Saved by the Celebutante Read online

  Saved by the

  Celebutante

  KIRSTY MCMANUS

  Copyright © 2016 Kirsty McManus

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1530395860

  ISBN-13: 978-1530395866

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  First up, of course, I would like to thank Natasha and Tamyka – you two make writing so much fun – and a lot less scary than it would be otherwise.

  Next is Moira, who always gives me a different perspective and isn’t afraid to be honest (I do appreciate it!).

  Thank you to those who gave early feedback: Belinda, Mel and Anna (you guys rock for reading the book twice!), Beck, Gabrielle, Michaela, Jane and Tracey. And thank you Mick for making me check my facts!

  To Starr and the readers at Quiethouse Editing, your feedback was very helpful! I look forward to working with you again! (But hopefully with a less stressful deadline next time!)

  Giselle at Xpresso Book Tours, thank you for your amazing service and for accommodating my last minute changes.

  And last, but definitely not least, thank you Kesh for always being so supportive.

  ONE

  “I’m just not sure how I feel about it. What do you think?”

  I’m sitting opposite Kahlua, the infamous celebutante, in our first ever face-to-face meeting, and I have absolutely no idea what she’s talking about.

  “In regards to?” I pretend I’m taking notes in the hope she won’t notice my lack of attention.

  “The sex tape.”

  I blink. A sex tape? How could I miss something like that? I must be really off my game today. But then I knew I should have rescheduled this meeting. I’m not exactly at my sharpest, thanks to an argument with my husband last night. I barely slept at all.

  “What exactly would you like to know?” I prompt.

  “Whether I should do one?” She says it slowly, in the same way I imagine she’d give directions to a foreign tourist.

  “Oh God. Um…” I flounder around, trying to find the most tactful response. “I’m not sure I’m qualified to answer that.”

  “Why not? You’re a senior PR rep at one of the best firms in the city. Isn’t that what you do?”

  “No. We definitely do not do sex tapes.” At least not to my knowledge. Maybe there’s a whole secret sex tape department upstairs at Perry Tyler I’m not aware of. But I don’t think so. Is that kind of thing even legal?

  “Come on. You must have some thoughts. Even if it’s just your personal opinion.”

  I mentally shake myself. Christina Louise Lambert! Pull it together! What are they paying you to do here?

  “Honestly? I think it’s a terrible idea considering the reason you hired our firm.”

  Kahlua hired us to help spread the word for her new organic baby food company. It’s an interesting direction for a woman who is more famous for wardrobe malfunctions and half-naked Instagram photos than an actual career. Which is probably why she’s struggling with the notion that getting naked might not be beneficial in this situation.

  “I’m just not sure a sex tape will really send the right message to the moms of America,” I say gently.

  She sighs. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I want my babies to be proud of their momma. It’s just…I don’t know…”

  “Hey, it’s okay. I understand that a sex tape seems like an easy way to make money, but you have to think about the long-term consequences. Once it’s out there, you can’t get it back.”

  “That’s true.” She smiles, and I get the feeling she really appreciates my input. “I think you need to talk to my publicist, Billy. He’s the one who suggested I do it in the first place. Not to mention most of the silly things I find myself doing for a paycheck. He thinks selling baby food is too much hard work.”

  Billy sounds like an idiot, I almost say out loud.

  “You know what?” I suggest. “Maybe I should talk to Billy. Your personal image is as important as the product’s, so we should all work together to create the right perception.”

  Then at least I’ll get a feel for what his deal is, and I can formulate a back-up plan in case he tries to take over.

  “That would be great. Thanks, Chrissie.”

  “Okay, well with that out of the way, would you like to take a look at a few of the initial branding concepts? We’ve been liaising with that design company you requested to put together some suggestions for you.”

  I open up a folder and half-stand to slide it across the table. Bad idea. I went on a covert four-hour eating binge at my desk this morning and now my stomach is protesting. A small groan escapes my lips.

  Kahlua raises an eyebrow. “You okay, hon?”

  “Yes, sorry. I just have a bit of a stomach ache. Don’t mind me.”

  “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

  I do a double-take. “Uh, no. I am absolutely without question, not pregnant. Why would you think that?”

  She tilts her head to the side. “I’m not sure. I guess it’s one of the first symptoms I experienced when I was expecting the triplets. Most people don’t usually make the connection.”

  If only I were pregnant. It’s interesting Kahlua made that assumption when it’s been a bit of an issue at home lately. Corey wants to wait. I’ve been trying to tell him that we can’t wait much longer, seeing as I’m already thirty-five.

  “Oh, okay. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “But you would probably already know that if you have kids,” she points out.

  “No. No kids yet. But they’re definitely on the to-do list.” I force out a light-hearted laugh.

  “Just don’t leave it too late,” she says earnestly. “My friend Tina waited until she was forty and then her husband died! So now she’s forty-two and still too upset to start dating again. She might never have children!” She shakes her head sadly.

  “That’s too bad.” Tina’s story is exactly the kind of thing I’m afraid of. I am only too aware of time passing me by, but this is a work meeting. It’s no place for me to be talking about my biological clock.

  I glance up and see my boss, Linda, tapping her watch through the door. For a split second, I feel like she’s actually confirming I’m leaving the baby-making a bit late. Then I realize she just wants me to move things along.

  “So what do you think?” I say, pointing to the folder.

  Kahlua doesn’t get the hint. “Also, don’t let your man dictate the schedule. If I’d left it up to Jack, we would never have had children. He was always too busy with filming or promoting his movies. But one day, I just put my foot down and said damn it Jack, we’re doing it, and that’s final!”

  “Was he okay with that?”

  I’m only asking to be polite. I’m pretty sure Jack wasn’t okay with that. Kahlua started out as a personal assistant to Jack Dean, the famously volatile actor. They married in a quickie Vegas wedding a few years back, even though Jack was well known for his playboy ways at the time. When Kahlua fell pregnant with triplets, everyone thought he’d turned over a new leaf – but four months into the pregnancy, news broke of him and a co-star getting cozy in a seedy Hollywood alley.

  “Well, he wasn’t ecstatic,” she admits. “But he did understand it was important to me. Although, come to think of it, he did get caught with that whore soon afterwards, so maybe it wasn’t such a good idea.” She frowns. “You probably shouldn’t listen to me. I’ve made a complete mess of my life. You do what you want to do.”

  Her expression is so forlorn, I want to give her a hug. And if we weren’t sitting opposite each other at a boardroom table, I probably would. Instead, I reach out and pat her hand.

  “Don’t feel bad,” I soothe. “You’ve done great so far. It must be really hard ra
ising three children on your own.”

  Rumor has it Kahlua got almost nothing in the divorce, which is why she now resorts to tacky publicity stunts and questionable endorsements to make a living.

  She visibly shakes herself and finally looks down at the folder, pointing to a design seemingly at random. “I like that one.”

  “Oh, okay. Great.”

  Kahlua eyes me thoughtfully. “Is that all right?”

  “Yes, of course. But I’m curious. What made you choose that one?” And so quickly?

  “The little puppy on the logo looks like my dog, Max,” she says simply.

  “Perfect. It’s always good to go with your first instinct,” I confirm. It’s actually the one I would have picked too, but I wanted to see what Kahlua thought before I said anything.

  “Plus, the icon on that one is the most appropriately designed of all the concepts. It won’t lose clarity when it’s printed small, and it will still be striking if we put it on a billboard. I assume the studio has done it as a vector?”

  Normally I can hide my surprise well, but today my mouth falls open.

  Kahlua laughs knowingly. “Just because I look like this,” she says, indicating her blond hair extensions, plump lips and surgically enhanced chest, “doesn’t mean I’m clueless.”

  I hastily recover.

  “Of course not. It’s just…”

  “I know, I know. If I’m so intelligent, why would I want to do a sex tape? To be honest, I don’t care how people perceive me as long as I have enough money to provide for my kids. That’s why I usually go along with what Billy suggests. He lines up all these crazy stunts, and I just have to show up to earn my cut. But I do believe in doing my homework, which is why I know all about vectors. And also why I was asking your opinion on the sex tape. I like to find out what the professionals think and then make an informed decision.”

  “Kahlua, you are possibly my new favorite client.”

  She beams. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

  I grimace as another spasm wreaks havoc on my gut.

  Kahlua frowns. “Sweetie, do you want to take a break?”

  “Actually, if you don’t mind, that would be great. How about I call tomorrow so we can discuss the next phase of our strategy?”

  She waves me off. “Sure. I hope you feel better soon!”

  I smile apologetically and run for the bathroom, locking myself in a stall. I feel like Finch in American Pie when he overdoses on laxatives at school. I have never been so mortified.

  After a few minutes, I hobble back to my desk and dash off an email to Linda. I’m not sure I can see out the day feeling like this. I apologize for leaving early and grab my purse before hurrying downstairs to hail a cab.

  Fortunately I find one right away. I jump in, close my eyes and press my sweaty forehead to the window. Well, that was a disaster of a day. I am never usually so scatter-brained or unprofessional. I’ll have to make it up to Kahlua tomorrow.

  I wonder if Corey is home yet. Part of me wants him to be there so we can talk about last night, but the other part kind of hopes he’s not. I don’t like dealing with people when I’m sick. I’d rather just curl up in bed with some peppermint tea and an old episode of Seinfeld.

  I really don’t know what’s going on with my husband lately. Every time I hint that he’s acting weird, he denies it – but last night I wouldn’t let it go, refusing to believe I was imagining things. Not that it achieved anything. We just kept going round and round in circles until I eventually passed out on the couch. When I woke up, I had a crick in my neck and Corey was trying to sneak out, claiming he had an appointment at the fish market.

  He promised we’d talk later, but I knew that was a lie. I also knew the fish market appointment was a lie. He’s a chef, so he does have an erratic work schedule, but he is also renowned for avoiding confrontation. I normally tolerate it, but it’s starting to become a real problem. If you can’t communicate clearly with your partner, what hope do you have?

  The cab is stuck in traffic, so I try to distract myself by thinking about my meeting with Kahlua. She’s not at all what I expected. I know I shouldn’t be surprised that her public persona isn’t anything like reality, but she still caught me off guard. I can’t believe she knows what a vector is! I didn’t even know what one was until recently. I wonder if Billy has been holding her back from exploring more meaningful ventures.

  My mind drifts to the idea of kids. It’s definitely something that’s been on my mind a lot lately. If you had asked any of my high school friends who they thought would be the first to start a family, they would have said me without hesitation. It seems crazy that it hasn’t happened yet. What if Corey and I finally start trying to get pregnant and it turns out I’m infertile? Or Corey is? Or, heaven forbid, Corey dies like that poor husband of Kahlua’s friend Tina?

  The driver pulls up out the front of our building. I shove a handful of bills at him and race up to our apartment. Thankfully the bathroom is right inside the door. My stomach is still in full rebellion mode.

  I sit down on the toilet and bury my face in my hands.

  It’s only then I notice music blaring from the bedroom. It’s Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive. What on earth?

  After a few moments, I unsteadily get to my feet and splash cold water over my face. My usual pale complexion has taken on a grayish tinge, and my eyes have dark circles around them. I look like something out of The Walking Dead, but that makes sense, considering the fact I feel exactly like a zombie right now.

  I pad out into the hall and down to our room. The door is closed, so I quietly open it.

  And jump back in surprise.

  Well. That’s not something you see every day.

  TWO

  It’s just so unexpected. I don’t know whether to laugh, or be horrified at the possible implications.

  In the end, I just stand there, staring.

  My husband Corey is posing in front of our full-length mirror and taking selfies with his iPhone.

  Dressed in drag.

  And not just any drag. This is fishnet tights, black corset and spiky heels drag.

  It’s white foundation, black eyeliner and scarlet lipstick drag.

  If I didn’t know any better, I would think he was auditioning for the role of Frank-N-Furter in the Rocky Horror Show.

  He sees me and slowly lowers the phone. “Er, hi Chrissie.”

  “Are you trying out for a play?” I ask casually. It occurs to me that there might be a perfectly reasonable explanation for the scene in front of me.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Going to a fancy dress ball?” I offer helpfully.

  “No.”

  “Then can you please tell me what the hell is going on?”

  He ignores my question, and instead asks one of his own. “Why are you home so early?”

  “Is that all you can say? Why am I home so early? Corey, why are you dressed like that?”

  His gaze drops to the floor. “I…”

  I hold up a hand. “Wait. I think I’m going to need a drink before we have this conversation.”

  He nods.

  I spin around and march down the hall to retrieve the emergency vodka. Yes, we have emergency vodka – which is usually reserved for my sister Penny when she breaks up with someone. Or after I’ve talked to Mom and Dad on the phone for our bi-annual chat.

  Corey trails after me, grabbing a bathrobe on the way, but still tottering along on the heels. Even in socks he’s six foot three, so right now his head almost touches the ceiling. I hate that he can walk so naturally. I tried on six inch heels once and almost broke an ankle.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t concentrate with you looking like that. Do you mind doing something about that and those?” I point to his makeup and shoes.

  “Oh, right, yes. Hang on.”

  He disappears for a moment, and I desperately fumble around in the kitchen looking for a glass and some ice.

  By the time he returns, fre
sh-faced and barefoot, I’m curled up in the corner of the sofa, nursing my drink and gently rocking back and forth. At least his hair is the same chestnut color, styled in its usual side part. I concentrate on that.

  Corey sits down opposite in the single armchair, his eyes focused everywhere but on me.

  “Uh…” he begins. He looks like he wants to vomit. He’s not alone. The combination of my upset stomach, vodka and uncertainty is not a good one.

  “Corey, are you a cross-dresser?” I blurt out.

  “I’m not sure,” he says quietly.

  “Well, do you just like dressing up for the fun of it? Or do you feel like you’re a female trapped in a male body?” Thanks to my sister Penny, I know that there are many different combinations of gender identity and sexuality. I also know there can be a big difference between someone who cross-dresses in day-to-day female clothing, and one who dresses in drag.

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “Okay. Well, we’ll deal with that later. I guess right now all I’m concerned about is what this means for our relationship. Are you straight? Bi? Gay? Something else?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I sit there for a minute, my brain swirling. If Corey is straight, we might be able to work through this. I take a slug of vodka. But the idea of incorporating costumes into our sex life makes me anxious. I’ve never been into the idea of roleplaying. I mean, I giggle at the mere mention of the word spank.

  “Do you really not know? Or are you just trying to avoid telling me the truth?”

  His eyes well up. “I’m still trying to make sense of it all myself. I guess I like the idea of being with a guy when I’m dressed up…” He trails off.

  “But you haven’t decided how you feel the rest of the time?” I finish for him.

  He takes a long time to reply, and when he finally speaks, it’s barely audible. “I think it might be all the time.”

  I stare at the ground, stunned. Is this really happening?