"Now, don't tell Rube," said Pen, smiling girlishly at me. "He can get quite jealous at times, although we do have an open relationship."
"There's nothing to tell Rube," I pointed out. "Lonnie just installed a surveillance unit for you."
Pen's smile widened. She gave me an affectionate, one-armed squeeze that pushed most of the air out of my lungs. "Little you know!" she said, following this with a hoot of laughter.
Could she mean it? Lonnie had written: "Dr. Penny! Cool!" on the bottom of his note to me about the camera installation. But, Lonnie and Pen Braithwaite? Quite unexpected pictures danced in front of my eyes.
"I hope you'll be very happy together," I declared.
"Speaking of happy," said Pen, peering closely at me, "you look positively sated, Kylie. Some wonderfully sensual experience?"
I knew I was blushing. "Fair," I said, offhand. "Nothing to write home to Mum about."
And that was true. My mum would never hear a word about my night with Ariana.
Thankfully at this moment the lift arrived with a tired wheeze, and Pen swept me into it. She jabbed the floor number multiple times. "Come on," she said, "Come on!" The lift doors creaked arthritically closed.
"Bloody elevators," said Pen. "Got stuck in this one the other day. And I was by myself, worse luck. Now, if it gives up the ghost right now, it'll be you and me, Kylie, all alone. What do you say to that?"
"Help?"
"Love it," said Pen, chuckling, "that Aussie sense of humor."
Heeding my urgent prayer, the lift opened on the correct floor. "Better luck next time, eh?" said Pen, striding in the direction of double doors with an illuminated ON AIR sign.
We passed a window through which I could see a bloke at a console speaking animatedly into a microphone, although we could hear nothing until we entered the control room, where his voice was fed through speakers. He was giving news headlines: high-speed police pursuit of a carjacked SUV, influence peddling scandal in City Hall, gang-related shootout in one of the poorer L.A. areas, top movie star checks into upscale substance abuse clinic.
"Same old, same old," said Pen.
In quick succession, she introduced me to several preoccupied people, each of whom said. "Hi," then went straight back to preparing for the coming program. One called Roger seemed to be in charge. Then I was bundled into a cramped studio, seated in a high-backed leather chair, and fitted with cumbersome earphones. "Can you hear me?" boomed in my ears. I gestured to the sound engineer to indicate I could.
Then there was a lull in proceedings. Through the window between the control room and the studio, I could see Pen waving her hands around as she spoke to a diminutive woman who for some reason reminded me of an aristocratic whippet. If she'd been larger, I reflected, it'd have been a greyhound.
With nothing to distract me, my thoughts boomeranged back to Ariana. This morning we'd breakfasted together, and Ariana had been quiet but not cold. If anything, she'd been pensive, even sad. I'd silently admonished myself not to say too much. Any declaration of love, for example, was definitely not on the schedule. Both of us scrupulously avoided discussing our night together, and I managed not to impulsively blurt anything out about undying devotion over my porridge.
The rot had set in when I'd walked Ariana to her dark-blue BMW. She said a casual goodbye, slid into the driver's seat, shut the door, started the engine.
I tapped gently on her window. She slid it down and gazed inquiringly at me. "Something you forgot?"
"To tell you that I love you."
Ariana looked away. "Don't say that, please."
"Why not? It's true."
"Please."
"Right-oh," I'd said, "but it won't make any difference. I'll still love you."
We hadn't exchanged another word. I'd stepped back, and she'd put the car in gear and driven away.
Pen broke into my thoughts by barging through the studio door.
The room seemed suddenly smaller. In the space of a couple minutes, she'd dumped the compilation of questionable calls in my lap, flung herself into a chair opposite mine, slapped down a bunch of typed pages, whacked on her earphones, fiddled with switches, and adjusted the hanging microphone to her liking. This was followed by a sound-level check.
All this accomplished, she leaned back and grinned at me. "If the guy calls, and I'm betting he will, Roger's on the ten-second delay, and the program will go to station identification while I keep him talking."
Roger came through the earphones to say it was sixty seconds to airtime.
"Have you listened to my program before?" Pen asked me.
I had to admit I'd missed that pleasure.
Pen chortled. "Be ready to be surprised."
I said I would be.
"Emily screens the calls," said Pen, indicating the whippet woman, who was seated on the other side of the dividing window, earphones dominating her narrow head. "She's got a talent for voices, and will recognize Creepy Guy-that's what we've taken to calling him-if he's on the line. I've told her to put him through like a regular caller." She rubbed her hands together. "Creepy's starting to be a bit of a challenge. I always like a challenge."
"No, you don't," I said, having read much more about stalking and stalkers since last we'd talked. "True stalkers are much more than a challenge. They're unhinged, unpredictable individuals who can go from being a mere nuisance to becoming a murderous threat."
Pen seemed ready to argue, but I went on, "Did you read through the list of preliminary steps that Ariana gave you?"
She waved a dismissive hand. "All just common sense. Besides, being a celebrity of sorts, I've already got more than half of them in place."
The basic safety precautions to take when being stalked were, as Pen said, common sense: block your address at the DMV and voter registration; get a post office box for mail; screen all calls with an answering machine; get an additional, unlisted number and only give it to family and very close friends; never accept delivery of a package unless you personally ordered the item; shred all receipts and statements; keep a cell phone by your side at all times, even inside your home, because a stalker can cut telephone wires; get a watchdog; install a security system including video surveillance of entry points; be aware of exactly where the nearest police station is; establish where twenty-four-hour stores are situated; inform neighbors, coworkers, and friends that you are being stalked so they won't innocently provide information; take a class in self-defense; consider changing your address.
I'd opened my mouth to emphasize that taking a stalker for granted had been a fatal mistake for some victims when a voice in our earphones started the countdown. The program was about to go to air. The theme music, I found, was the old Cole Porter song "Anything Goes." I had a feeling this would prove to be an entirely appropriate choice.
The music faded, and an announcer, his resonant delivery full of joyful enthusiasm, exclaimed, "Welcome to Sexuality Unchained, Dr. Penny's award-winning advice column of the air, covering all issues of adult sexuality!" He dropped his voice to add in a serious tone, "A warning: this is for adults only. Some material discussed may offend some listeners." Another burst of Anything Goes was followed by: "And here's Dr. Penny!"
I recalled that Harriet had said Dr. Penny began her program with a statement that sex was her great passion. Harriet wasn't wrong. "Sex is my great passion!" Pen exclaimed. "My great passion! A life not filled to the brim with healthy sensuality is no life at all! For those listeners new to Sexuality Unchained, let me promise you an unbridled, unrestrained, candid exploration of adult sexuality in all its wonderful diversity."
The calls began. Leaping lizards! There were some uninhibited people out there! I was no prude, but a couple of times my mouth literally fell open. Pen took it all in her stride, even the bloke who'd had a surprising experience while swimming with dolphins.