Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Bumped by Sibylla Nash

What happens when you’re blindsided by betrayal and happy hour is no longer an option?
 Elle Nixon seems to have the perfect life.  As a music PR maven and party girl on the L.A. social scene, she attends the hottest parties and has a roster of artists that reads like the who’s who of Billboard magazine. Her upwardly mobile bound
boyfriend lavishes her with plenty of gifts and attention until he disappears…during the middle of a high-profile fraud investigation into his investment firm by the FBI. Add an unplanned pregnancy to the mix and suddenly, it’s not so fun anymore to walk a mile in her Louboutins.
 Will Elle’s search for answers help or destroy her as she confronts the past and tries to reinvent her future?

AFTER A FULL DAY of sightseeing in Paris with eight writers and then a sound check at the
famed Olympia, I wanted nothing more than to close my eyes and sleep. Long and hard. I unlocked my hotel room, took two steps in and flung myself face down on the bed, landing on top of the scratchy, green bedspread with my high heels and short trench coat still on. My room was the length of my arm span, which was fine on a day like today. Tiny, dark, enclosed spaces couldn’t make me feel any worse.
I buried my face in the pillow and tried to stave off the nausea. It felt like the beginning of the
flu and it had followed me from Los Angeles to Paris, and had dug its heels in at the hotel along the Champs Elysees. It didn’t help that Paris hadn’t gotten the memo that it! was spring, or maybe I didn’t read the memo that said to pack layers of clothes. Either way, it was damp and chilly outside. It was hard to look chic in goose bumps, no matter how cute my shoes were, and my Louboutins were hot; save for the beating they were taking from all the cobblestone walkways.
I checked the time on my cell phone. I had less than two hours before I had to wrangle
everyone back on the bus for the main purpose of the trip, watching one of the biggest hip hop
artists in the world, Cameron perform at the Olympia, one of the oldest concert halls in Paris. He
was signed to Savage Rhythms, the record label that employed me as a publicist and subsidized my stiletto habit.
My phone chimed and a text message from my friend Justine came thr! ough. Growing up, we
used to live four doors down from one another in New Jersey and had been as inseparable as cake and ice cream at a birthday party. Now, living on opposite coasts, we were like caviar and a bottle of hundred-year-old scotch, only on special occasions.
Happy B-day Ellie! Hope ur enjoying ur trip in city of love!  :> :>)
She included her usual assortment of happy faces and other crazy icons that always made me
wonder if she dictated her text messages to her 12-year-old.
Bleh! Another birthday. I grabbed a pillow and put it over my face. Born four years apart, my
sister Evie and I shared the same birthday. I’d much rather pretend the day didn’t exist. I moved the pillow and rolled! over on my stomach to send Justine a quick message.
35. Yaay. I’m working & how much fun can it really b w/my man on another continent?
Before she could reply, my phone rang.
“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you!” Diego Rivera’s baritone sang in my ear with
only the slightest of interference from across the Atlantic. I smiled, happy to avert a trip down
memory lane. Even after two and a half years of dating, the sound of his voice still made my
stomach tingle with erratic butterflies…or it could have been the escargot from the other night. Two words. Never. Again.

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