going on?" I ask. He should not be in workout gear or toting his Tumi briefcase. "Don't tell me you bailed? Lindsay will have my head."
“No, the trip is still on. Unfortunately,” he grumbles. “That’s why I need to take some files with me. Fend off the boredom. I was about to call you, but since you’re here…” He waves at me to join him in his office.
“Give me a sec.”
If my compact mirror isn’t lying, concealer hides most of the traces of my sleepless night. But Vaughn is my first test. Can I make it through a conversation without breaking down? The short walk from my corner office to his suddenly feels much longer. I take my usual seat on the sofa and watch Beverly Hills traffic through the floor-to-ceiling window as Vaughn flips through files in his cabinet.
“How’d it go last night?” he asks. “Sorry I was a no-show. Lindsay dragged me to Saks to buy us safari outfits.” He turns his head so he can roll his eyes at me.
“It went great. Everyone loved the free pair of shoes. I think this line is going to blow up.”
Akari is a Japanese designer known for eye-popping dresses that the glitterati snatch up faster than limited edition Vuitton, and now she’s expanding into shoes. At fifteen-hundred a pair, the influencers and curated media in attendance last night at the Peninsula drooled over the luxe freebies. She texted me this morning with the good news that her spring line sold out.
Vaughn slams the filing cabinet drawer shut and mutters, “Where did I put that fucking thing?”
“Most people would sound happier going on a month-long, first-class safari in Africa,” I say.
“Most people would be thrilled to find a twenty on the sidewalk,” he sasses back. “You know how uptight I get when I don’t have my finger on the pulse.”
“It’s only four weeks; you’ll survive. And maybe you’ll actually enjoy yourself.”
“Christ, I hope so.” His watchful eyes dart from the Bauhaus coffee table I found for him to the nook with club chairs where he illegally vapes and savors small batch whiskey. He doesn’t always do work in here, something I’ve had to skate around when Lindsay texts me asking where he is. “For crying out loud," he says, moving his briefcase to one side. "Right in front of my face.” He rips the top page off a legal pad sitting on his desk and walks it over to me. “Here. Happy Friday.”
“Morgan de Rohan-Chabot,” I read out, Vaughn’s tidy printing so much better than my illegible scrawl. “Who’s he?”
“It’s Sha-bow,” he corrects, “which means he’s probably French and pretentious as fuck. Some hotshot yacht designer. He wanted to meet earlier this week and I forgot. He sounds legit. Money to burn.”
