Read Online This Doesn't Happen in the Movies by Renee Pawlish - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Renee Pawlish
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radio, and sipped my Coke. The DJ was announcing the number one song from 1984, by the Thompson Twins. Amanda would like that.
I tapped on the steering wheel, humming the song. It finished, and REM came on. I hummed through that and two more songs as I watched the valet park cars. I was just thinking that I needed to use the bathroom when the valet drove up with a gray Lexus. I sat up as Amanda came out the door. I checked my watch, already knowing that she couldn’t have been inside for more than a half hour or so. At her speed that was only a couple of drinks. What was going on?
She tipped the valet and peeled out of the drive and around the lot. Okay, maybe she’d gotten three drinks in her. I barely had time to duck before she came out of the exit, almost directly across from where I’d parked. She drove back toward the highway. As I did a U-turn I hoped she didn’t recognize my 4-Runner. What kind of an amateur was I not to even try and hide myself?
But if Amanda spotted me, she either didn’t care or was lousy at losing a tail. She kept a steady speed of ten miles an hour over the limit as she headed toward downtown Denver. We kept that pace for ten minutes and I wondered if she was going to my office. But we soon came to the Cherry Creek Mall, an upscale shopping center. It appeared that Amanda was throwing over drinking for shopping.
I parked and followed after her, hearing her heels click on the concrete as she walked through a parking garage to the Neiman-Marcus entrance.
I got to the door and cautiously peered through the glass but didn’t see her. I stepped inside, hoping she wasn’t lurking somewhere nearby. I didn’t see her at all. I frantically scanned the racks of clothes and displays, cursing under my breath. Then I caught sight of her, going toward the perfume and jewelry area. I started slowly down the aisle, prepared to peruse female lingerie while I kept my eye on her, but she moseyed right by the glass cases and out into the mall.
So, Neiman-Marcus wasn’t her speed. I wondered what was. She walked at a fast clip past a bookstore and a couple of specialty shops. I could smell the tantalizing aroma of cinnamon rolls coming from the CinnaBun shop. Maybe she needed some dessert. My mouth watered. I could use some dessert.
But Amanda turned in another direction. I stopped and window-shopped at a shoe store while keeping my eye on her. She made a beeline to a triangular-shaped kiosk with a map of the mall on one side, an advertisement on another, and a pay phone on the third. Now I was puzzled. What was going on here? Surely she had a cell phone. Why use a pay phone? I could think of only two reasons: her cell phone battery was dead, or she didn’t want any record that she made the call. If the latter, why?
She dialed a number, hung up, and dialed again. She spoke a couple of words, then hung up. I watched her rummage in her purse, pull out a piece of paper, and dial another number from it. She turned in my direction, and I pulled back into the store entrance, glancing discreetly around the corner. Amanda was tapping her foot, apparently listening to endless rings on the other end. She hung up again, this time smacking the phone down harder, making a passerby glance at her. Amanda glared at the lady, threw the piece of paper back in her purse, and stormed back in my direction. I turned quickly and began inspecting a pair of red high heel shoes. Out of the corner of my eye Amanda passed by, looking straight ahead.
“Are you interested in those?” a young salesman asked me.
“Not my color,” I said, setting the shoe down. He turned as red as the shoe while I hurried after Amanda.
She walked back through Neiman-Marcus, apparently heading straight for her car. I chose to leave her to her own business and ran back to the pay phone, just beating a teenage girl with enough gold on her wrists and
I tapped on the steering wheel, humming the song. It finished, and REM came on. I hummed through that and two more songs as I watched the valet park cars. I was just thinking that I needed to use the bathroom when the valet drove up with a gray Lexus. I sat up as Amanda came out the door. I checked my watch, already knowing that she couldn’t have been inside for more than a half hour or so. At her speed that was only a couple of drinks. What was going on?
She tipped the valet and peeled out of the drive and around the lot. Okay, maybe she’d gotten three drinks in her. I barely had time to duck before she came out of the exit, almost directly across from where I’d parked. She drove back toward the highway. As I did a U-turn I hoped she didn’t recognize my 4-Runner. What kind of an amateur was I not to even try and hide myself?
But if Amanda spotted me, she either didn’t care or was lousy at losing a tail. She kept a steady speed of ten miles an hour over the limit as she headed toward downtown Denver. We kept that pace for ten minutes and I wondered if she was going to my office. But we soon came to the Cherry Creek Mall, an upscale shopping center. It appeared that Amanda was throwing over drinking for shopping.
I parked and followed after her, hearing her heels click on the concrete as she walked through a parking garage to the Neiman-Marcus entrance.
I got to the door and cautiously peered through the glass but didn’t see her. I stepped inside, hoping she wasn’t lurking somewhere nearby. I didn’t see her at all. I frantically scanned the racks of clothes and displays, cursing under my breath. Then I caught sight of her, going toward the perfume and jewelry area. I started slowly down the aisle, prepared to peruse female lingerie while I kept my eye on her, but she moseyed right by the glass cases and out into the mall.
So, Neiman-Marcus wasn’t her speed. I wondered what was. She walked at a fast clip past a bookstore and a couple of specialty shops. I could smell the tantalizing aroma of cinnamon rolls coming from the CinnaBun shop. Maybe she needed some dessert. My mouth watered. I could use some dessert.
But Amanda turned in another direction. I stopped and window-shopped at a shoe store while keeping my eye on her. She made a beeline to a triangular-shaped kiosk with a map of the mall on one side, an advertisement on another, and a pay phone on the third. Now I was puzzled. What was going on here? Surely she had a cell phone. Why use a pay phone? I could think of only two reasons: her cell phone battery was dead, or she didn’t want any record that she made the call. If the latter, why?
She dialed a number, hung up, and dialed again. She spoke a couple of words, then hung up. I watched her rummage in her purse, pull out a piece of paper, and dial another number from it. She turned in my direction, and I pulled back into the store entrance, glancing discreetly around the corner. Amanda was tapping her foot, apparently listening to endless rings on the other end. She hung up again, this time smacking the phone down harder, making a passerby glance at her. Amanda glared at the lady, threw the piece of paper back in her purse, and stormed back in my direction. I turned quickly and began inspecting a pair of red high heel shoes. Out of the corner of my eye Amanda passed by, looking straight ahead.
“Are you interested in those?” a young salesman asked me.
“Not my color,” I said, setting the shoe down. He turned as red as the shoe while I hurried after Amanda.
She walked back through Neiman-Marcus, apparently heading straight for her car. I chose to leave her to her own business and ran back to the pay phone, just beating a teenage girl with enough gold on her wrists and
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