Gemma Halliday: Fearless in High Heels

I clenched my teeth together. “For your information, I am drinking. A cranberry juice. So there.”

She rolled her eyes at me. “Whatever, Shamu.”

For a full second the world turned red, my face was filled with lava, and my tongue got stuck somewhere between my throat and my toes.

“ What did you just call me,” I hissed through my teeth, feeling all three tons of my weight clenching for a fight.

“Maddie,” I heard Dana behind me. I felt her hand on my arm, tugging me in the opposite direction. “Honey, let’s just go.”

“I think this stick figure just called me a whale,” I said. “I’m gonna kill her. I’m gonna sit on her. I’ll suffocate her,” I yelled even as I felt Dana drag me away from the bar. “How do you like that, Stick Figure? Ever been suffocated by a whale before?!”

Skinny Bitch Chick just shrugged again, sent me a look that said I was clearly the pathetic one, and slipped her emaciated little self toward the bar.

“You okay?” Dana asked, handing me my cranberry juice.

“Did you hear her? Did you hear what she called me?”

Dana nodded. “She’s a twit. Ignore it.”

Easy for her to say. She was still a size two. I sipped at my cranberry juice, willing the cool drink to cool me down even as I watched the Skinny Bitch walk triumphantly away from the bar, a red and blue cocktail in one hand and her equally smug sidekick a step behind.

“Come on,” Dana said, watching my eye line nervously. “She’s not worth spoiling our evening over. Let’s go dance.”

Normally The Bump and dancing don’t mix well, but considering the anger still seething through me, I had some extra energy to burn off, so I let Dana lead me up a flight of stairs to the main dance floor.

As with downstairs, up on the dance floor it felt like everyone in Hollywood was at Crush. At least everyone who was anyone. We spotted a couple of Kardashians drinking in the corner, a couple of Disney Channel faux-teens dancing near the DJ, and a couple of current Dancing with the Stars contestants trying to tango to a Madonna re-mix. And along with Hollywood’s elite were a few non-elite’s that Dana and I recognized as well. Namely a slim, Hispanic guy in zebra printed, vinyl Daisy-Dukes and a red mesh tank with a boy toy in one hand and a martini in the other.

He waved the moment he saw us, wiggling his plastic clad butt our way. “Maddie, dahling, what are you doing here?” he gasped in an accent that was 50% Valley Girl and 50% San Francisco.

Marco worked as the receptionist at my step-father, Fernando’s, salon while cultivating his budding career as a party planner. He was known for wearing more eyeliner than Lady Gaga, owning more pairs of leather pants than any other man (or woman) on the west coast, and having enough drama-queen in him to single handedly keep Broadway in business for the next decade. His current look included dying his hair bright yellow and drawing in a large, black beauty mark on his cheek, just above the cheekbone.

I greeted him with a couple of air kisses, before answering his question. “Dana’s boyfriend is a part owner of the place.”

“Fabu, honey!” Marco exclaimed, giving Dana a shoulder bump before he turned back to me. “But what I meant was what are you doing here ? You know… in your condition ?” he asked, pseudo whispering the last word as if saying it out loud might suddenly make pregnancy a catching disease.

“I’m having a good time,” I hissed.

He scrunched up his nose. “Is that allowed when you’re… you know?”

“I’m pregnant, not dead,” I shot back.

Marco threw his hands up in surrender. “Okay, geeze, sorry for asking.” He turned to Dana. “The hormones are making her a little touchy, no?”

“Who’s your friend?” Dana asked, wisely changing the subject lest she need to pull the hormonal woman off another unsuspecting skinny person that night.

Marco’s face brightened up immediately. “This,” he said gesturing to the boy toy, “is Gunnar.”

Gunnar was tall, blonde, tanned, and built like he’d just escaped from the set of Baywatch .

“Nice to meet you,” Dana said.

Gunnar flashed a bright white smile at her and nodded.

“Gunnar’s Norwegian,” Marco said. “He doesn’t speak a word of English. Isn’t that precious?”

Gunnar smiled and nodded again.

I nodded back and did a universal “hello” wave. “He doesn’t understand any English either?” I asked.

Marco shook his head, beaming. “None. He’s an exchange student staying with your mom and Fernando,” Marco explained. “They asked me to show him around. Some days, I love my job.” He sighed, eyeing Gunnar’s biceps.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Gunnar,” I told his blank expression. “But I think I have to go find the ladies’ room. Cranberry juice overload.”

Dana looked down at my glass. “But you only took a couple sips.”

My turn to sigh. “I know. Peeing has become my hobby lately. You dance, I’ll catch up to you,” I told her, heading back toward the stairs.

It took a good twenty minutes to shove back through the crowded club again before I finally reached a door near the back with a little blue stick figure in a dress pasted on it signaling my Mecca. I quickly pushed through, instantly assaulted by the scents of hairspray, body spray, and something else that was lightly less aromatic. Three young, annoyingly slim, and fashionably dressed so-used-to-be-me women stood at the mirror primping, while two stalls sat behind them. Even in here the noise from the DJ was still deafening as I bent down and tilted my head under the stall doors, trying to peek for tell-tale feet. Just my luck, a pair of stilettos stared back at me under the first door. Next to a pair of loafers. I heard a moan from behind the metal door and it didn’t take much imagination to realize what was going on in there. I think I blushed as I moved on to the second stall, and did a repeat.

Again, shoes. This time black, satin with tall, metal spiked heels. Great. Bitch Chick was in the second stall. Just my luck.

I crossed my legs, leaned against the hand dryer, and waited. And waited.

And waited.

Three minutes into it, I thought I was going to explode.

“Um, you going to be long in there?” I called out.

No response.

“There’s a pregnant woman out here about to burst,” I warned.

Again, nothing.

I moved to bang on the door with my fist, but the second my hand made contact, the door swung open.

And that’s when, for the first time in five months, peeing dropped to number two on my priority list.

Sitting inside the stall, slumped backward on the toilet seat was the dark-haired girl I’d had words with earlier. And while she wasn’t doing what one might think a person in a toilet stall would be doing, it was clear she was not going to be getting up any time soon. Her head lulled to one side, a trickle of blood dripped down the front of her dress, and her eyes stared at the ceiling, wide and unseeing. And totally dead.

Had the music not been so loud, it’s possible I might have heard myself scream. As it was, the first sign I had that I was freaking out was a wave of nausea and a swaying of the room in front of my eyes. I blinked, took in a deep breath, willed my stomach contents to stay put as I grabbed onto the side of the stall, then took another deep breath.

Once I was pretty sure I remembered the mechanics of breathing again, I tried to force some logical thought into my brain.

Here’s the thing: I’m ashamed to admit this is not the first dead body that I’ve found. Through no fault of my own, I seem to be some kind of dead person magnet. In fact, that’s how I originally met my husband, the homicide detective. I’d like to think it’s just bad luck on my part, but the truth is my dead-body-finding luck is beyond bad. It’s downright disastrous.