Gemma Halliday - Alibi In High Heels

I shut the door behind myself, promising that I'd check in again first thing in the morning, and went next door to my own room. I took a long, hot shower and popped two pain pills in my mouth, the effects of the day taking its toll on my leg.

But as I lay in bed, my wet hair wrapped up in a towel, I couldn't sleep. Maybe because I'd slept past noon that day, or maybe because of the anxiety of the next day's coming show, or the hollow disappointment of not having my own shoes to show.

I rolled over and looked at the phone beside my bed.

I wondered if Ramirez was back home in L.A. yet. Maybe still on a plane somewhere over the Atlantic? Was he thinking about me? Wondering what I was doing? Did he even care what I was doing anymore?

I bit my lip and picked up the phone in the darkness. I dialed the first three digits of his cell number.

Then hung up.

No. I was not calling. I had done all I could. I had apologized, explained. I'd laid it all out there. Now it was his turn. I was not going to be the one to make contact first.

Only, what if he never made contact?

I stared at the phone again. What if he was waiting for me to call? What if he wasn't sure I wanted him to call? I had been a little mad this afternoon. Maybe I should call just to let him know that it was okay for him to call?

I lifted the receiver again, and this time got all the way through his number and heard it ring twice before hanging up.

I scrunched my eyes shut, rubbing my balled fists into them. Damn. I was such a chicken!

And, worse then that, I realized his cell would show a missed call from me. Great. He'd see I'd called and hadn't left a message. What kind of message would that send?

I figured I'd better call back and at least explain the hang up. You know, so he didn't think I'd dialed, then chickened out and hung up. (Never mind that was exactly what I'd done.)

I picked up the phone a third time and dialed his number. It rang three times, then went to voicemail.

"Hi. Uh, it's me." I cleared my throat. "Uh, Maddie me. You know, in case you were wondering which me. 'Cause, you know, I'm sure you know a lot of mes." I cringed. "Yeah, anyway, uh, I just wanted to let you know that I just called you, but I didn't leave a message and it wasn't because I chickened out or anything, I, uh, I just had a bad connection. Yep, connections really suck here in France. So, yeah, just wanted to clear that up, that I wasn't not calling you. Which, I guess is pretty clear by the fact that I am calling you. Right now even. Which clearly you already know if you're listening to this. Which, I hope you are. So, um, bye."

I hung up. And doubled over, cringing all the way down to my toes. Oh. My. God. I had sounded like a nutcase! He was going to listen to that and thank his lucky stars he got away from me when he did. That was like the worst phone message ever.

I sat down on the bed. I took a few deep breaths. Okay, Maddie, it's alright. You can fix this, girl.

I picked up the phone again and dialed Ramirez's number.

"Hi. It's me again. Maddie me. Listen, I just wanted to apologize for that obviously bad message I just left you. I'm, uh, I just took some pain pills and I think they're going to my head." I bit my lip. "Yeah, I, uh, just can't really think when I take them. Anyway, I really just wanted to apologize again for the whole-"

But I didn't get to finish as a loud beep sounded in my ear and a mechanical voice came on the line. "This mailbox is full," it informed me. "Thank you for calling."

Then it hung up on me.

I stared at the receiver in my hand.

"No!" I shook my head. "No, no, no, no."

I dialed Ramirez's home number. After the third ring, his voicemail kicked in.

"Hey, it's me." I paused. "Maddie me. Listen, I just left you a message on your cell, but the inbox filled up before I could finish. And I just wanted to say that I am sorry. Amazingly sorry for everything that happened. And even though I've been very understanding, and you're not being very understanding at all, I'm will to go 70/30 and apologize again. Twice. Three times. As many times at it takes. Okay? So, um, I guess I just wanted to let you know that if you wanted to call me I'd definitely want you to call me and I'd be here. Picking up. Not letting it go to voicemail." I paused again. "Not that I'm blaming you for me getting your voicemail. I'm just… here."

I hung up. Then flopped my head back on the pillows.

That's it, I seriously needed help.

I was on the runway, spotlights blaring down at me, flashbulbs going off everywhere I looked. Too bright. So bright I could hardy see where I was going. I squinted my eyes, trying to make out the runway beneath my feet. Only it seemed long – way too long. I kept walking and walking and felt as thought I'd never reach the end of it. And the more I walked, the more the white noise of reporters chattering, people clapping, the ever present cameras going off all blended together into one loud roar.

Until suddenly a voice shouted from the crowd.

"Murderer!"

I turned toward the voice's direction, but I still couldn't see anything. I blinked against the bright glare, shielding my eyes with my hand to make out anything.

"Murderer!" he shouted again. And suddenly the spotlight dimmed, shining instead on the voice.

It was Moreau. He was standing up on a folding chair, his head towering over the crowd. He was wearing a long black gown and a white wig, reminding me of an English barrister. He had one long finger pointed squarely at me, his dead squirrel mustache twitching like mad on his scowling face.

"She did it! I tell you, she killed them all!"

The photographers flashed more pictures, the entire crowd chanting the word, "Murderer."

"But I'm innocent!" I tried to tell them. Only my voice was soft, so quiet it was almost a whisper. I tried again to shout, but it came out hardly louder than a sigh.

I turned to run away, but suddenly Moreau was there. I turned again and again, there he was. Everywhere I went Moreau seemed to be there, pointing at me with his long, bony finger.

I closed my eyes, putting my fingers in my ears to silence the accusations.

And when I finally blinked my lids open again, there he was.

Ramirez.

Stony faced, his hands in his pockets, that panther trailing dangerously down his arm.

"Tell them I didn't do it," I pleaded with him. "Tell them I'm not a killer."

But he just looked at me. Then slowly turned and walked away.

My eyes shot open, my breath catching in my throat as I squinted against the sudden onslaught of light. For a moment, I had the terrifying feeling I was still dreaming. Until I blinked and realized it was sunlight, not spotlights, coming through the ruffled yellow curtains. I turned and looked at the digital alarm clock numbers. 7:15 a.m. I shut my eyes and let my head fall back on the pillows

It was show day.

I took in a deep breath, washing the nightmare out of my system as bittersweet feelings set in.

Even since I'd been a little girl and playing mix and match with my Barbie fashion plates, I'd dreamed of being in a real live fashion show. Obviously my just-above-Tom-Cruise height killed my dreams of modeling haut couture, but as a designer, those dreams had shifted. Showing my own collection had become my holy grail all through college. And knowing how close I'd come to that dream here in Paris, only to be let down again, formed a small lump in my throat as I stared up at the ceiling.

I'd had a small hope that maybe Moreau would release my shoes in time to show today. But I realized now it had been in vain. As long as I was still his suspect numero uno, there as no way he was letting those babies go. I took a deep breath, forcing back the serious case of feeling-sorry-for-myself.