The Secret Life of Mrs. Claus by Carly Alexander Page A

married now. Funny that her name hadn’t come up in the conversation, but Bobby probably figured it would piss me off that much more. I decided to take “Destiny” into my own hands. “So where is your wife? I’ve read that you two are inseparable.”
    “She’s running a few errands. Manicure, hair appointment. Girl stuff.”
    “Really? And here I thought she was a busy working girl.”
    “The two of us are crazy busy when the show is filming. Destiny is my coproducer.”
    That would be my job , I thought. And that would be my man, if only a few things had played out differently . That queasy feeling rose inside me, another session of making myself sick over my mistakes. I wasn’t up for it. “I’ve got to get back to work,” I said.
    “Yeah, what’s that about? Did you really give up the Rockettes thing?”
    “I sort of had to take a hiatus when I broke my ankle. The Rockettes look down upon dancers who can’t walk. Sort of ruins the lineup.”
    “I knew about the accident,” he said, waving a hand. “By the way, did you sue? Hope you got a bundle out of them. Immigrants, right? Probably illegal.”
    My jaw dropped in revulsion. “Mario? Don’t you remember the pizza place we loved?”
    He shrugged. “Anyway, your ankle looks fine. What about the Rockettes thing?”
    Since the day of my audition at Radio City Music Hall, the “Rockettes thing” had been a problem for Bobby. Although he’d never been too concerned that I was the one paying our bills when we lived together in Baltimore, the fact that I’d pulled ahead to pursue a high-visibility showbiz job in New York was too much for his delicate ego to balance. He had helped me move into the apartment with the other two dancers, had spent a weekend at a nearby motel, had even stayed for my first performance and brought me a bouquet of flowers backstage, but inside I think he was beginning to disconnect. Despite the pledge to make this long-distance thing work with Metroliner trips and daily phone calls, Bobby was working up a Plan B, which involved jetting out to L.A. to pursue a separate career and audition stand-ins.
    “Are you done with New York?” he added.
    “I’m on hiatus,” I said, flinging back his insider lingo. “I’m going back to New York after Christmas.” That much was true. He didn’t have to know I’d need to audition for the Rockettes all over again. “So…I’ll let you know how much I really hate you after I see the first episode. Of my show.”
    Such a bitch!
    “You’re kidding…I know you are. Listen, we’re all getting together at Club 13 to watch the series debut—the cast and crew, lots of media people. Got to make a splash in Baltimore, of course, and it’s such a great angle, that home-grown thing. You know, they’ll probably want to talk with you, the inspiration for the show. Why don’t you come?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Come on,” he growled in that jovial way. “I mean it. The media people are going to want interviews with the real Olivia.”
    “I have plans,” I said firmly, though an invitation to the premiere party was enticing. When you’re in show business, you develop this instinct to go toward the cameras, grab the attention of reporters and media people whenever you have the chance. Still, there was no way I could watch at such a public place, not knowing what to expect from Bobby’s show. Talk about blindsided.
    “Let me know if plans change.” He saluted me with two fingers. “Ciao.”
    I was tempted to respond with a one-finger salute but restrained myself. After all, I was Mrs. Claus.

6
    T o my surprise, ZZ didn’t glower or grouse when I crept back into orientation ten minutes late. He was passing out stockings and lecturing once again on the importance of setting goals, on the amazing impact this Christmas wish could have on our lives.
    Blah blah, blah blah, blah blah.
    I tuned him out immediately and refocused on Bobby and the debut of the show and the fact that