The Yoga Club Page 7

  “Yes, I’m sure you would. Anyway, the problem was that Melinda was not as dialed in as she originally thought. Awkward! The only shining moment in the entire week was an actual—I mean genuine—invitation to the party of the summer: Bobby Flay’s barbecue at his house in the North Woods. Melinda was friendly with him and got us an invite.

  “I suggested to Melinda that we should bring something from the local farmers’ market as a gift for our host, but by then we were practically broke—the entire week we’d been living on Pepperidge Farm Goldfish crackers and Diet 7-Up in order to afford our hotel room. So, Melinda goes out and buys the most expensive bottle of wine she could find to impress her famous chef friend. Like what do we know about fine wine?”

  “Right! Flowers would have been enough,” Olivia agreed.

  “Right. So, even though we had no money, Melinda bullied me into going halves on a hundred-and-fifty-dollar bottle of wine. I didn’t want to come off as cheap, even though I totally couldn’t afford it at the time. All my money was spent on housing. But I figured a meal with Bobby Flay at his house was totally worth it; it would cost twice that to eat in one of his restaurants, right?”

  “Of course! How was the food? Who was there?” CJ asked.

  “Wait, I’m getting to that. So we arrive at his house and get escorted to the backyard, where he’s grillin’ and chillin’, and Melinda gives him a big kiss and introduces me. Bobby Flay turns around, and I immediately see he’s not in happy host mode. Something is up. Melinda, of course, misses it entirely and hands him the hundred-and-fifty-dollar bottle of wine.”

  “Was he impressed?” Olivia asked.

  “Actually, he barely looked at it. He puts it down and says, ‘Hi, Coco, it’s great to meet you, thank you so much for coming…. but I have some bad news for you ladies. I don’t know if you noticed on your way in, but the power is out, so we’ve had to cancel the party,’ and he makes a frowny face with his lower lip stuck out.”

  “Oh no!” Overly empathetic Olivia was practically reliving the moment herself.

  “How did you not notice there was no electricity?” CJ asked.

  “It was daytime! A beautiful, sunny summer afternoon in the Hamptons. So why would there be lights on anyway?”

  “Couldn’t they just flip a circuit breaker or something and turn the power back on?” CJ asked. “How could it have been such a big deal?”

  “Melinda asked him the same thing, and he says, ‘It’s not that simple,’ and tells us that Puffy, Puff Daddy, Sean Combs—whatever he was calling himself back then—lived next door and had been having an all-day party that used up all of the electricity. He had giant speakers, lights, music. It was like a carnival over there, and those woods weren’t built for that kind of power usage.”

  “That sucks…. Ooh, was Jennifer Lopez there?” Olivia asked.

  “Sooooo not the point,” Coco scoffed.

  “Right, sorry,” Olivia said.

  “Anyway, Bobby was very sweet and invited us to stay and have whatever he was grilling, and then he motions us to sit with a few people and some children who were waiting for whatever was on that grill. I realize it’s probably his family or something. Melinda realizes it too and says, ‘No, no, that’s okay, we’ll go.’ She’s trying to be polite and looks at me for consensus, but I have this look on my face that just says, screw that. I wanted something for my hundred-and-fifty-dollar bottle of wine: cheese, crackers, a drink, an amuse-bouche— anything! By now I was pissed. It was all I could do to hold it in. The whole week was rolling up on me.”

  “So you left and had nothing?” Olivia asked.

  “Me? No way. You must be kidding. I wasn’t going to let Melinda railroad me again. I immediately fell back on the acting classes I took just after college. ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Flay, I don’t want to impose,’ I lied, ‘but I’m afraid I’ve been having some rather severe bouts of hypoglycemia lately. If I don’t sit for a minute and have something to eat, I’ll pass out.’”

  CJ chuckled approvingly.

  “Let me tell you”—Coco laughed—“we had some of the best grilled summer vegetables I’ve ever had. That boy can cook! Oh, and the wine was terrific. Though I wouldn’t’ve been able to tell the difference from a twenty-dollar bottle, quite frankly.”

  “Was Melinda grateful?” Olivia asked.

  “Oh, not at all. She was mortified…. though she didn’t say so till later. That was pretty much the beginning of the end of our friendship. To hell with her. I don’t care who it is. You don’t invite someone to a party and then just turn them away. A good host figures out a way to make do.”

  “Ah, the Hamptons,” CJ said. “I have no idea why anyone would ever go there, let alone stay for the entire summer. Did you know that they allow absolutely anyone to use their beaches?”

  Just then Mrs. Warfield took the stage to introduce her special musical guest. Olivia noticeably straightened in her chair, as if her slouching would harm Michael Bublé’s performance; or, more likely, she wanted him to notice her.

  Though she looked forward to hearing Bublé, Coco suddenly remembered why they were there and became unexpectedly anxious. Where the hell was Bailey, and what guarantee did they have that she was coming here straight from her press junket, anyway? But then it hit her—Michael Bublé was famous, handsome, and at her house. Bailey catnip for sure.

  At the press junket, Bailey was visibly distracted. She sat in the hospitality suite staring at the shoes of the woman across from her, completely lost in thought. She couldn’t focus on the questions she would ask Tom Hanks, nor could she think happy thoughts about her tryst the night before with John Mayer. The envelope had her attention. All of it. Who’d sent it? What was in it? The questions ate at her, probably because she had begun to suspect it had something to do with last night. She also wanted to know why the heck Detective Casey was taking so long to get back to her.

  Just then a noseful of Fleur de Narcisse hit her like a slap across the face. She turned to find the film’s publicist, who was coming to tell her she was “on deck.” That meant that she was going to have to move to a folding chair outside the room where all of the cameras were set up and Tom Hanks was being interviewed. She’d be there just adjacent to the makeup person, who was getting almost a grand a day to powder Hanks’s nose in between takes.

  Bailey also knew that it meant while she was waiting her turn she would have to endure the bravado of the other journalists who came to brag about the last time they’d interviewed Hanks and what they “got him” to say—as if he’d suddenly admitted to some scandalous tidbit about his sex life. Right. These interviews were as predictable as most of the crappy movies they had to sit through.

  Finally it was her turn, and the hot little PR drill sergeant reminded her she had exactly four minutes, two of which would be spent greeting Tom Hanks, whom she’d interviewed many, many times before.

  “Ah, Bailey, I was wondering when I’d be seeing you,” the Oscar winner said as he stood up to greet her.

  “Hi, Tom, good to see you,” Bailey replied as she hugged him hello.

  “I heard your grandfather was retiring for good. Is that true?” he quietly asked as the audio tech mic’d her up.

  “God no. Never.”

  “Wow, that’s superb. He’s in his late eighties, right?”

  “Just turned ninety,” Bailey replied.

  “Jeez, good for him,” Hanks said as the drill sergeant reminded them they had only four minutes and needed to get started. Hanks and Bailey looked at each other like schoolchildren caught by their teacher for whispering in class.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Hanks joked but then continued, “Oh, Colin asked about you, by the way.”

  Bailey ignored that last comment and began asking questions as the drill sergeant counted her down: “Three minutes…. two…. one…. Wrap it up! Wrap it up!” Good timing, since Bailey didn’t want to talk to Tom about his son. She had dated Colin Hanks briefly. Well, dated was a strong word. She’d met him whe
n he was doing press for Orange County, and they did the long-distance thing for about two months, but she’d had to break it off with the young Hanks when he suggested moving her in. Bailey wasn’t looking for commitment back then. Come to think of it, she still wasn’t. Well, probably not, anyway.

  Her final interview of the day was with Jessica Simpson. This would be the last one for both of them, since the girls had texted each other earlier to make plans for coffee when the junket was over. Jessica was one of those celebrities who had rules about what you could and could not ask on record. Bailey looked forward to hearing which of her competitors had been asked to leave when they crossed the line and asked Jessica a question on the forbidden list: usually about Nick Lachey, or something equally gauche, like her breasts, the time the media called her fat, or whether she was responsible for the Dallas Cowboys’ losing games while she was dating Tony Romo.

  As Bailey waited on deck once again, her phone rang. It was a private number, which Bailey normally wouldn’t have answered, but she hoped the call was from Detective Casey. It was.

  “Miss Warfield, this is Detective Casey. I need to speak with you about this envelope. Is this a good time?” he asked.

  “Yes, of course,” Bailey said as she stepped out into the hallway. She hoped he was calling to resolve her anxiety— finally.

  “You should know that the envelope wasn’t laced with anything—no bomb, no anthrax, nothing like that,” Detective Casey assured her.

  “Oh, good. Thank god.” She felt lighter now. “So what was it, then?” Bailey asked.

  “Well, that’s the tough part, Miss Warfield. There was a DVD inside, so I felt obligated to take a look at it.”

  “Okay….”

  “Well, it contained video footage…. of…. you. And another individual in, shall we say, rather compromising positions. It was— ahem —quite graphic,” he continued. “But I can assure you that nobody saw it.”

  “Well, you obviously did.”

  “Uh, yes. Yes, I did. I’m afraid that, as part of my investigation, I had to,” he said. He almost sounded as if he were blushing.

  “Yes, of course, I didn’t mean anything by that,” Bailey assured him.

  “But I wanted to assure you that no one else saw this footage,” Detective Casey said carefully.

  “Thank you, I appreciate that,” Bailey said. “Can you tell me more? Did you recognize the other party? Do you have any idea who could have sent it to me? I honestly don’t know how I was…. recorded. Maybe it’s doctored up.”

  “Miss Warfield…. not only is the video content of a delicate nature but I think I may have some information that we really should discuss in person.”

  “Great. Please get to the bottom of this, Detective, and spare no expense. Find out who sent it and let’s go after the bastards,” Bailey said as adrenaline rushed through her veins.

  “Absolutely, Miss Warfield. When will you be at home?”

  “I’ll be there in about an hour. Can you meet me then?”

  “Yes, that’s fine. I’ll see you in an hour,” Detective Casey said as he hung up the phone.

  Bailey’s stomach dropped.

  As Olivia swayed dreamily to “Me and Mrs. Jones,” Coco fidgeted with her wineglass and stared off into nowhere. She glanced over at CJ, who didn’t seem all that enthralled with Michael Bublé either but instead was fixated on a couple off to the side who were dancing.

  “Do you know them?” Coco asked.

  “No. I’m just thinking about what they would think about me if I were dancing with a man the way they’re dancing with each other. So close and touchy-feely,” CJ said.

  “My guess is they’d be wondering who’d lead,” Coco quipped.

  “You ever do that? Do you ever look at people watching you and imagine that they’re thinking about you, and wonder what it is they’re thinking?” CJ asked.

  “Can’t say that I do, no,” she said. A half-truth, really.

  “I do it all the time. I have some sort of ESP, where I know what they’re thinking about me. It came with the gaydar. It’s like this sketchy paranoia that I have about how they’re judging me and what they’re saying about me—even Michael Bublé. I think he’s looking over here and wondering what it would be like to be with a man, but he is disgusted by the very thought of it, or the fact that he even considered it. It’s okay, Michael, I’m not after you. I’m saving myself for Cheyenne Jackson.”

  “Of course you are,” Coco said.

  “Seriously. Would Michael Bublé sing at my twentieth anniversary with Cheyenne?” CJ asked rhetorically as he gazed longingly at the Grammy winner.

  Coco looked up and saw Bailey arriving to kisses and hugs from various guests. She tapped CJ on the shoulder, pointed him in Bailey’s direction, awakening him to their original mission, and rose from her chair.

  Olivia was still enjoying Michael Bublé, and as much as they hated to interrupt her, CJ nudged her back to earth. There were more pressing issues.

  The trio charged Bailey. CJ grabbed her by the arm and with a stern look that said, “We need to talk,” gracefully led her away from her adoring fans.

  “What the heck are you guys doing here?” Bailey asked.

  “Waiting for you!” CJ exclaimed. “Did you get an unexpected envelope with no return address delivered to your door this morning?”

  She’d been distracted by the party, but Bailey’s anxiety returned immediately, though she maintained a seemingly quiet cool. How did they know about the sex tape if Detective Casey hadn’t told anyone? Was the tape sent to all three of them, and if so, why? She barely knew them.

  “Maybe…. Why?” Bailey had learned long ago never to tip her hand. For all her indiscretions, discretion was her forte.

  “Because all three of us received envelopes this morning, and we assumed you did too,” Coco said flatly.

  Now Bailey was starting to panic, discretion be damned. Why on earth would someone send video of me having sex to these people I just met? she wondered, eyes wide.

  “So are you here to blackmail me? Because the police are on their way over, and I will have all three of you arrested,” Bailey threatened.

  Olivia knitted her brow, completely confused.

  Coco caught it before the others did. “Wait. What? Did you ask if we were blackmailing you? What are you fucking talking about?” In consideration of the party guests, she said fucking quietly and through clenched teeth.

  “Well, why else would you be here?” Bailey asked.

  “Oh, for god’s sake. It’s always about you, isn’t it?” CJ said, rolling his eyes.

  “Oh, Jesus. No, we didn’t receive information about you. We each received an envelope with information about each one of us…. personally…. you know, as individuals? Why the hell would someone send us information about you?” Coco was incredulous. Bailey’s level of self-involvement was disgusting.

  “I got an envelope about the house I am fighting to keep. Coco got one with papers about her boyfriend’s company, and CJ got some tawdry pictures,” Olivia explained.

  “Tawdry? Really, Olivia?” CJ asked.

  “I’m not judging, I’m just saying.”

  “Oh, wait. So…. you only know that I got an envelope. Not what’s in it?” Bailey asked.

  “Nope,” Coco said.

  “Oh, okay, great. Well, I’ve got my situation under control. I appreciate your concern, but I’m going to handle it on my own,” said Bailey.

  Coco sucked in her breath. “Yeah, well, that’s just the thing. You can’t, you see. We have to be a united front here, because if just one of us tries to fight it, we’re all screwed.”

  “This is obviously about last night, darling,” CJ jumped in. “The envelopes all came with a letter presumably written by someone working with the mayor. It says that we have to keep our mouths shut about what we saw last night or they will make our lives miserable—ruin us, so to speak. So, we’re all going to have to go along with his demands.”

 
; “We decided it was going to be easier for us to go along with them and keep quiet. We need to get on with our lives—none of us can afford to have any of this get out. But you’re going to have to agree also,” Olivia said.

  “No.”

  “What?” Coco asked.

  “You heard me: No. I’m not giving in to blackmail. Besides, it’s too late. Detective Casey already saw what was in my envelope and has started an investigation. You three are on your own, I guess,” Bailey said.

  “You are such a selfish bitch!” CJ yelled. “You can’t do that.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s my life they’re going after, and I can do whatever I see fit to defend my reputation and honor,” Bailey responded.

  “Your reputation? As what? Some trollop who fucks any celebrity who would have her?” CJ yelled. “I’m the one with a real reputation. If anyone at Rachael Ray found out what was in that envelope, I would lose my job and my father would lose his bid for the governorship. It’s not about you!”

  “I’m not listening to this anymore. The three of you get out before I have you thrown out,” Bailey fired back.

  “Bailey, wait. Please. We have to talk about this. We all have something at stake here. We have to be on the same side,” Coco pleaded. “Just give us five minutes. Please.”

  Bailey stared at the three pairs of confused, distraught eyes. “Fine. Five minutes,” she finally said and reluctantly led the interlopers upstairs.

  Six

  Corrupt Cops

  Bailey led her unwelcome guests up the grand staircase, which was lined with eighteenth-century Flemish tapestries. The second landing revealed a second-floor parlor that defied all conventional interior design rules. It was lavish and exaggerated, replete with rare marble, bronze, and stone sculptures and one impressive buon fresco painted wall. Across from that was an entire wall covered with built-in chests and shelving adorned with carved woodwork. The delicate chandeliers and fixtures hung gently; gold and antique brass abounded; yet the room, much like the house, felt up-to-date.