A despondent Camarin returned to a thankfully empty apartment and sequestered herself in her bedroom. To her surprise, she was less shaken up about the attack—most of what happened between Terry propositioning her and her running from the trailer was just an unpleasant blur—and more annoyed about how she’d handled the entire incident.
How could she have been so stupid? Perhaps she wasn’t meant to be an investigative reporter after all. And what if the Invisible Woman did follow through? Had Cam been wrong to leave Philadelphia without at least telling the police something about the death threats against Mangel? Or the murders that preceded them? Could her decision result in yet another homicide?
Who could she confide in? Lyle came to mind first, perhaps because she’d kept spotting his doppelgängers all over Philadelphia. But did she really want to admit she’d defied his orders and, on top of that, was such an amateur reporter that she’d endangered herself unnecessarily? There was always Wynan. He’d seemed compassionate as of late. But he’d also warned her against the investigation. Plus, he’d go running to Lyle, what with the reputation of the magazine at stake. With DeAndre, her exploits could end up as pillow talk, and blabbermouth Rachel might feel compelled to report back to management. So, he was a no as well.
There was always her mother. Ha! Perfect if she wanted to be lectured on what the best-dressed women at the rape crisis center were wearing and how to more effectively befriend them. It looked like Annalise might be her one and only choice as confidante. Once she got back home anyway.
Cam pulled the laptop from her backpack and started scanning news portals for any mention of a Mangel assault. Nothing, which was reassuring. Still, if she’d only snuck a look at those employee files or had snapped a picture of the Invisible Woman’s Facebook post and death threat. At least then she would have some additional fodder for her story. Now, with neither evidence nor witnesses, she was no further ahead than before she’d left for Philly.
The slam of the front door signaled the arrival of the troops. The lilt of Rachel’s rhyming slang accompanied DeAndre’s raucous laughter. Then some muffled banter that she couldn’t make out.
I can’t stay locked in my bedroom forever, Cam decided, mentally juggling various explanations of the past weekend’s events. She settled on the easiest—plausible deniability.
“Hey, look who’s pope!” DeAndre sat beside Rachel on the couch, grinning sheepishly. “She’s teaching me. Pope in Rome. Home.”
“Terrific. Now I have the two of you spouting nonsense. Who wants a cuppa tea?” Camarin donned her best fake English accent.
“I’ll have one,” Rachel volunteered. “So, how did the adventure go, Miss Marple?”
Cam reached for a mug. “How about you, Dee? You want some oolong? Or maybe something herbal to soothe your throat before tonight’s show? I can stir in some honey.”
“Would the jury please note how the defendant is avoiding the question?”
She shot Rachel a sneer. “I can do both, you know. Discuss my disappointing weekend and serve tea. I’m talented that way. Dee? Last chance.”
He briefly halted his tongue’s exploration of the back of Rachel’s neck. “Oolong’s fine, thanks.”
“Great. Hope you like Tetley’s, Ms. Thorsen, because that’s what you’re getting.”
“No need to be bonnie, just because I was curious.”
She didn’t want to ask, but her curiosity got the best of her. “Bonnie?”
Rachel took the win in stride. “Bonnie and Clyde. Snide.”
“Ah, should have known.”
Camarin placed two tea bags into oversized mugs and poured water into the kettle. It was old school, but sometimes the simpler ways were best. She joined them in the living room, plonking herself down on the love seat opposite her inquisitors.
“If you must know—”
“Yes, I absolutely must.” Rachel batted her eyelashes annoyingly.
“It was a disaster from start to finish. The revival was so crowded and chaotic, I couldn’t even reach the PR person who okayed the meeting, much less the leader himself.” No point in reminding them of his name, especially if it popped up in today’s papers. “And then the interview with Perri Evans…”
“You met Perri Evans?” DeAndre perked up, diverting his attention from his tongue’s focus, which had graduated to the top of Rachel’s shoulders. “That woman can sing.”
“No doubt better than she can interview. She was downright rude, then threw me out of her hotel room.”
The whistling teapot called Camarin back into the kitchen.
“I’m confused. Why would she toss you out? Are you that bad a reporter?” Rachel said with a giggle.
“Apparently so. I had the audacity to suggest that instead of shooting up heroin, perhaps there were other, less addictive means to maintain a two-hundred-pound weight loss.”
“Oh, Lord, help me, I’m drowning in the sarcasm. She lost that much weight?” DeAndre asked.
Camarin couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her roommate so engaged in a conversation. Maybe Evans had been right—no matter what she’d achieved, people were more concerned with the size of her ass than her vocal range.
“She did. Even more notably, she says her new album’s going to suck, and she hates her life. Trouble is, I don’t know if I can use any of that stuff.”
She suddenly halted her rhythmic tea bag dunking. Had Evans said any of that was off the record? Maybe she could pull off an exclusive for Trend after all. Something to redeem herself, get Fletcher’s attention. At least it would take her mind off the Mangel debacle.
“Tea’s on the counter. Help yourself to milk and sweetener. I’ve got an article to write.”
Two hours later, her first original piece for Trend was ready to email to Wynan and Fletcher. It was a no-holds-barred account of her interaction with Evans—sans any coddling or pussyfooting around—meshed with background details about the album from the publicist.
Uninspired Lyrics, Tone-Deaf Delivery:
The Skinny on American Dynamo Winner’s New Album Release
A Trend Exclusive by Camarin Torres
Looking languid and surprisingly anorexic in a size-four, silky wrap dress, Perri Evans sucked deeply on her Marlboro cigarette in the presidential suite of the Hay Adams Hotel, recounting the shocking details behind the recording of her sophomore effort, Carnal Collage.
Referring to this reporter as one of the gang of journalists and critics who’d ruined her career, Evans confessed that Avaricious Records wouldn’t produce or release the album unless she carved off two hundred pounds from her formerly curvaceous physique. But the entire episode filled her with misgivings: “I should have…just released the songs over the internet like everyone else… Plenty of people do just fine selling direct on iTunes, Spotify andYouTube.”
Evans also expressed ambivalence over the ways fans have reacted to her obligatory pound shaving.
“I sang my heart out on national television in front of millions of viewers. And now, all that anyone can talk about is the weight loss. How did I do it? Doesn’t everything seem better thin? People who didn’t give me the time of day before, even with the TV show, are all nice to me now.”
This reporter doesn’t want to speculate about the methods behind the loss, though unexplained marks on the singer’s arms seemed to lend clues. What’s just as disconcerting is the singer’s own appraisal of her latest recording effort: “The album sucks. I suck. But at least I’ll be skinny when I read the one-star reviews [saying] ‘Uninspired lyrics, tone-deaf delivery, but what an ass she’s got on her now.’”
Here’s hoping this was all a momentary case of pre-release jitters and Evan’s second album is as fabulous as her first.
Camarin congratulated herself on a solid effort. While uncompromising, she’d spared Evans some embarrassment by omitting her swear words, along with the snipe at her agent, and presented the track marks in a factual way that she hoped would provide an epiphany to the singer about her drug use. Plus, she’d incorporated a thought or two about the hypocrisy behind the appreciation for weight loss over talent. True, the article was a bit harsher than what she’d originally intended to write. But Evans had known she was speaking to the press from the moment she opened the hotel room door.
All in all, an article that would fit perfectly into Trend’s current sensationalistic focus, Cam rationalized, and after the Philly failure, give her reason to believe she deserved a spot on the magazine’s editorial masthead. She took a deep breath and hit the send button.
“You almost ready to go?” DeAndre rapped loudly on her door.
“Go?”
“Work? Benji’s? You gone so long you forgot where you work?”
“Yeah, yeah, where’s Annalise?” Her roommate would normally have tried on and rejected about five jaw-dropping outfits by now.
“She’s got the night off. Went out of town to see friends. You coming?”
So much for her confidante. “Sure, just give me five.”
She ignored the audible sighs on the other side of the door as she kicked off her jeans and grabbed a simple red A-line dress. While she fumbled with the zipper, she pondered how a famous man like Mangel could get away with treating women like objects. Certainly, she hadn’t been the first. Perhaps they threatened to sue, and he paid them off, or proposed to them. Anything to keep the gory details from being smeared all over the internet.
“One minute and we’re leaving,” Rachel called out.
“What, couldn’t think of something better?” asked Camarin, yanking the door open. “Like you’re Perrying?”
“What the fuck are you going on about?”
“Steve Perry used to be the lead singer for Journey,” she explained as they hurried out of the apartment. “Journey sings Don’t Stop Believing. Believing rhymes with leaving. Isn’t that how all of this works?”
“It’s not half-bad. I’ll submit it for approval to the Cockney powers that be. Now let’s get going before DeAndre loses his job for being late and he can’t afford to take me on that cruise he promised me.”
Camarin bit her lip as she locked the front door. Why warn them to take things slow and ruin all their fun? Life’s too short, and the end comes too quickly. For some, it could be one unexpected trailer visit away.