Part 3 (1/2)
”Lindy Sloane, the Singer/Actress/Celebrity Personality?”
Lewis studied me for a moment, the way he might look at an entirely new species of rodent discovered in Laos. Curious, but not necessarily in a good way. Maybe he didn't know who Lindy Sloane was.
”Please don't tell me you're one of those deluded Sloane fans,” he said.
So he DID know who she was!
”The Sloane Rangers, you mean,” I said.
Lewis nodded and pulled back slightly, as if he'd just realized I very possibly had the bubonic plague. Sloane Rangers lived and breathed for Lindy Sloane. They wore what she wore (or cheap knockoffs). They ate what she ate. They read what she claimed to be reading. And they spent every second of their free time in Lindy Sloane chat rooms, posting articles and fanfic on Lindy Sloane forums, and poring over the latest paparazzi pics posted on the gossip sites.
”No, Lewis, I am not a Sloane Ranger. In fact, I am imperatively, aggressively, and categorically NOT a Sloane Ranger. You might say I'm the antiSloane Ranger. I consider myself more of a Celebrity Social Crime Scene a.n.a.lyst. I keep track of the outrageous antics, and I incorporate them into the Character Portion of my Mental Pool.”
”Your Mental Pool?” asked Lewis. He still looked a bit worried about bubonic contagion.
”It's a writer thing.” I said.
”Uh-huh,” Lewis said.
”And one of the people I constantly update in my Mental Pool is Lindy Sloane. In case I ever want to write a novel satirizing Hollywood.” Because she certainly wasn't going to make it into my Great Parisian Novel. Lindy Sloane and Paris went together like oil and water. Like chocolate and mayonnaise. Like Not at All.
Lewis stared at me for a while, like he was still trying to decide if helping someone who admittedly had a Mental Pool was ethical or dangerous. After about a minute he hit a few keys on his Sidekick and read from the screen.
”She's gone platinum,” he said.
”Her CD!” I cried, stunned.
”Her hair,” Lewis said. ”Platinum blond. They say she might have also added some extensions.”
Now Lindy Sloane as a platinum blonde was just wrong, wrong, wrong. She had been a redhead forever.
But I waited for Lewis to continue.
”She's missed a few days of work filming s.p.a.ce Teen. Her publicist said she had the flu and got dehydrated, but a source close to the film crew says she just ran off without telling anybody.”
I nodded shrewdly, as any person does when a publicist says a star ”got the flu.”
”The publicist says she's on location but needs to recover from exhaustion.”
I nodded again.
”That's about all,” Lewis said. ”There are some quotes from the s.p.a.ce Teen cast saying the usual things: Lindy is the hardest-working girl in Hollywood, she does eat, and she isn't too skinny, she just photographs that way-that kind of stuff.”
”Thanks, Lewis,” I said sincerely. ”I guess I came down too hard on your Sidekick.”
I have to say, seeing Lewis in the summer Paris light, outlined with leaves and the elegant buildings of the Place des Vosges in the background, I realized that he looked...even smaller and younger than I'd always thought. He probably wouldn't be a bad-looking guy, in twenty years or so, especially to women of the five-foot-three-and-under set. But right now he just looked like a very small guy whose eyes and nose were too big for his face. Still, he was trying to be nice to me. And he'd given me the Lindy Sloane update. I wouldn't forget that.
Suddenly Charlotte appeared out of nowhere, looking distraught and out of sorts.
”What's wrong?” I asked quickly. Had she been robbed? Insulted? Had Charlotte been arrested?
”I've checked every shop here, and I can't find one that has the latest edition of The Economist!” she cried.
”So you'll find it tomorrow,” I said.
Charlotte appeared, at this moment, to turn legitimately white with rage.
”The issue is published TODAY,” she said. ”I need to read it TODAY. While the news is still FRESH and CURRENT.”
”There might be an online version,” Lewis said. ”Maybe I can access it.”
Charlotte looked at Lewis as if he had just pulled a family of puppies from a burning building. After just a few taps he turned the screen toward Charlotte. From where I was sitting, I could see the red rectangular logo of The Economist on the screen.
Charlotte gave a little shriek of delight and instantly began to read.
Paris really has brought out the best in Lewis.
FROM THE PARISIAN DIARY OF.
Lily M. Blennerha.s.sett
Today was a stroll to the magical Gothic world of Notre Dame Cathedral! With the appropriate scholastic preparation, 700 years of history simply sprang to life before me! My exhaustive knowledge of French medieval architecture certainly served me well. I might have waxed philosophical over flying b.u.t.tresses all day had we not been required to stretch our legs in the direction of the Place des Vosges. After such a day immersed in antiquity and artistic genius, our modern-day culture is all but forgotten!
Four.
I have stated More Than Once that I am no Simple Tourist. So you can imagine the shock, the DISMAY I felt when I learned what was on the board for the day. I found out by asking Charlotte, the Information Pack Commando, as we ate our Very Not French breakfast that morning.
”Don't you have your schedule, Lily?” Charlotte asked. ”Where's your information pack?”
”I left it in the thingy,” I said casually.
”What thingy?”
”Charlotte, you have yours IN YOUR HAND. It's just a simple question! What are we doing today?”
Charlotte was taking longer than usual to be mollified.