Devil's Food

by Janice Weber

  Meanwhile, Dana cast a practiced eye about the dining room. Recognizing no one, he moved his chair closer to Philippa’ s, so that their knees could touch under the table. Above the tablecloth, of course, he maintained a professional distance, just in case one of his clients, or one of his wife’ s tennis partners, happened to be here. “Tonight I deserve champagne,” he said. “The best in the house.”

  Philippa smiled indulgently; over the last few hours, she had almost forgiven Dana for falling short of her expectations. “What have you done to deserve champagne?”

  “ One, I worked damn hard all afternoon. Two, you are buying me dinner. Remember our little bet at the office? Our little joke? You completely fooled Marjorie into thinking you were your sister.”

  She had forgotten. “I still don’t get the point of it.”

  “ Torment, sweetheart. It’s what makes the world go round.” When Eddy came to the table with the water pitcher, Dana ordered a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

  Philippa took a dainty sip of water. “Fine, you tormented your poor secretary. What do you think Ross is going to do when she tells him you’ ve been fooling around with Emily? Laugh and keep reading the mail?”

  Somehow Dana had never thought of that. “Relax! He’ll know it’s a joke.” He chuckled, glancing at his watch. Nine-fifteen: Perhaps Marjorie was still at the office. It might be wise to call in, see if she knew whether Ross still had a gun permit. “How do you like the decor here?”

  Philippa surveyed the pinkish brown walls, the aqua linen. “IVe seen worse.”

  “ It was one of my first interior commissions. For a complete lunatic. His name was Leo. I wonder if he’ s still around.”

  Eddy arrived with the champagne. “Where’s the telephone, please?” Dana asked. Under the table, he patted Philippa’s knee. “I’ll be right back.”

  He called the office and got an assistant, who informed him that Ross had returned late in the afternoon. Marjorie had spent about an hour locked up with him; they were both gone now. Dana returned to the table as Philippa was autographing someone’ s wine list. Eddy arrived with a little cheeseboard and rolls, compliments of the chef. In fact, their entire dinner would be compliments of the chef.

  “Isn’ t that sweet,” Philippa cooed, choosing a roll. “I love surprises. Don’ t you, sugar?”

  Dana tore his eyes from the entrance of the restaurant. “Always.” His stomach was beginning to constrict unpleasantly; when provoked, Ross was more dangerous than a cobra.

  Zoltan bore two glasses of vodka to the table. “How are you, Mr. Forbes?” he asked, nodding formally to Philippa. “We haven’ t seen you here since the renovation.”

  “Fine, thank you. I see everything’s holding up well. What happened to the statue behind the bar, though?”

  “Mr. Leo took it away. The feminists did not approve.”

  “What was the statue of?” Philippa interrupted, unsure whether Dana was conversing with a woman or a man. In either case, the orange makeup looked hideous.

  “Diavolina,” Zoltan replied cryptically. “Your drinks are from an admirer at the bar. Sitting under the television. The man in the red sweater says he knows you.”

  Batting her long eyelashes, Philippa searched the crowded bar and located the gentleman in question. To her surprise, she saw not adulation but disdain hardening his face. “I don’t believe I recognize him,” she said, moving an inch closer to Dana for protection. But thank him anyway.”

  After Zoltan left, Dana stared into his vodka. “What’s this floating in here? Dead beetles?”

  “Four dried cherries, dear. The whole world knows it’s my favorite drink.”

  After swallowing the vodka neat, Dana chewed on one or two, hoping to calm his stomach. “Your fans know that?”

  “Of course. I’m surprised you don’t.” Philippa looked again toward the bar. “That man in the red sweater keeps staring so oddly over here.”

  “Maybe he thinks you’re Emily.”

  Philippa scowled. This afternoon they had had a tiny argument concerning her wig. Dana had finally convinced Philippa that she should wear it this one last time, for privacy. Despising him a little, she had given in. What was the point? Obviously everyone recognized her anyway.

  They finished the cheese in silence, glancing casually but repeatedly at the door (Dana) and the bar (Philippa). Finally she said, “That man, Dana. Does he look like someone’s who’s seen Tropical Heat twice?”

  Dana glanced at the bar and felt his insides catapult. Christ! That was Rex, Ardith’s aerobics instructor! The man waved impudently at him.

  “He knows you?” Philippa asked incredulously. “The drinks were for you, not me?”

  “Why not,” Dana responded, feeling his gorge rise. “I’m not exactly unknown and unadmired here.” The bastard had probably been taking pictures for Ardith’s divorce suit. She was going to bankrupt him after all. “He’s my wife’s aerobics instructor.”

  “Look, he’s leaving.”

  Zoltan suddenly blocked Dana’s view. “How is everything?”

  “Terrific,” Dana croaked. Lacing those dried cherries with cyanide could save Ardith a couple hundred thousand bucks in legal fees. He’d better go to the bathroom and try to puke. “Excuse me again, darling. I won’t be long.”

  When he returned, pale and unsuccessful, Eddy was just ladling out the mushrooms in port. “Ah! What’s this?” Philippa was asking. “Snails? Emily knows I adore snails!”

  “Sorry, they’ re mushrooms.” Eddy couldn’t remember their name. “They were brought in this morning from a monastery.”

  Philippa tried a mouthful. “Delightful. Are you feeling all right, Dana?”

  “No. Let’s leave.”

  “You aren’t serious. I can’t insult my sister like that. She’s probably spent the whole day making this meal for us.” Philippa continued eating. “The mushrooms are very good. Try some.”

  Feeling his pulse skip and pound, Dana swallowed a forkful. For a few moments, they ate in silence. Then Dana thought he saw Ross at the bar. He threw his napkin to the table. “Excuse me again, doll. This is the last time, I swear it.”

  Her mouth stuffed with mushrooms, Philippa could only smile grotesquely as Dana left yet again. She was angrily tossing back the last of the champagne when an intense, athletic man with steely blue eyes slid into Dana’s seat opposite her. His look stung, stunned: She sat paralyzed.

  “Hello, Plum,” he said. “I thought I’d find you in the kitchen, not the dining room.”

  Philippa knew immediately that this was her sister’s lover. She also knew that the second she opened her mouth, this one would know she was an impostor. So she shrank away from him, trying to hide her face behind a napkin.

  “I knew you were quick, but not this quick,” Guy Witten continued in a soft, ironic voice. “Your husband’ s partner? That’s getting suicidal, kitten.” Reaching across the table, he smoothed her left eyebrow with two possessive, intimate fingers. “Too much makeup,” he observed. Then his eyes fell, lingering on her décolletage. Philippa wanted both to cover herself and to expose herself; the conflict made her cheeks flame. “But why dress like a whore? That upsets me.”

  Zoltan stepped quickly to the table. “Is this gentleman bothering you, madam?” he asked.

  Before Philippa could reply, Guy Witten stood up. “Of course I was. But now I’m leaving.” His eyes never left hers. “I’ll be in touch.” With his last word, so intentionally rife with double meaning, Philippa’s stomach rolled.

  She recovered her voice when Guy was halfway across the dining room. “An old friend,” she explained weakly to Zoltan.

  The maître d’ smiled discreetly. “Ah, here comes Mr. Forbes.” Zoltan faded expertly away as Dana resumed his place at the table.

  “False alarm,” he said. “I thought I saw Ross.” He took his jacket off. “Hot in here.”

  Diavolina was packed. A line had formed on the sidewalk, something that rarely happened in this neighborh
ood except at gay bars. At ten o’clock, when Ward had still not returned from the therapist, Zoltan upped the music from jazz to rock, perhaps to entertain the clientele as they waited for their meals. And wait they did: Operating without an oven, a sober dishwasher or sous-chef, and two experienced waitpersons, the kitchen never recovered its rhythm. Hopelessly behind, the new waiters began telling their tables that Diavolina was out of everything but chili, an entrée requiring only one plate, one level of doneness, and no side orders.

  Fortunately, the friends whom Byron had lured to Diavolina tonight were not the type to speed through dinner, go home, and read nonfiction until the ten o’clock news. Comfortably inebriated, Byron’s roommate Jimmy ambled toward Philippa’s table as the waiter was clearing away her mushrooms in port. Jimmy knew from experience that the best time to intrude upon a pair of strangers was just before they received their main course. By then they would have drunk enough to be witty but not bathetic, and the lovers’ quarrels would just be getting under way with a few barbs here and there: Interruptions would almost be welcome.

  “Excuse me,” he said, “but are you Philippa Banks, the movie star?” She smiled affirmatively. “May I please pretty please have your autograph? You’re my favorite actress of all time. I’ve seen all your movies at least twice, then I always buy the videos.”

  Smiling apologetically at Dana, Philippa reached for Jimmy’s pen. “Which is your favorite?”

  ”Rough Sands, definitely. That incest scene at the luau is just sublime. I broke my Replay button on it.”

  Philippa signed Jimmy’s menu. “That’s very kind.”

  Lola arrived bearing a bottle of chianti, compliments of a fan. Dana waited a moment, then asked, “You had an incest scene?”

  “It was with a sister.” Philippa toyed with a roll, thinking about the man who had recently called her Plum. His blue eyes haunted her. She glanced toward the kitchen. “I wonder if Emily’s having fun back there.”

  “Are you kidding? This place is out of control tonight.” Yet again, Dana glanced at the front door. The crowd, the noise, were beginning to make him nervous: too many witnesses. “I think we may have been better off staying on my boat. Quiet. Private.” His medicine chest was there as well. He could take something for his writhing stomach. Meanwhile, maybe some wine would help. “Must we really stay?” Philippa didn’t respond so he added, “On our last night together?”

  Was he hallucinating, or did she seem to brighten as he said that? After all he had risked by appearing in public with her? After all those afternoon appointments he had canceled? Dana cringed, wondering how he was going to explain all of this to Ross tomorrow. And Marjorie! A fortune in roses would barely mollify her. Once again, he glanced apprehensively over the dining room. Bad vibrations here. Very bad. He wanted to escape to his ship and peel that dress off Philippa. Tie her down in the life boat, savage her a little. “I have an idea,” he began.

  Their waiter reappeared. “Filets mignons with horseradish sauce,” Eddy announced, placing the dishes in front of them. “Compliments of the chef,” he added for the fifth time.

  Across the dining room, a wine bucket crashed to the floor. Conversations again paused, resuming on a buzzier note as waiters rushed to mop up the mess. “I wonder if it’s like this every night,” Philippa said, taking her steak knife.

  Lola appeared again. “Pepper, anyone?”

  “Just a touch,” Philippa said irritably, anxious to rid the vicinity of a dazzling woman twenty years her junior. “Whoa! Enough! Fine!”

  Lola made a brief pass over Dana’s steak before pulling a felt-tip pen from her apron. “Would you mind autographing the pepper mill, Miss Banks? It would mean so much to me.”

  Philippa hastily scribbled on the pepper mill. “That should do. Run along now.”

  “Thank you so much!” Lola bowed and left.

  Philippa took a bite of her steak. “Oh dear.”

  “What’ s the matter?” Dana asked.

  “I might have to send this back. It’s almost raw.” Hell on her hemorrhoids.

  “Take mine. It’s medium.” They changed plates. Dana poured more wine. He was beginning to feel melancholy. “Must you really catch that plane?”

  “I’ve got to be in New York at ten tomorrow morning. Why don’t you come with me? I don’t want to go to the opening of Choke Hold with my agent. He smells like a moldy orange.”

  “You know I can’t get away, Philippa.” The mere thought of returning to his office gave Dana a spasm of indigestion. “Let’s get out of here. We could spend one last hour on the boat.”

  To his chagrin, she didn’t even hesitate. “No way. I still haven’t seen Emily. How’s your steak?”

  Dana gamely shoved another slab into his mouth. Too much damn pepper. Burned his insides. The chianti ate into his esophagus like Drano. He now realized that somewhere between the champagne and the filet mignon, he had lost her.

  They ate in silence. As he became ever more aware of people staring at Philippa, Dana felt cold, ill, used. Their final hour would be hell. He almost wished Ross would appear, with or without a shotgun. They’d all have a good laugh once Ross discovered that his wife was virtuous and his sister-in-law was a conniving harlot; with any luck, Philippa would go to the airport with Emily, sparing him a farewell under fluorescent lights. For now he could only stare at her lovely mouth, so recently his, and wonder what had gone awry.

  Philippa wrapped long, cool fingers around her wineglass. “Have you seen Emily recently?”

  “Emily?” He tried to think. She rarely came to the office. She didn’t play bridge or tennis with Ardith like the other architects’ wives. She never went out to dinner with Ross’s clients because she had to get up early for work the next day. “I haven’t seen her since July Fourth. We were all watching fireworks from the boat.”

  “How’d she look?”

  Super! Unbelievable! “Pretty good,” Dana said, vividly recalling the toreador pants and the black halter top that had left most of Emily’s back exposed. Men kept draping their arms around her, asking if she would like to borrow their jackets. “Like a pastel version of you.”

  Philippa was not sure that was a compliment. “Was she with anyone?”

  “Ross, of course.”

  As a busboy cleared their dishes, Philippa contemplatively sipped her wine. “I should have spent more time with her this trip. We never see each other enough now.”

  “Didn’t you have breakfast with her Friday morning? At her old job?”

  “It was rather hasty, if you recall. I was in a rush to get to your boat.”

  She sounded almost angry at him. Dana felt dizzy, as if he were being flushed to the bottom of a huge, swirling cesspool. With difficulty, he fought to recover his balance. “Let’s go visit her, then,” he said. “Where’s that damn waiter?”

  Right on cue, Eddy appeared at the table with two large bowls. “Black currants. Very rare.”

  “We’re not hungry,” Dana growled. Odd, his tongue was hobbling over simple words. No, the tongue was okay; the jaws were not moving. “We’d like to pay our compliments to the chef and leave.”

  “Hold on. He’ll be here in a minute to say hello.”

  “He?” Philippa echoed. “I thought the chef was a she.”

  Byron, in full regalia, emerged from the kitchen. His immaculate white apron and tall hat beautified his tan. Dozens of friends began to applaud as he strutted to the bar and turned down the music. When he approached the famous actress’s table, a hush came over the dining room. “Philippa Banks,” he began, ignoring her dinner companion completely, “I have a confession to make. I have been in love with you my entire adult life.”

  With a wistful little grunt, Dana Forbes fell forward into the black currants.

  Gas lamps flickered softly over Beacon Hill, inspiring the fireflies in the ivy. Nothing moved now but the clouds over the moon. As she left the cab, shutting the door quietly, Emily glanced up and saw a pale glow behind her livin
g room window: Ross was home. A few hours ago, that light would have frightened her. Now she felt no more dread; tonight she had been traumatized by other, perhaps larger, catastrophes. She stood a long time on her stoop, digging in her purse for keys. Ross had probably heard the cab; ungallant of him not to come down and unlock the door. Ungallant of him to disappear for three days, in fact. He sure picked a great time to come home. Emily found the keys, the lock, and went inside.

  A slight fear returned as she noticed his suitcase in the foyer. Such dim light, such ominous stillness, were not her usual greeting. She peered into the living room, the den, the kitchen, unwilling to call his name; to bleat into this silence. Then she heard the clink of ice on crystal: He was in the atrium.

  Ross lay on the couch, watching the moon. Seeing her in the doorway, he slowly raised his glass and drank. She knew from the heavy sloshing of ice that it no longer floated in much scotch. “It’s late,” he said finally. “Where have you been?”

  Emily dropped into a chair. “The question is, where have you been.”

  Ross said nothing for a very long time. Then he slowly raised himself to a sitting position and switched on the lamp next to the couch. Moonlight, forgiveness, fled; only his piercing eyes remained. She trembled, guilty forever, forever damned. Ross never blinked. “Are you having an affair with Dana?” he asked in a tight, merciless voice.

  Emily made a little hiccuping noise. “Dana?” Then she seemed to laugh. Could it be true? Was she spared? Her pulse feebly returned. “What makes you say that?”

  “I saw you board his boat on Friday.”