CHAPTER 5
At 9:30 the next morning, Nikita was ushered into a corner office by a flamboyantly dressed young man with spiky chartreuse-tipped hair. "Now our Myrna's on a conference call at the moment, but she should be wrapping that up in about ten minutes," he gushed. "And if she doesn't, I'll just go and drag her away!" He let out a high-pitched giggle.
"Is that right?" said Nikita. She found it difficult not to stare at his attention-getting hairstyle. And was that eye shadow he was wearing?
"Oh, where are my manners?" he asked like some fussy matron. "Would you like some coffee . . . or maybe some guava juice?"
"No, thank you. I'm fine," replied Nikita.
"Very well. Let me go check on that naughty Myrna!" He sashayed out of the room with a giggle.
Nikita looked around the office with interest. She had only spoken to Myrna a few times on the phone and had no idea what to expect. The office had windows on two sides and overlooked a park in downtown Montréal. There was a tomato-red leather couch on one side and the rest of the furniture was chrome and glass. A large abstract painting in red, yellow, and blue, entitled "A la Vie," hung on the wall behind the desk. A credenza beneath the painting was filled with framed pictures of Myrna's family (distinguished looking husband, two boys and two large dogs romping in a pastoral setting) and Myrna with various celebrities at social and charity events.
You certainly get around, thought Nikita with amusement.
Nikita looked and then looked again at one photograph. She could hardly believe her eyes. At that moment, the senior vice president herself floated through the door with a scent of Chanel No. 5. She was dressed in a chic Versace suit and on her feet were impossibly high heels. The colorful assistant was close behind her.
"Nikita, I do apologize for keeping you waiting. It's a pleasure to finally meet you!" Myrna extended her right hand. It shimmered with a large diamond cocktail ring and heavy gold bangles. "Please, have a seat."
"Myrna, sorry! I just need a signature here and then I'll leave you two alone," interrupted the assistant.
"Excuse me, Nikita," said Myrna as she took the pen. She quickly perused the papers and scribbled her name. "Make sure those go out, ASAP."
Bursting with efficiency, the assistant answered, "Consider it done, luv," and closed the door.
When Myrna saw Nikita's face she laughed, "Oh, I know Hans is a bit much, but quite frankly, he's the best administrative assistant I've ever had. You can't imagine how well he's organized everything." She jerked a thumb at the painting behind her. "He's the one who talked me into buying that. My husband's eyes almost popped out when he saw it, but then he is a rather conservative banker, all dark suits and starched white shirts."
"I like it," said Nikita. "It complements this couch."
"Thank you, but enough about me. Let's talk about you and your future with Richelieu Models," said Myrna gaily.
There was a change of plans for Michael's movie. Instead of shooting the big action sequence this morning, director Wolfe decided to do the scene in the garbage-strewn alley where Michael meets with a sleazy confidential informant.
As usual, there were dozens of spectators jostling each other for a position behind the barricades, hoping for a glimpse of the action. Even though a lot of commercials and films were shot in Montréal, the general public remained fascinated by the whole process. When word leaked out that Michael Samuelle was involved, more security guards had to be brought in.
The meeting was drawing to a close. "I'd like to have my attorney review this contract," said Nikita. By that, she actually meant Daddy's attorney, the grim-faced Mr. Ackerman.
"By all means," said Myrna as she closed the file. "I have to fly down to New York for a few days, but you can always fax it back to Hans. Do you have any more questions?"
Nikita hesitated. She felt a little silly asking this, but after watching that movie last night she had to know. Pointing to the picture on the credenza she said, "Only one. Do you know Michael Samuelle?"
Myrna swiveled in her chair to gaze adoringly at the photograph. "Oh honey, I've met him a couple of times at fundraisers for Fondation Miracle. You know, it's his favorite charity and it just so happens that my good friend Joyce is the coordinator for it. Take it from me, when he fixes those gorgeous green eyes on you, you forget about everything and everybody," Myrna waved her hand expansively.
"I get the same feeling from watching his films," agreed Nikita enthusiastically. "But what's he like in person?"
"Actually, he's kinda shy and soft-spoken," said Myrna.
"Really? You wouldn't think that after seeing him all naked and uninhibited on the big screen!" laughed Nikita.
Myrna nodded. "Isn't that the truth. Remember the wedding night scene in 'Emilie'?"
Before Nikita could answer, Hans stuck his head in and warned, "Don't forget that meeting with DeLane and Jeffrey in fifteen minutes."
Nikita put the contract in her purse and stood up. "I should get going. It was wonderful meeting you, Myrna. I'll be in touch."
Myrna smiled broadly. "Excellent! There are unlimited opportunities here for you, Nikita." Then with a wink she added, "Of course, it's always good to meet another Michael fan, too."
Nikita checked her watch once she got out on the street. She had a little time to kill before she had to report for the lunch shift of her waitressing job and thus decided to do some shopping. However, it would have to be just window-shopping since she'd left her credit card at home.
The main shopping district of Montréal was a few blocks over. When she turned the corner, she saw a crowd of people up ahead. The sidewalk and part of the street were roped off and a burly guard was giving the crowd a threatening look.
She would have simply crossed to the other side and went on her way had she not heard some teenage girls chattering. "There he is! Oh my gosh, it's Michael! MICHAEL! WE LOVE YOU!"
"Stand back!" barked the security guy. "Stand back or you'll have to leave."
"You can't make us! This is a public street!" retorted one of the girls. She proceeded to stick out her pierced tongue at the guard.
Nikita came and stood behind the girls. "Is it Michael Samuelle?" she asked hopefully.
The pierced-tongue girl looked at her as if she had three heads. "Of course, it's Michael Samuelle! Is there any other Michael that matters?"
CHAPTER 6
The spectators settled down and watched as the actor playing the "sleazy confidential informant" took his position beside a garbage dumpster and lit a cigarette. About ten seconds later, Michael came around the corner at the opposite end of the alley. He was wearing sunglasses and dressed entirely in black - suit, gloves, and boots.
"He's not wearing 'mission hair,'" whined one of the girls in front of Nikita. "I really like that style on him."
Mission hair? Nikita had no clue what that meant. She started to ask the girls, but feared they would make fun of her ignorance.
"He looks okay to me," she ventured.
"Oh yeah, he looks fine to me!" agreed another girl. She nodded and smiled enthusiastically.
The security guard glanced in their direction and scowled. The conversation came to an abrupt end.
Michael approached and stood in front of the informant. "Do you have it?" he asked in a voice barely above a whisper.
The other man continued smoking and studied Michael closely. "I'm afraid you made the trip for nothing."
"What's the problem?" asked Michael.
"No problem. Just had a higher bidder. If you want the material, the price has gone up," said the informant, a sneer on his face.
Michael looked down the alley and sighed as if the whole conversation bored him. "We don't negotiate," he said at last.* (Season 2 – "Mandatory Refusal")
It was obvious that the informant did not like Michael's response. He took one last drag on his cigarette, dropped the butt to the ground and stomped on it. In a split-second he pulled a knife from his pocket.
Fortunately, Michael was quicker. With one hand he grabbed the informant's wrist, twisting it painfully behind his back and causing him to drop the knife. Michael's other hand went around the sleaze's neck and he slammed him against the side of the dumpster. The man coughed and tried to catch his breath.
Finally, Michael tossed him against a pile of crates and cardboard boxes on the opposite side. A rotten cabbage fell on his head and rolled away. The informant rubbed his neck and continued coughing. A pack of cigarettes fell out of his jacket.
Michael looked down at the cigarettes. "You shouldn't smoke," he whispered. "Those things can kill you."
The informant regarded Michael in disbelief before struggling to his feet and running out of the alley. Both the knife and the cigarettes were left behind. Michael turned and walked calmly back the way he had come.
The director yelled, "CUT!" and a cheer went up from the crowd. The girls near Nikita seemed to whoop and clap the loudest. She joined in with exuberance. Too bad Louise wasn't here to see this. She will be SO jealous! thought Nikita.
Around the corner, Michael was looking for his assistant. When he spotted him, Marc had a cell phone in one hand and a clipboard in the other.
"Marc, I need you to do something right now!" exclaimed Michael.
"Yeah, boss?" He closed the phone and hooked it on his belt.
"I need you to find a woman for me."
Marc laughed and said, "Hey, I know it's been a few weeks since Camille jumped ship, but we're in the middle of shooting."
Michael ran a hand through his hair. "Merde! Not any woman! A tall blonde, twenties. She had on a denim jacket, white pants . . . maybe tan, I don't know. She was watching us shoot a minute ago and I saw her yesterday at the track."
Marc shrugged nonchalantly. "Probably a paparazzo or a reporter. They're always following you around. What did that magazine call you last month?" He pretended to think. "Oh, yeah, 'From Farm Boy to Québécois Sex Symbol!'" He grinned at his boss and reached for a cup of coffee.
"She didn't have a camera. Now go! You're wasting time!" urged Michael. "She was at the far end of the alley."
"If I can't find a tall blonde, will a tall brunette be acceptable?" asked Marc.
Nikita walked along with a spring in her step and a smile on her face. She was having a great day. Not only was her modeling career about to take off, but she had seen her new favorite actor for the second time in as many days. She wanted to share her exciting news with somebody so she pulled out her cell phone and dialed Giancarlo.
Just like last night, there was no answer and she was forced to leave a message. Oh well, I'll see him tonight, she thought. They were supposed to have dinner at eight. Afterwards, he would catch a flight to Italy for the next round of the Formula One Grand Prix.
By now Nikita had reached the Greek restaurant where she worked. There was already a sizable crowd on the outdoor terrace. She hurried through the side door to the employee locker room.
The businessman got up and tossed the tabloid on the table. Nikita was sorting cutlery and listening to the bartender complain about his arthritis when she saw him leave. "Excuse me, Josef," she called and went to clear the table.
She was about to throw the paper into the trash when her eyes fell on a certain picture. It was a laughing Giancarlo coming out of a nightclub the previous night with a buxom redhead on his arm. Nikita sank into a chair and began reading the article. The more she read, the more incensed she became.
"What is it, Nikita?" asked Josef when he saw the look on her face.
She looked up, startled. "My shift's almost over. Would it be okay if I left now?"
The bartender looked at the clock above the door. "Paulina should be here soon. Sure, go ahead."
Nikita was so mad that she didn't bother to change out of the khaki pants and green shirt that was her work uniform. She grabbed her purse and denim jacket from the locker and slammed the door.
Paulina was coming in as Nikita was going out and they collided in the doorway. "Sorry," called Nikita.
"Hey, what's wrong?" Paulina asked.
"You might have to bail me out of jail tomorrow," said Nikita and flung the paper at her friend.
No wonder he didn't call back last night, fumed Nikita as she hailed a taxi. He said he would be at a Ferrari team meeting after doing practice laps with the new tires. Somehow I don't think team meetings are held at nightclubs.
"AAARRGH!" Nikita exclaimed. She clenched and unclenched her fists.
The Nigerian taxi driver looked at her in the rearview mirror. "Is there a problem, Madam?"
"YES, THERE'S A PROBLEM! MY BOYFRIEND IS A CHEAT!" she yelled. "CAN'T YOU GO ANY FASTER?" She fell back against the seat. Under her breath she mumbled, "I'm gonna kill him."
The eyes of the driver widened and he pressed down on the accelerator. He felt sweat popping out on his forehead and he dared not look in the mirror again. He didn't want any trouble, especially since he was in the country on an expired visa.
Must get rid of this crazy woman, he thought nervously.
Nikita overtipped the driver to make up for yelling at him. She stood on the sidewalk as the taxi sped away and looked up at the chic apartment building. Giancarlo's red Ferrari, with its vanity plates, was parked in front.
Without wasting another minute, Nikita entered the building and took the elevator up to the seventh floor. Just before she reached Giancarlo's apartment, the door opened and the redhead in the picture backed out. Her blouse was only halfway buttoned and a shirtless Giancarlo stumbled out, grabbing for her. He caught her around the waist and began kissing and fondling her in the middle of the hall.
Nikita stopped and her jaw dropped at the sight before her. After a few moments, the pair realized they had an audience and Giancarlo pulled back. "Nikita!"
She glared hard at him. "You actually remembered my name? I thought having your tongue down her throat might have impaired your brain function."
"I . . . I can explain," stammered Giancarlo.
Nikita stood with her hands on her hips. "Really? I'm all ears," she said. She lowered her gaze. "By the way, your fly's open."
Self-consciously, he reached down and yanked up the zipper. The redhead had scuttled toward the elevator without either of them noticing.
"I'm still waiting for that explanation," said Nikita sharply.
There was a lot of shouting and four-letter words involved, but a short time later it was all over. Giancarlo was history. Nikita felt remarkably calm, but exhausted, as she left the apartment building.
She saw the Ferrari and stopped. Then she looked up and down the street casually. She waited until a man walking his white standard poodle passed by before taking out her keys. She walked around to the driver's side and left Giancarlo a little souvenir.
"So you won't forget me," she smirked.
