by Janice Weber
She ate quickly, cursing Simon for scheduling her first interview at ten-thirty. He knew damn well that her face only stopped looking like an inflated life raft after lunch. Maybe he thought it all jibed with his Battered Survivor scenario. Philippa finally pushed her plate away, disgusted that she had eaten two muffins. As she stood up, pain ripped through her abdomen. She waited a moment, then walked gingerly to the bathroom. No more puking, please; she had done enough of that over the last two days. The spasm did not return, but the headache did. Philippa took a hot bath, willing it away: No one was going to see her looking like a whipped dog yet. When the bell rang forty-five minutes later, she was pale but ready to go onstage.
Late that afternoon, she finished her eighth, and best, interview. She had polished and amplified the victim routine on seven prior journalists and was becoming very eloquent upon the screaming injustice of being a divorced white heterosexual childless American woman approaching middle age in the late twentieth century. There was no worse time in the history of earth to be alive. The interviewer, a black lesbian, couldn’t agree more. Then she asked Philippa what kind of role model her own mother had been.
Philippa looked very pained. Not really an act: Her stomach was beginning to hurt again. “I never knew my mother,” she replied. “She died in childbirth. I was brought up by her brother. My uncle.”
“A man?”
Philippa tried to rectify her mistake. “Uncle Jasper wasn’t the marrying sort,” she said meaningfully.
Luckily the woman inferred that Uncle Jasper was gay, not that he had seduced half the female inhabitants of Manhattan and was currently chipping away at the other half. “Do you still see him?”
“Oh yes. But not recently. He’s been hiking in India for the last three months.”
The woman finally left. Philippa still couldn’t remember which rag she wrote for. Probably one of those magazines that cranked out slop about movie stars, fudge-sundae diets, and Better Sex with Your Husband month after month. Maybe Simon had set up that last interview as a warning. She called him in Hollywood. “I’m done, dear.”
“You saw everyone? Great.”
“Any progress with the head nurse?”
“Still working on it, babe. Give me a little time. It’s been total anarchy here today. Hey, your sister called a few hours ago. Wanted your number. I didn’t give it to her.”
“ Why not?”
“How do I know that’s not some crazy going to rape you?”
“Give me a break, Simon. You know Emily’s voice. It sounds just like mine.” A little less strident, perhaps. “Did she say what she wanted?”
“She was wondering how you were feeling. Were you sick or something?”
“Of course not! You know I’ve got the constitution of a mule.” Damned if she was going to tell Simon about any health problem above a hangnail. He’d stop trying to get her work altogether.
Philippa heard him flick his platinum cigarette lighter and inhale deeply. “I’m taking the red-eye to New York tonight,” Simon said. “That way I’ll have all afternoon to put the finishing touches on the opening.” Hoping for kinder press, Simon had organized the premiere of Choke Hold into a gala AIDS benefit. Most of Philippa’s fans were gay, after all. “Go to bed early tonight. I want you looking twenty-one years old tomorrow.”
Sure, pal. Bring your time machine. Philippa hung up and uncorked a small bottle of champagne, nature’s own Alka-Seltzer. When her stomach unwound a bit, she called Diavolina. “Emily Major, please,” she commanded. “This is her sister.”
“Hi Phil,” Ward replied. “You don’t know me but I run the joint. Thanks for coming in the other night. Sorry about the boyfriend. I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean to cause a major disturbance in my restaurant. Anyway, business has been up ever since. We finally moved our last four cases of blush wine. Your fans drink it like fish. Come up for another dinner sometime. Choose your company carefully, though.” Hearing no response, Ward said, “Hold on, I think Emily’s breaking up a fight in the kitchen.” She dropped the phone.
After a while, Emily came on the line. “Philippa?”
“Who was that?” her sister demanded. “I’ve never been so insulted in my life.”
“Ward. She’s been under some stress lately. How do you feel?”
“Much better. Simon says you called.”
“I did. Why’d you play that trick on Dr. Woo?”
Having expected further solicitations upon her health, not an accusatory question, Philippa needed a moment to answer. “Because you said not to involve your restaurant!”
“So you pretended to be me instead? That was pretty stupid. If you got sick from Diavolina, we’re in big trouble.”
“Why? I’m not going to report you. Neither is Dana.”
“Think, Philippa. Do you remember anything tasting funny on Dana’s boat?”
“No. We stuck to champagne, smoked salmon, and sex organs.”
“How about at Diavolina then? Could you give me a rundown of the dinner?”
There was a short silence as Philippa desperately tried to remember what she had eaten. When surrounded by adoring fans, she paid less attention to food than to the visual effect of delicately chewing it. “We started off with rolls, I think. Then we had—eh ...” What the hell was that dark, syrupy appetizer? Snails? Beans? Aha! “Mushrooms in port. They tasted a little like mildew.”
Emily frowned. So much for Byron’s sorcery as saucier. “Then what?”
“A friend of Dana’s sent drinks from the bar. The four dried cherries tasted awfully sour.”
Great, just great. “Who was the friend?”
“I think it was Ardith’s aerobics instructor. Dana was not pleased to be seen.”
“Wait a moment, how did Ardith know he’d be at Diavolina with you?”
“ No idea, I sure didn’t tell hen I doubt Dana did. Maybe the guy just hung out there.”
Emily sighed. “Then you had the main course?”
“Yes. Steak. There were potatoes and spinach, I think.”
“Swiss chard. And how did that taste? More mildew?”
“No! It was great. Delicious. Perfect.” Philippa didn’t mention that that idiot in the kitchen had given her a nearly raw steak; Emily sounded upset enough already. “We ate everything.”
“Then what?”
Then Dana left and Guy Witten had come to Philippa’s table. Philippa decided to skip that detail as well. “We had dessert. Berries and whipped cream. Superb.”
“Did you drink anything else?”
“We drank a lot. I don’t remember exactly what. Nothing unusual, though.”
“And you haven’t eaten anything since?”
“No. I’ve been fasting.”
“Why was Dr. Woo asking me about raw eggs and steak tartare, then?”
“I made it up. He had me over a barrel, Em. Then the stupid twit tried to give me a shot.”
Emily could just imagine that tender scene. “Over the weekend, did you see Dana take any antidepressant pills?”
“Nothing. Never. Why?”
“He apparently died from mixing them with wine and cheese.”
“How absurd. Send that pathologist back to med school. Dana didn’t take any pills.”
“You mean you didn’t see him take any,” Emily corrected. “How’s your stomach feeling?”
“This champagne seems to be staying down.”
Emily heard a howl; time to return to the kitchen. “What’s your schedule for the next few days?”
“Tomorrow’s the opening of Choke Hold. Interested in coming to New York? Simon’s organized a bash.”
“I’ll ask Ross. He could use a little comic relief.”
“I’m at the Plaza. Let me know.”
Emily returned to the kitchen. The howl had come from Byron, who had burned himself at the stove while casting lingering glances at the new dishwasher’s gluteus maximus. Emily waited until his hand was submerged in ice water before approaching. “Byro
n, I’d like you to take over for a few mornings. I’m going to visit all our suppliers.”
He inspected two red fingertips. “What for? They all come here.”
“I’d like to see their operations.”
“No problem. Stay as long as you like.” Byron glanced toward Slavomir’s replacement, hoping he had impressed him.
Emily located Ward at the bar. “I understand you had a few words with my sister.”
Ward looked wearily up from her highball. “Bitchy little number, isn’t she?”
“Not really. Sounds like she’s had food poisoning.”
“From here?”
“I’m not sure. I’d like to check out our sources.”
“What do you think you’re going to find?”
“Nothing, I hope.”
“Who’s going to run the kitchen?”
“Byron.”
“Oy.” Ward chewed on a maraschino cherry for several moments. “Is this really necessary?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“All right. You have two days. Beginning tomorrow.” Ward returned to her bourbon and barbells.
After speaking with Emily, Philippa ate four pieces of toast and waited an hour. When no intestinal repercussions occurred, she picked up the phone and dialed the number at the bottom of the flyer she had found in Emily’s kitchen drawer. “Guy Witten, please.”
“Is that you, Emily?” asked the voice at the other end. “Maybe you should hold off. Guy’s been on a rampage ever since you left.”
“That’s asinine,” Philippa snapped. “Go put him on.”
The phone cracked against a hard surface. “Guy! Phone!”
Footsteps. Then he roughly said, “Yes?”
“I have to see you,” Philippa whispered. “Tonight.”
Complete silence. “For what purpose?” Guy asked finally.
“You’ll see. Ten o’ clock. Tell me where.” Again that long, black silence: Philippa knew he was debating whether or not to slam down the phone. “Please,” she said.
“Here.” Then he slammed down the phone.
Whew, Emily had latched on to a real meteor. Philippa briefly wondered if she should postpone introducing herself to Guy until he had given up on her sister. But that might take years, perhaps forever, and she no longer had the time, or the confidence, to wait. Better to make a quick foray tonight, assess her chances of acquiring the gentleman, and withdraw so she could plan her next move. Philippa went to the closet and tried on half a dozen outfits that might pass her off as Emily. She finally settled on a red scarf, heavy tortoiseshell glasses, a black cape, and high leather boots, the most subdued items on hand. Her disguise was so effective that, although many stared, not one passenger on the shuttle from La Guardia to Logan asked for her autograph. Bolstering her courage with a few glasses of champagne on the flight, Philippa took a cab to Quincy Market. As she sat under a gas lamp, waiting for ten o’clock, Philippa watched several couples walk by. How was it possible that so many plain-looking women had managed to find partners? Did the men in this town really prefer brains to beauty? With increasing melancholy, Philippa observed young couples jabbering oblivously by. Older couples, not quite as talkative, smiled genially in her direction. Not a soul tried to pick her up. Finally, when she heard the tower clock strike ten, Philippa snapped out of her reverie. Normally, she’d keep a man waiting fifteen minutes, half an hour. But Emily would definitely be on time.
Mummifying herself with her black cape, Philippa maneuvered over the cobblestones toward a narrow street behind Quincy Market. Whenever the wind let up, she could see her breath. Suddenly she felt nervous. What had possessed her to come to Boston tonight? Besides marrying her second, third, fourth and fifth husbands, this was the rashest thing she had done in thirty years. What would she say to Guy once she had him in a dark corner? What if he wasn’t quite flattered at her attention? What if he was the Accept No Substitutes type? One kiss, one whiff of her perfume, and he’d know she was an impostor. A fresh wave of nausea overturned Philippa’s stomach. She should find a cab, get the hell out of here; there were still two more flights to New York tonight. No one need ever know she had been mewling shamelessly at her sister’s boyfriend.
“Lost?” inquired a nearby voice.
Philippa jumped. A man stood at her side, smiling warmly. “Not at all,” she huffed, marching forward.
He not only kept up, but took her arm. “Need an escort? These streets get mighty deserted this time of night.”
Philippa hit him square in the face with her Gucci handbag, a deceptively heavy receptacle thanks to the makeup, keys, and coins crammed therein. Its buckle snagged briefly on the man’s ear before tearing free. “Go away,” she screamed, digging in her pocket. “I have a gun.”
“Easy now,” he croaked, covering his ear. “I thought you were someone else.”
The man took off. Philippa reeled into the entryway of Cafe Presto and pounded on the door. Where the hell was Guy? She rapped harder, nearly punching her knuckles through the glass. Finally she saw a figure hurry out from the recesses of the restaurant.
Guy swiftly unlocked the door. “Lose your key, dear?”
“Shut up! I nearly got mugged!” Philippa tumbled inside. “Christ, this town is full of perverts! Can’t a lady go for a fucking walk anymore?”
Guy looked at her oddly. “Are you all right, Emily?”
“Yes, yes,” Philippa replied impatiently, dropping into a chair near the window. Shit! The harshest word in Emily’s vocabulary was probably darn! Philippa slipped off her red scarf, shaking her head so that her heavy wig obscured her face, and shifted her chair so that she was perfectly situated in the shadow of a street-lamp. “Well, sit down.”
“Here?” Guy asked. Emily had always preferred his office. “Don’t tell me you’re going public.”
Philippa snorted. “I don’t see many witnesses, do you?”
Wondering whether he should have skipped that third vodka gimlet, Guy did as he was told. From the other side of the small table, he studied her handsome, shadowed face. Emily had never ordered him around before. Her manner vaguely confused him; by ten o’clock, Emily was usually tired, a little blue, very soft. Tonight she was all porcupine. And that silly cape! She had nearly tripped over it twice already with those mile-high heels. Obviously she was still fooling around with a new image. He studied her bemusedly for a few moments. Then Guy remembered how Emily had dressed the other night in Diavolina, and with whom she had been dining. His smile faded. “I’m surprised you’re not home consoling your husband,” he said finally.
“Why weren’t you at the funeral?” Philippa shot back. “I could have used some moral support.”
“Surely you jest. You never wanted me within ten miles of Ross. Did the ground rules change when you started screwing his partner?”
“My, my, you are a jealous boy. I never touched Dana. He called me on the spur of the moment. I simply joined him for a bite of dinner.”
“In that incredibly slutty outfit? Give me a break.”
Philippa smiled wanly; Guy knew nothing about her existence. Obviously, he hadn’t spoken to Emily in the last few days. And he knew how to fight back. She wondered if he had ever been divorced. “Sorry you didn’t like my outfit. Everyone else did. Why were you spying on me?”
“Think again, dear. I called you that afternoon and said I had to see you.”
Philippa laughed lightly, groping for an appropriate reply. “It slipped my mind.”
“Obviously,” Guy growled. He hadn’t come here to be taunted and abused. Quite the opposite, in fact. “I just loved seeing you smeared all over the biggest schmuck in Boston.”
“Dana had a number of redeeming qualities,” Philippa said airily. “Only a woman would appreciate them, of course.”
“Really? Tell that to the women he’s trashed.”
Realizing that this conversation was not taking on the cuddly overtones she had anticipated, Philippa started to cry. Throughout her life, te
ars had extricated her from more sticky situations than a pair of wings would have. “How can you be so cruel,” she wept. “Dana was one of my oldest, dearest friends. These past few days have been horrible.”
Guy was stunned; the only other occasion he had seen Emily cry was after they had made love. He immediately went to her chair and put his arms around her shoulders. “I’m sorry, sweet,” he murmured in her ear. She smelled unusual tonight, gardenia instead of lemon. A slight odor of tobacco clung to her cape. Strange: Emily was fanatical about smoke. “I’ve missed you,” he said. For once, she did not push him away. Guy’s heart leaped; was she finally coming around? Oh God! Was that why she had called him here? He kissed her neck. “Take your coat off, Plum.”
Philippa nearly swooned, realizing that she could have Guy now, on the floor; yet she knew that all her thespian skill would not convince him that she was Emily. She just didn’t know enough about her sister’s sexual style. What kind of little noises did Emily make? Did she prefer top, bottom, rear end, mouth, ear? And what the hell did Guy like? He’d smell the cigarettes on her breath, notice the bikini lines, the red toenails, the French underwear. Philippa halfheartedly pushed Guy’s mouth away from her neck. “I should go.” She sighed weakly.
“No you shouldn’t.”
Realizing how strong, how intent, he was, Philippa became frightened. “I really must. Ross will be home in ten minutes.”
Guy stopped cold. His hands and his mouth left her body. He returned to his chair and stared out the front window of Cafe Presto. Then he straightened the salt and pepper shakers. Finally he chuckled. “Well, run along, dear. We wouldn’t want to keep Ross waiting, would we?”
If only he had spoken with a little anger, a little sarcasm, Philippa could have ended their conversation with a zinging retort. But she didn’t know how to counter resignation. For a long while she sat dumbly, trying to winnow a decent exit line from the dozens of shallow, stupid phrases running through her head. Unfortunately, what worked so well in a movie script never sounded quite as authentic in real life. Giving up, she reached for her red scarf and purse.
