Airhead - Cabot Meg (читаем книги онлайн без регистрации TXT) 📗

‘Surely Nikki has warmer coats than this,’ she said, picking at the slim jacket I’d plucked from Nikki’s closet. ‘Promise you’ll find something warmer to wear tomorrow.’

‘Mom,’ I said.

‘It’s November,’ Mom said. ‘Here, take my scarf at least.’

She wrapped her scarf around my neck.

‘Mom,’ I said as she twined the woolly scarf around my neck tightly enough to strangle me. ‘I’m just getting straight into a limo and then out again when I get there, I don’t need—’

‘Don’t forget to call,’ Mom said, hugging me again. Then she let me go as suddenly as if she’d had to force herself.

Both Cosabella and I felt a little bruised by the time we got to Frida, to whom I said awkwardly, ‘So. See you in school tomorrow?’ Mr Phillips had succeeded in securing me a place at Tribeca Alternative, and I’d gotten permission to start there whenever my schedule permitted. Which I was hoping was going to be tomorrow.

Frida shrugged. ‘Yeah. Whatever,’ she said. We gave one another wary pats on the back — although hers was more on my waist because she was so much shorter than I was — and then I turned around, barely able to see due to the sudden tears in my eyes. I think it was the scarf that did it.

That’s when a red-headed woman in a bright green skirt suit, with one of those headsets in her ears, stepped forward and, escorted by two armed security guards, took me by the arm and began steering me into the elevator, going, ‘Yeah, yeah, we got her,’ into the mouthpiece. ‘We’re on our way. ETA to Stark Corporate, fifteen minutes.’

One of the security guards stabbed the B button for basement, and then, as the elevator doors slid shut on the tearfully smiling faces of my family, the woman in the green skirt suit turned to me and said, switching off her Stark-brand headset and smiling in a very fake way, ‘Nikki, darling.’ She smelt of expensive perfume. ‘I’m so glad you’re feeling better. I was so worried! Oh, right, I forgot, you don’t remember me. Kelly Foster-Fielding.’ She held out her hand to shake mine in a grip so firm I thought my own would be crushed. ‘I’m your publicist. How are you feeling, honey?’

I blinked at her. Did she really not know, or was this a put-on for the security guards? Did Stark Enterprises not tell her? I mean, that I wasn’t really Nikki Howard?

But Kelly didn’t even wait for a response from me. Instead, she whipped a Blackberry from her oversized tote and, pressing buttons on it so quickly her thumbs were a blur, went, ‘I’ll be trying to give you a little breathing room this week so you can ease back without getting completely slammed — and I get the school thing, I really do — but there are a few people I haven’t been able to put off. COSMO wants you for its January cover and won’t take no for an answer. I’m telling you, Nik, this amnesia thing is pure gold, since they want to do a piece on you too. But I’m not promising them anything, because I’ve also got requests for both covers and pieces from Vogue, Elle and People — well, we can scratch People, I don’t know who they think you are, an American Idol winner? But this is the big news: Larry King. Right? You and Larry, dishing the dirt? I’m trying to put them off until you’ve actually got something to hock. It’s a complete waste otherwise. Listen, I’m fielding offers from three publishers for a book deal… a roman-a-clef, tell-all, how-Iovercame-losing-my-identity… whatever you want, they don’t care. They’ll hire a ghostwriter, all you have to do is let them slap your photo on the cover —’

The elevator doors slid open and, taking my arm again, Kelly dragged me quickly towards the waiting ink-black stretch limo, while both the security guards flanked us. We’d barely gone two feet before half a dozen paparazzi leaped out from the shadows and, shouting Nikki’s name, began to snap pictures of me, their long telephoto lenses so close they would have jabbed me in the eye if the security guards, saying calmly, ‘All right, guys, let the ladies through,’ hadn’t shoved them out of the way and guided us into the waiting car.

Once we were safely inside the cool leather interior of the limo, and the door had been shut behind us and the car was on its way, Kelly went on, as if she hadn’t even been interrupted, ‘Anyway, all of this is great news. If we can time the release of the book so it coincides with the release of the new clothing and beauty lines — sister, you can’t PAY for that kind of publicity. And they’ll be paying US! Oh, and of course all the usual places want you: the morning news shows and Ellen and Oprah and The View and so on. I’m holding them off as best I can, but you’re going to have to do one of them —’

I, meanwhile, was collapsed against the seat opposite her, completely stunned by the incident that had just taken place, Cosabella clutched to my chest, her little heart fluttering against mine. I didn’t know which had shocked me more — the paparazzi, what Kelly had just said, or the fact that Brandon Stark was sitting across from me, his arms folded over his chest. He appeared to be fuming about something, if the curl of his lip was any indication.

‘Um,’ I said tentatively. ‘Hi?’

He looked pointedly away. Kelly, meanwhile, continued her rapid-fire speech, which I could barely follow. In her mid-to-late thirties, with her bright red hair cut into a pageboy that perfectly framed her pale, expertly made-up face, she seemed as put together as any woman I had ever seen. There wasn’t so much as a single snag in her misty black tights, and the heels of her patent-leather pumps had to be four inches at least. I had no idea how she walked, let alone how she’d run from the photographers back there.

‘I’ll admit, Oprah’s not exactly your target demographic,’ Kelly went on. ‘But it can’t hurt. Nemcova did it after that whole tsunami business, if that’s how we want to model this. But it doesn’t matter, because — big news. Are you ready for this? Sports Illustrated called.’

I could tell by the way she’d said it that I was supposed to react somehow. But I didn’t know what to say. I hate Sports Illustrated. It’s all about… well, sports.

‘That’s great,’ I said. Wow. This modelling thing was going to be a bit harder than I’d thought. ‘Right?’

‘Nikki!’ Kelly looked as if she was about to throw her Blackberry at me. ‘You’ve only been after me for two years to get you SI. Well, they finally called. And they want you. For the next swimsuit issue. Could you DIE?’

She accompanied the word DIE with a shove to my shoulder. I slumped over on to the seat. What I really wanted to say was, ‘Actually, yeah. I could die. In fact, I already did.’

But what I said instead was, ‘Wow. That’s great. Thanks.’

Kelly looked at me for a full second. Then she went, ‘You could summon up a little bit more excitement for me, couldn’t you? Just a little bit? It’s SI, honey. There’s a chance you could end up on the cover. In fact, I know you will. I can feel it in my bones — Brandon, no, no more Red Bull, you’re cranky enough.’

Brandon slammed the limo’s refrigerator door and sank back into his seat, looking churlish.

‘So?’ Kelly looked at me expectantly. ‘Aren’t you excited?’

‘I’m super excited,’ I said. Though the truth was, all I felt was a growing dread. ‘So… I’m going to have to pose for this in a bathing suit?’

‘A bathing suit.’ Kelly laughed. ‘God, you really do have amnesia. It’s called a swimsuit, honey. OK? And, oh my God, what have you done to your nails?’

She seized both my hands and sat there looking down in horror at my fingernails. Or I guess I should say Nikki Howard’s fingernails, which I’d bitten down almost to the quick.

‘I–I guess I bit them a little,’ I said in a small voice.

‘A little?’ The next thing I knew, Kelly had flung my hands back into my lap and put her headpiece back on. ‘Yes, Doreen? Hi, it’s Kelly. We’re going to need some emergency nail tips. Yes, I know it’s last minute, but what am I supposed to do, I just saw them. Hideous. No, I know she’s never had problems before, but we’re dealing with a whole new ball game here. You would not believe… great. See you then, hon.’