Cheating at Solitaire
Page 5

"That's Conner," the woman said offhandedly. "When I saw you standing here, I said to myself, this is fate! My story would be perfect for your next book. We could write it together. One Hundred and One Ways to Disembowel a Cheater, or maybe—"
"I don't do case studies. I'm sorry," Julia quickly jumped in, cutting the woman off. "Maybe a psychologist?" she added, patting the woman's hand. Lance thought the woman needed to be a patient of a good shrink rather than a coauthor. "Thanks for coming over. It's always nice to meet a fan. Have a nice day," Julia said and started down the aisle.
They'd almost turned the corner when the woman cried out, "Young man, when you're finished with Miss James, I need a few—"
"Excuse me?" Lance asked.
"I know you're busy now, but if you could just tell me—"
"I'm sorry, Linda," Julia said. "I'm afraid he doesn't work here."
The woman's eyes grew wide. Her gaze shifted between Julia and Lance, and her jaw went slack.
"Linda," Julia asked, "are you okay?"
"You're . . ." Linda said, pointing at Julia. "Here with . . . ?" Her finger trailed upward to Lance's perfect smile. "Come on, honey," she said, tugging her son's arm again. "Momma needs to go lie down."
"No offense," Lance said to Julia after the woman had disappeared into the next aisle, "but your fans are kind of weird. Does that happen to you a lot?"
"Trust me, toy stores are some of the safest places I can be. Now, video stores, grocery stores, airports—they can get pretty tricky. The downside of fame." Then, with a smile, she added, "Get used to it."
"I'd love to have the chance."
Richard couldn't get over the size of it—really. He had wasted a few minutes worrying that he was having Tammy call in the wrong favor for the wrong occasion, but when he saw a man walking down Fifth Avenue carrying the biggest camera he had ever seen, Richard knew this guy could get the job done. Sure, it was going to cost him a Broadway audition for a private detective who couldn't carry a tune, but just one glance at that telephoto lens made Richard Stone start to salivate.
Once or twice, he started to go into the store and see for himself what was going on in there, but he stopped. He didn't want to scare them away. The money shot would come outside the store—the happy couple smiling and laughing after a shopping spree on the town. So he waited.
The rain had stopped, so pedestrians skirted the sidewalks, and, momentarily, Richard worried that there would be too much activity on the street to get a clean shot. But again, he looked at the size of the camera, and he knew he was working with a professional. Then, through the revolving door at the front of the store, Richard saw a mass of bright red curls waving in the wind that swept around the plaza. Richard said, "That's her. That's her. Get ready." The photographer steadied his camera like a sniper.
But wait. Something was wrong.
Where was the kid?
Did she ditch him inside? Richard was starting to panic. She was getting away. His master plan was crumbling. All the kid had to do was walk outside and stand next to her; how hard could that be?
He watched her ask the doorman to hail a cab, and Richard felt his heart fall to the pit of his stomach. She was going to get away. Damn him, Richard thought, and fought the temptation to run through the lanes of traffic and plant a kiss on her himself. Then Lance Collins walked out of FAO Schwarz, his hands full of shopping bags and an enormous bear tucked under one arm. Lance grinned, and as Julia James took the big bear from his arms, Richard noted that he really was a good-looking kid.
Instantly, snaps and flashes filled the air.
Richard pranced along the sidewalk, speaking to pedestrians like a vendor at a fair. "The name is Collins, Lance Collins. And he and Julia James are very much in love!"
Chapter Four  
W AY #30: Don't believe everything you read. 
It's very difficult to be accepting of our own bodies. This topic deserves its own book, but since I'm not qualified to write it, Iift won't. Instead, I'll just say this: The pictures staring out at you from the supermarket checkout stands, the images we are all supposed to aspire to? They lie. 
# —from 107   Ways to Cheat at Solitair  e
Whenever Caroline was in a hurry, there always seemed to be a line at the neighborhood market. Luckily, Nicholas was sleeping comfortably in his carrier, and Cassie was scanning the headlines that bordered the checkout aisle. Caroline sometimes worried what effect exposure to tabloid headlines might have on her daughter, a sponge who absorbed everything she saw. But instead of worrying, Caroline decided she should just be grateful that her five-year-old child was gifted enough to be reading at this age at all. Plus, it occupied Cassie while Caroline kept a sharp eye tuned to the register.
"Excuse me," she said as the teenybopper in the blue smock whisked the cereal box over the scanner without a second glance at Caroline, who thrust a tiny slip of paper toward her. "I have a coupon for that," she said, forcing the coupon into the girl's hands.
"Momma," Cassie said behind her.
"Not now, sweetie. Momma's busy. Those are two for one." She gestured at the boxes of mac and cheese.
"Momma, it's Aunt Julia—with a boy!"
"Sweetie, don't say that. That might hurt Aunt Julia's ..."
Caroline turned to her daughter and came face-to-face with a newsstand full of variations of the same picture—Julia and a handsome stranger, smiling on a New York street, their arms full of toys. A dumbfounded Caroline stared, mouth gaping, as she found the word to finish her sentence: "reputation."
Julia spent the first part of her morning on a Ritz treadmill. When she finally made it back to her suite, it was half past nine and the message light on her phone was blinking. Also, her cell phone showed eight new voicemails. Eight? She didn't think she'd ever in her life had eight messages at one time. Her first thought was for her family. What if someone was sick or hurt? She reached to call her sister, but as soon as she gripped the phone it rang, and the caller ID showed Nina was checking in.
"Weren't you even going to tell we?"
The sentence was so abrupt, so unexpected, that Julia might have wondered who had called her by mistake if Nina Anders hadn't sounded like a chain smoker since the second grade. No one on earth could impersonate her well enough to fool Julia.
"Hello to you, too," Julia said, a little put off with her best friend.
"Don't you change the subject on me! Who is he?" -   
"Who is who?" Julia asked.
"The hunk!" Nina yelled just as Julia flipped on the TV and saw her own smiling face staring back at her. First she saw her book's jacket photo, then some news footage of her making the media rounds, and finally, a scene from the day before as she left FAO Schwarz, Lance Collins trailing dutifully behind. Julia fumbled with the remote control and turned up the volume in time to hear the anchorwoman say, "The popular author and aspiring actor are all the buzz in the entertainment industry. No word yet on how they met, but spokespeople from the Collins camp do confirm that the couple is deliriously happy."
Lance woke up in a good mood. There had been some big tippers at the bar the night before and, for the first time in a long time, it looked like he was going to make rent without any help from his mother. He crawled out of bed at ten forty-five and checked his messages. He pressed "play" and listened to the automated voice tell him, "You have thirty-two new messages."
What the . . . Lance thought just as Tammy's voice came blaring out of the speakers. "Lance, it's Tammy. I just want you to know I'm fine with it." A long pause, and then, as if berating herself, she snapped, "Never date an actor! Anyhow, Calvin Klein is sending some clothes for you, and we'll have a car there to pick you up at five. Bye." Calvin Klein clothes? Car service? Then he heard the next message.
"Hey, stud. Richard Stone here. Martin and Steven just called looking for you, champ. Everyone wants Lance Collins! You're the hottest ticket on two coasts, kid, so give me a call on my private line." He gave the number.
The messages played on, one right after the other, each a little more surreal. If they hadn't referred to him by name, Lance would have sworn that the phone company had made a mistake. But no. People he didn't even know kept calling him darling and sweetheart and champ, and there was no surer sign that somehow he'd made it big in show business.
A banging drew him away from the machine. He unbolted the door and opened it, revealing a team of people who gave the words "high fashion" a whole new meaning. There was a man who was so tall and thin and dressed so elaborately that he reminded Lance of Mr. Peanut, all that was missing was the top hat and monocle. Flanking him were three women dressed in black who wore their hair pulled back so tightly that they looked like victims of botched face-lifts.
"Well," Mr. Peanut said, "do we have our work cut out for us here?"
He pushed into the apartment, his sirens in tow, and the four of them began undressing Lance, running fingers through his hair, inspecting his hands and nails. Meanwhile, the messages just kept playing. Amid the chorus of strangers pretending to be friends, Lance heard one voice he recognized.
"Mr. Collins. Julia James here. We . . . no, strike that. You have a big problem. Expect a call from my attorney."
"Attorney?" the fashionable man said. "Do I hear prenuptial?"
The women squealed, and then they pounced on Lance like lionesses on prey.
Chapter Five  
WAY #12: Build a support system.
People who are happily single are that way because they're happily independent. But everyone has to know their own limitations and when to staff things out. By surrounding yourself with people you can trust, life will be immeasurably easier.
—from 707 Ways to  Cheat at Solitaire
" Wow, darling, relax. We're on this. It's taken care of," Candon Jeffries soothed, but Julia didn't sit. She paced IM the conference room and ignored its palatial views. The Manhattan skyline had never held so little appeal to her. All she could think was that Lance Collins was out there somewhere, loose in the city. He had used her like a scratch-off lottery ticket, trading her in for fifteen minutes of fame, and Julia wanted to make sure he wouldn't get a minute more.
"Come on," her editor went on. "Sit down. Drink some tea. Relax."
"Relax!" she yelled in a voice so high that she was lucky the windows didn't shatter and fall thirty-six floors to the street below. "I'm supposed to relax? My face is plastered across every sleazy rag in the country, with me looking like the world's biggest hypocrite! I can't believe you'd offer me tea. Do I look like I need caffeine? Plus"—Julia softened, sank into a seat at the table, and felt tears rush to the surface—"it's a really bad picture. I've got this whole"—she motioned to the makings of a double chin—"thing going on. "I look like a hypocrite. A fat hypocrite with a shopping disorder."
Candon slid into the seat beside her, saying, "I think it's a wonderful picture."