Page 10 of Love, Lines, and Alibis
Which was why I expected Victor not to say a single thing about my ex being there when he arrived. And then he did. And I can genuinely say that I didn’t see that plot twist coming.
“I know David and you are friends or whatever,” Victor blurted, and I would have been a bit taken aback by the euphemism if I didn’t know how much of a true politician he was. He was a master in the art of not saying what he implied. “But you should probably be careful.”
“What do you mean?” Was that his way of telling me he was jealous or something? Did he want to have the exclusivity chat? Because I sure wasn’t interested.
“Too many things against him. First, he bylines an article that gets Dashing Henry canceled but somehow David ends up being fired by the newspaper where he published that article. Then Dashing sues him for libel. And now the actor turns up dead at his door a week before the libel trial was set to start.”
“If you put it like that...” I don’t think Victor realized how much the mention of Dashing Henry unsettled me. I was hit with a wave of discomfort at his name and not because I thought Victor could be jealous of David. “I mean, it wasn’t technically his door but the parking area.”
“Same thing. The cops like him for this. Don’t be seen or photographed with him,” Victor continued. “I don’t think your mom would appreciate the fact that her oldest daughter was linked to a suspected killer.”
You have to give it to politicians. Victor wasn’t really worried about my safety if David was indeed Dashing Henry’s killer. He wasn’t even jealous or, if he was, he was making an effort not to show it. What concerned my pretend boyfriend was the possibility of my image—but especially my mother’s image—getting potentially damaged if I was seen in the company of the wrong person.
I’m embarrassed to admit that even though I’m a writer and I think myself clever, I couldn’t come up with anything sharp enough to counter Victor’s comment. So he probably thought I was acquiescing to his advice. In reality, I was simply stunned—and fuming.
After that, I asked him to leave.
7
As if conscious of the fact that I had needed him that day but hadn’t reached out, my lawyer called the moment Victor left my apartment.
“Papá,” I answered, as my father is also my legal counsel, and tried to make him understand I couldn’t talk then. “No tengo tiempo de hablar ahora mismo. I have a meeting with my agent.”
“Estoy bien gracias, hija,” he answered and proceeded talking in Spanish, ignoring my curt answer. “And your mother and sister are also doing great. How are you?”
“Busy,” I answered, rolling my eyes.
“Because you’re meeting your agent, yes,” he continued. “Buthow are you?I saw Dashing Henry’s body was found at your building.”
“The police were here. It’s been a bit hectic,” I conceded. I needed people around me to stop saying that name.
“I can’t say I’m sad Henry is dead. He was everything but dashing and a real creep. So much so that his lawyer had finally left him. But you still haven’t answered my question,” my dad continued. The only people who could beat him at persistence would be my mother and sister. “How are you?” he repeated.
“I’m not sure,” I finally admitted.
“Why don’t we do something. Call Beatrice and tell her you need to reschedule your meeting.”
“I can’t. The meeting has already been rescheduled twice—by me,” I added before he asked. “She’s even driving all the way Downtown to make sure I won’t have any traffic hiccups.”
“Do I want to know why you’ve already rescheduled it twice?” he asked, the tiniest bit of frustration in his voice even if I knew he was doing everything in his power not to sound judgmental. While both my parents could be described as overachievers, Dad has always been the most understanding and flexible of the two when it comes to my many shortfalls.
“You don’t.” And he didn’t.
The first time I’d postponed the meeting with my agent, I had feigned menstrual cramps, when in reality I’d been too hungover. I didn’t even remember what had happened the second time. I think, for a change, I may have been experiencing a rare good day of writing and didn’t feel like interrupting the flow.
“Okay, go meet Beatrice. Make it short and then come home. There’s a pot of kale soup waiting for you.” I almost said yes on the spot. Caldo de berzas was my favorite comfort food, and my dad had started substituting the chicken broth for veggie stock to accommodate my latest dietary activism.
“I’ll try to drop by tonight or tomorrow night, but can’t promise anything,” I said. I didn’t feel like having the conversation I knew he thought I needed.
“That soup may not be waiting for you tomorrow. Your sister is going to find it before that. By the way, how’s David doing with all this?”
“How should I know? We’re no longer together, remember?” I told my father. It was no secret that David was his favorite boyfriend. I knew Dad was helping him on the libel case free of charge.
“If you say so...”
That was more than I was going to endure.
“I say so and I really need to go now.”
