“Of the two,” Willson Quayle said, “Virgin’s my favourite.”
I thought I heard Bobbi groan, but it may have been my stomach growling. Personally, I respect a man who takes pride in his work.
“Have either of you seen Star Crossed?” he asked.
I shook my head and Bobbi said, “No.”
“It’s been described as Xena: Warrior Princess meets The Terminator,” Quayle explained. “Star and Virgin are time-travelling bounty hunters who have come to present-day Earth to track down and capture a group of evil shape-shifting alien outlaws. It’s quite original, sexier and more tongue-in-cheek than Xena. Very popular with the twelve-to-twenty-four demographic.”
“I can certainly see why boys like it,” Bobbi said. “Of all ages.”
“Actually, girls like it too. Star and Virgin are, well, quite liberated.”
“I bet,” Bobbi said.
“I’ll leave you some tapes,” Quayle said.
“Oh, goodie,” Bobbi muttered.
I jabbed her with my elbow. Quayle didn’t notice. He looked at his watch.
“She should be here any time now.”
“Who?” I asked.
His face did odd things, as though he were trying to raise his eyebrows, but they remained frozen in place. “You’ll see,” he said mysteriously. Willson Quayle busied himself setting up more action figures on the table, Star and Virgin in different costumes, and a selection of creepy alien outlaws, even more squat and powerful.
“Can I speak with you for a minute?” Bobbi said quietly. We went into my office. “I think we should send this bozo on his way,” she in a low voice.
“We need the work.”
“Not that bad.”
“Oh, yeah? Look, I know they’re kind of tacky, but a job’s a job.”
“Tacky is an understatement,” Bobbi said sourly. “The damned things are practically pornographic. It wouldn’t surprise me if he took them home at night and undressed them.” She heaved a resigned sigh. “Fine, but if he calls me ‘Barbie’ again I’m gonna poke one of those little plastic spears into his eye.”
We went back into the outer office just as the door to the stairwell opened and a woman came into the studio. I didn’t recognize her at first. She was wearing a baggy plain white T-shirt tucked into a faded denim miniskirt. Her legs were long and straight and strong. Her straw-coloured hair was drawn back in a short ponytail, emphasizing her striking, chiselled features. Her deep-set half-moon eyes, surrounded by smile lines, were a bright cornflower blue. She was carrying a shoulder bag that looked large enough to hold most of my wardrobe.
She smiled hugely, eyes crinkling and flashing. “Hi, Tom.”
“Reeny!” I said. “Hey, it’s great to see you.” Irene “Reeny” Lindsey was an actress — pardon me, an actor — I’d known for a couple of years. I hadn’t seen her in almost a year, though, not since I’d helped her move the old sailboat on which she lived from the marina in Coal Harbour to its winter mooring on the Fraser River, where the fresh water killed the saltwater toredo worms that invaded the wood hull during the summer.
“You two know each other?” Willson Quayle said, surprise in his voice if not his face.
“Sure,” Reeny said. “We’re old friends.” She put slight emphasis on the word “old.”
“Wait a second,” I said, having noticed that Reeny looked quite buff, much more so than when I’d last seen her. She wasn’t as developed — some would say overdeveloped — as a female bodybuilder, but it was obvious that she’d been working out. A lot. “Reeny, you aren’t — are you?”
“Tom, Barbie,” Willson Quayle said. Did Reeny stiffen slightly as he laid his arm across her wide shoulders? If so, he didn’t notice. “Meet Virgin.”
“His Botox injections haven’t just paralyzed his face,” Bobbi said later, after Willson Quayle had left. “I think they’ve paralyzed his brain as well.”
Reeny giggled. Giggly women usually annoy me, but Reeny’s giggle was throaty and full of mischief. “I know what you mean,” she said. “He is rather dense, isn’t he? Ricky — that’s Richenda Rice, who plays Star — she calls him One-Way Willie. Lots of stuff comes out, but nothing much goes in. Not to his face, of course. His company is a major sponsor.”
“His company?” I said.
“The company he works for,” Reeny amended. “Rainy Day Toys. He’s the senior account manager in the marketing department. Most of the women I work with think he’s drop-dead gorgeous, but, well, he creeps me out. Maybe it’s the Botox,” she added with an exaggerated shudder.
“You don’t use that stuff, do you?” Bobbi asked.
“Botox?” Reeny smiled, cheeks dimpling, eyes crinkling. “Does it look like it?”
“You look great, actually,” Bobbi said.
“Yeah, you do,” I added. “Very, um, fit.”
“You guys are great for the old ego,” Reeny said, colouring slightly. “How ’bout I take you to a late lunch?” she added. “My treat.”
“Uh, I wish we could accept,” I said. “But we’ve got a shoot this afternoon.” I looked at my watch. It was almost one. “We should get cracking.”
“I’ve got nothing on this afternoon,” Reeny said. “Do you mind if I tag along? That is, as long as you’re not going to be hanging from a helicopter under the Lions Gate Bridge or anything silly like that.”
She was referring to a photograph I had taken in the spring of a pair of workers dangling by their safety lan-yards beneath the Lions Gate Bridge after their scaffold had collapsed in sudden high winds. It had been shot from Wes Camacho’s helicopter from under the bridge. I’d been contracted to take some aerial photos of the harbour area, the bulk yards on the north shore, and had hired Wes and his chopper. We were calling it a day because of the winds when we saw the scaffolding collapse and plummet into the water two hundred feet below. Wes hovered under the bridge, while the winds beat at the helicopter, relaying information to the rescue crews. The photograph had earned me an award and a fair bit of free publicity. Wes and I had also shared a citation for bravery from Vancouver Fire & Rescue. Truth be known, though, I’d been scared half to death, had kept shooting simply as a distraction.
“Nothing like that,” I said. “We’re shooting the board of directors of West Coast Hotels for their annual report this afternoon. In their boardroom.”
“I could schlep for you.”
I looked hopefully at Bobbi.
“Why not?” she said with a wry smile. “Save me from having to do all the schlepping.”
Thank you, I thought gratefully.
“But, um,” Bobbi said.
“What?” Reeny asked. Bobbi was looking at Reeny’s long, bare legs. “Oh.”
“I might have a pair of sweats that will fit you.”
“Not to worry,” Reeny said, and pulled a pair of jeans out of her huge bag.
“Will Quayle implied that your show’s pretty popular,” I said. “You’re not worried about being mobbed by your fans? Or being seen in the company of dull normals?”
“Speak