stories, and that awful damn picture. The same grainy shot—or a similar shot—of Cici leaving dead Jeb’s home with her arm around Nikki. Cici’s hair was a mess from having been yanked out of bed, and Nikki’s face was awash with her tears and her fingers pressed against her eyes.
“This is completely out of hand,” Cici said.
“Darling.” Kiki tilted her glass of Chardonnay toward Cici. “I agree.”
Kiki’s daily consumption of wine over the past three years (ever since her horrible falling-out with Terri) had increased at a colossal rate, and yet Kiki still, while pushing sixty-five (ahem, seventy) managed to maintain an ex-dancer’s lithe physique. She maintained her Anna Wintour bob in jet-black and wore black Zelda Kaplan frames.
“This isn’t news,” Cici said.
“Agreed,” Kiki mumbled around a sizeable swig of wine.
“How can they say I’m a suspect or Nikki is a suspect or that I was caught in a love triangle with my niece? My niece! That is disgusting, even by their standards.”
“Disgusting sells magazines, darling.” Kiki set her wineglass onto the table.
Cici’s eyes roamed over what was a much-too-relaxed Kiki Dee. Kiki’s job was to fix this PR nightmare. Her publicist’s nonchalance irritated Cici, drove her absolutely insane.
Heat barrel-rolled through Cici’s chest. Irritation kicked her heart into a cataclysmic gallop. Unkind words raced upward through her throat, and prepared to trip off her tongue.
No, no, no.
Cici closed her eyes, placed her palms together in front of her heart, breathed, and counted to ten—hadn’t her guru Garagamesh said she must catch these moments, these moments of abject anger, before they happened?
Cici focused on her inner calm. She opened her eyes and a soft smile played across her lips. “Kiki,” she said in the warmest of tones, “what exactly are you going to do about these?” Cici waved her hand over the foul weeklies that covered the patio table.
“Well, darling,” Kiki said, “I’m not sure—what exactly do you want me to do?”
Scalding temper boiled through Cici’s veins. She closed her eyes and ran her fingertips between her brows. What did she want Kiki to do? She wanted Kiki to do her job—a job for which Cici paid Kiki close to ten grand a week. “I’d like you to get them to stop. They are printing lies—slander—surely there is a way to make that end.”
Kiki reached for the bottle of wine. “Well”—she cocked her head and a lifted her shoulders in a shrug—“you’d need to call Howard for that. He could write a letter to the publisher, threaten a lawsuit.” Kiki poured more Chardonnay into her glass. “But that’s like poking a stick at a snake.”
“Meaning?”
“You leave that alone,” she said and nodded toward the tabs, “and it’ll pass. Lindsay will run into another tree; Taylor will get knocked up; a Kardashian will get bedded, wedded, or divorced. Then voilà, no more trashy covers for you or Nikki. But you go after the tabs—poke at them—they will continue to make you front cover. With more lies and more salacious fibs. Fibs that are just this side of slander. Plus…” Kiki relaxed back into the patio chair with a full glass of vino. “Darling, they’ll say they have an unnamed source. My God, they’ll ask your dog-walker and pay her big dollars to simply nod her head at their questions.” Kiki slugged back a drink of wine. “Then they’ll call that a source.”
Cici looked up into the blue sky. She was used to public humiliation as a by-product of celebrity. She’d experienced embarrassment at the hands of her ex-husband, her ex-lovers, even her former agents and business managers, but she didn’t want this for her niece. Cici hadn’t spoken with Nikki since Jeb’s demise. Cici texted and called. She’d had her assistant drive by Nikki’s apartment, but Nikki didn't respond. If not for the updates provided by Jay from Worldwide Studios, Cici would be in
“This is completely out of hand,” Cici said.
“Darling.” Kiki tilted her glass of Chardonnay toward Cici. “I agree.”
Kiki’s daily consumption of wine over the past three years (ever since her horrible falling-out with Terri) had increased at a colossal rate, and yet Kiki still, while pushing sixty-five (ahem, seventy) managed to maintain an ex-dancer’s lithe physique. She maintained her Anna Wintour bob in jet-black and wore black Zelda Kaplan frames.
“This isn’t news,” Cici said.
“Agreed,” Kiki mumbled around a sizeable swig of wine.
“How can they say I’m a suspect or Nikki is a suspect or that I was caught in a love triangle with my niece? My niece! That is disgusting, even by their standards.”
“Disgusting sells magazines, darling.” Kiki set her wineglass onto the table.
Cici’s eyes roamed over what was a much-too-relaxed Kiki Dee. Kiki’s job was to fix this PR nightmare. Her publicist’s nonchalance irritated Cici, drove her absolutely insane.
Heat barrel-rolled through Cici’s chest. Irritation kicked her heart into a cataclysmic gallop. Unkind words raced upward through her throat, and prepared to trip off her tongue.
No, no, no.
Cici closed her eyes, placed her palms together in front of her heart, breathed, and counted to ten—hadn’t her guru Garagamesh said she must catch these moments, these moments of abject anger, before they happened?
Cici focused on her inner calm. She opened her eyes and a soft smile played across her lips. “Kiki,” she said in the warmest of tones, “what exactly are you going to do about these?” Cici waved her hand over the foul weeklies that covered the patio table.
“Well, darling,” Kiki said, “I’m not sure—what exactly do you want me to do?”
Scalding temper boiled through Cici’s veins. She closed her eyes and ran her fingertips between her brows. What did she want Kiki to do? She wanted Kiki to do her job—a job for which Cici paid Kiki close to ten grand a week. “I’d like you to get them to stop. They are printing lies—slander—surely there is a way to make that end.”
Kiki reached for the bottle of wine. “Well”—she cocked her head and a lifted her shoulders in a shrug—“you’d need to call Howard for that. He could write a letter to the publisher, threaten a lawsuit.” Kiki poured more Chardonnay into her glass. “But that’s like poking a stick at a snake.”
“Meaning?”
“You leave that alone,” she said and nodded toward the tabs, “and it’ll pass. Lindsay will run into another tree; Taylor will get knocked up; a Kardashian will get bedded, wedded, or divorced. Then voilà, no more trashy covers for you or Nikki. But you go after the tabs—poke at them—they will continue to make you front cover. With more lies and more salacious fibs. Fibs that are just this side of slander. Plus…” Kiki relaxed back into the patio chair with a full glass of vino. “Darling, they’ll say they have an unnamed source. My God, they’ll ask your dog-walker and pay her big dollars to simply nod her head at their questions.” Kiki slugged back a drink of wine. “Then they’ll call that a source.”
Cici looked up into the blue sky. She was used to public humiliation as a by-product of celebrity. She’d experienced embarrassment at the hands of her ex-husband, her ex-lovers, even her former agents and business managers, but she didn’t want this for her niece. Cici hadn’t spoken with Nikki since Jeb’s demise. Cici texted and called. She’d had her assistant drive by Nikki’s apartment, but Nikki didn't respond. If not for the updates provided by Jay from Worldwide Studios, Cici would be in
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