by Janice Weber
Realizing with relief that Emily still knew nothing about her accident last night at Guy’s, Philippa shrugged philosophically. “All right. It was a man.”
“You have to press charges. This is assault.”
“I can’t. Don’t know who he was.”
“You picked someone up? Are you nuts?”
“How was I supposed to know? He said he was a dentist.”
“Where did you meet him?”
Philippa’s mind went blank until she remembered the plot of one of her soap operas. “In a health bar on Park Ave. He happened to have two tickets to the ballet.”
“I thought you hated ballet.”
“I do, I do!” Philippa became desperate. “We only stayed for the first act. Then we went dancing.”
“Dancing? You hate dancing, too. This must have been some dentist. Why did he beat you up? Didn’t he know who you were?”
“No, he didn’t know who I was!” Philippa exploded, for once telling the truth. “All right, I made a mistake! This can’t get in the papers, Em. I’ll be the laughingstock of L.A.”
“We wouldn’t want that. Have you seen a doctor, at least?”
“I’m sick and tired of doctors! This is nothing. I’ll be all right in a week. Maybe I can hole up somewhere.” Philippa waited in vain for Emily to invite her to Boston.
“Did you tell your agent what happened?”
“Eh—another time. He’s a little edgy about the opening tonight.”
“He has no idea I’m doing this? What’s he going to do when he finds out?”
“He’s going to kiss your feet, Em. You saved his ass. And mine.” Philippa poured two glasses of champagne, her fifth, Emily’s first. “Listen, here’s the deal. Simon’s coming in the limo. You just sit through the movie and party a little afterward. Then you can go home.”
“Sounds thrilling. Is this movie going to embarrass me?”
“Probably.” Philippa went to the bedroom closet. “Just wait until you see what you have to wear.”
Until Simon appeared, the sisters played dress-up. It was almost like being children again, but with alcohol and false eyelashes. Emily was corseted to the point of asphyxiation in a red dress that was little more than a floor-length bra with sequins. Philippa’s spike heels hurt Emily’s feet and her gigantic blond wig felt like an army blanket, with fleas. At least the diamonds were real: Philippa’s five husbands, had, in some respects, paid off. Philippa was baptizing Emily with sickening perfume when the bell rang.
“I don’t know whether I can go through with this,” Emily said.
“Shut up! Just imitate me!” Philippa hissed, diving behind the couch. “Wear the white cape in the closet! Be affectionate with everyone! Wiggle! Remember, you’re a star!”
Star? Black Hole was more like it. Emily staggered to the door. “Simon! Darling!”
A tanned, hypergroomed man in tails entered. When he smiled, his little white teeth glittered. Emily pegged him at sixty going on eighteen. “You look ferocious, babe,” he said after a moment’s appraisal. “I was worried there for a while.”
“Worried about what? Looking more like my grandfather than my agent?”
Simon had to think about that one, but couldn’t, because he had recently inhaled a snoutful of cocaine. “Ha-ha! That’s priceless! Where’s your coat, princess? Show starts in fifteen minutes.” He studied himself in the smoky mirror. “How do I look? Good?”
“You’ll do,” Emily replied, rifling the closet. “Where’s my white cape? Aha.” She flung it over an arm. “I’ll be right with you, Simon.”
She went to the bedroom. “Where’d you find this guy, Phil?” she whispered, hastily packing her green silk outfit into a shopping bag.
“Shhhh! Be nice! He’s nervous about tonight!”
When Emily returned to the foyer, Simon was anxiously studying his jowls in the mirror. They were beginning to bag ever so slightly over his collar again; time for another lift. Meanwhile, he’d just have to hold his head very high, stretching his neck as far as possible. Why had Philippa made that snide remark about a grandfather? Bitch! Forcing a smile, Simon led his famous charge to the elevator. “There’s a little crowd in the lobby.” he warned as they dropped ten floors.
“So should I look surprised?” Emily asked.
“What? No! You look as if you expected it! By the way, what is in that awful shopping bag?”
“My getaway clothes.”
“Why do you need getaway clothes? You’re not eloping tonight, are you?” Simon tetchily took the bag. “Here, I’ll carry it. Really, Philippa, what nonsense.”
The elevator doors whooshed open and the couple paraded through a sea of admiring glances to the limousine. It was like being a bride all over again, but without Ross. Emily banished that ugly thought and concentrated on a serene smile; these people, after all, were Philippa’s customers. She tripped over her spike heels getting into the limousine. “Oooof!”
Simon shot in after her, “How many times must I tell you to go ass first into a limo? This isn’t a fucking swimming pool on wheels!”
“Shut up,” Emily snapped. “We’re in, aren’t we?”
They rode in silence up Broadway. Simon wondered why Philippa was so quiet tonight; she was usually a spitfire at her openings. He leaned over. “Need a little something to get you in the mood, sugar?”
Emily frowned. “Like what?”
“Never mind! Just trying to help! What’s with you tonight?”
Oh, nothing a shotgun in the mouth wouldn’t cure. Emily toyed with her sister’s diamonds. “I don’t have to make any speeches or anything, do I?”
“We’ve been through this. The committee doesn’t want anything but your body there.” Simon’s eyes fell to Emily’s jacked-up cleavage. “Oh my God! Where’s your ribbon?”
“What ribbon?”
“Your AIDS ribbon! How could you forget it, tonight of all nights?!”
“Give me yours,” Emily said, reaching over. “We’ll share.” With a little help from her teeth, she tore it in half. “Here. I get the pin. Stick yours on with one of those rhinestone button tacks.”
Simon meekly obeyed. He loved it when women bossed him around. “Oh, before I forget,” he said, jabbing his lapel, “I got a call from an Attorney Wyatt something in Boston. Does she have anything to do with that stiff in the restaurant?”
Perhaps the pin began pricking Emily’s heart. “What did she want?”
“Just a few questions, she said. Listen, can we talk about this? I still think a dead lover makes great copy. Is there any way we can work it in?”
“Forget it,” Emily said. “Forever. Period. Don’t ask again.”
“How the fuck am I supposed to get you any roles if you don’t cooperate? People devour these details! At your age, you need all the details you can get!” Simon was dropping precipitously from his cocaine high; time to regain altitude with a few little pills. “Don’t come crying to me when you’re collecting unemployment checks.”
“Maybe I should kill the lawyer,” Emily suggested.
Scowling, Simon studied the pimps and prostitutes overrunning Broadway. After several blocks, he said, “It’s got potential, but you have to do it right. I need six months’ lead time.”
The limousine slowed in front of a renovated cinema. Suddenly Emily felt naked and defenseless in front of so many curious strangers. She grabbed Simon’s arm as the chauffeur rounded to their door. “Here we go, doll.” he announced, oblivious to her terror. “Feet first and try to keep your knees together.” He stepped out.
In a daze, Emily entered the packed lobby. As the applause swelled, a sixtyish woman with elephantine jewelry rushed over. “Philippa, you look ravishing,” she exclaimed. “This is so exciting! We’ve raised a half million dollars!”
“Wonderful.” Emily looked around for a bartender. “When does the movie start?”
“After another hundred thousand,” the woman replied. “You know what they say about carrots
and sticks. Or was that carrots and mules? Never mind!”
Emily glared at Simon, whose molars gleamed in a galactic smile. “We’ll roust the troops for you, Millicent,” he said. “Follow me, Phil darling.” He guided Emily toward the bar, beaming omnidirectionally as his eyes raked the crowds. “Crap,” he muttered under his breath. “There’s not one movie producer here. What a bomb.”
An impossibly impeccable man with pen and paper stepped in Emily’s path. She stared at him a moment, admiring the Vermeeresque attention to detail: must have taken him a month to dress. “Could I have your autograph, Miss Banks?” he asked. “To Raphael, it could say.”
“Sure. It’ll cost you five thousand bucks, though.”
He actually paid. But this was New York, where five thousand bucks amounted to only a couple of cab rides. When Raphael receded into the crowd, three other people took his place. Emily had scribbled fifty thousand dollars’worth of autographs when an ornate fountain pen slid into view. “To Byron,” a familiar voice said. “After that, it’s up to you, sugar pie.”
“Byron!” Emily croaked, recoiling into Simon. “What are you doing here? Sugar?”
The sous-chef looked pained. “You don’t remember, Phil?”
Damn it! Philippa had said nothing! “Ah—refresh my memory, darling.”
“You promised to introduce me to your manager,” Byron whispered in her ear. “That night you came to my restaurant.”
“Right! Of course!” Emily squeezed Simon’s arm, eventually weeding him from a wayside palaver. “Simon, I’d like you to meet Byron Marlowe, a great friend of mine.”
Simon extended a noncommittal hand; he could smell an aspiring actor across a sky-high garbage dump. “Pleased,” he said in a bored, I’m-all-booked voice.
An awkward silence was finally interrupted by a waitress asking if they would care for anything to drink. “Vodka with four dried cherries,” Emily answered on cue. Yuk! “Would you like a drink, Simon?”
Simon had already seized the opportunity to commence talking with someone else. However, spying the attractive redhead waiting for an order, he broke off in midsentence. “What’s good here, darling,” he asked, “besides you?”
“The wine’s okay. You’re Simon Stern, aren’t you? The famous agent?”
“Correct. Who are you?”
“Agatha.”
On the sidelines, Byron looked like he might cry. “Just get some wine, dear,” Emily interrupted, waving Agatha away. Simon immediately returned to his previous conversation.
“Guess that didn’t work too well,” Byron said glumly. “And I have to be back to work at six o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“We’ll try again later.”
Byron’s lover Jimmy struggled through the crowd carrying two glasses of wine. “Philippa darling! Did you get my pictures, love?”
Emily vaguely remembered shoving some snapshots into a rear pocket. “Yes.”
“You’ll send me a personal thank-you note for my collection?”
“Of course.”
The waitress returned with their drinks. Emily’s was warm. Jimmy babbled about the weather as Byron anxiously watched Simon, waiting for a break in oral traffic. Of course, Simon kept his conversation going on and on. Eventually the lights in the lobby flicked up and down: time to go in and watch Choke Hold. Emily finished her vodka, leaving the four dried cherries. “Well, here goes nothing.”
Jimmy perked up. “Is this a violent film, Phil? Like Blood Tide? I’ve got to get us good seats, Byron. Meet you inside.” He left.
Emily looked for the waitress. “Where do I park this drink?”
“Give it to me.” Byron looked at the four shriveled mounds in the bottom of the glass. “You don’t want your dried cherries?”
“No. They give me gas.”
“May I? Maybe some of your luck will rub off on me.”
“Be my guest. But prepare to loosen your belt.”
As Byron swallowed the cherries, Simon finally ended his prolonged offside spiel. “Shall we go?” he asked Emily, ignoring Byron’s overhopeful smile.
Holding Simon’s arm, she walked up a winding, carpeted staircase. “Couldn’t you spare him two sentences, you colossal shithead?”
“Are you out of your mind?” Simon waved to a friend. “I’m here to get you work, not to scrape it up for some other klutz.” He ushered Emily into the loge nearest the stage, where queens, mayors, and executive producers generally sat, where Millicent awaited them now. The trio made themselves ostensible as the theater filled. Scanning the auditorium, Emily found Byron and Jimmy sitting nearly beneath them. She waved, they waved, kisses were blown. Then the movie began.
As Philippa appeared onscreen in a wet suit, the audience broke into cheers. The camera followed her along a perfect beach, panning occasionally into the woods or the rippling ocean while the music became darker and clouds scudded symbolically over the sun, Philippa sat on the sand, slowly unzipping her wetsuit. The camera lingered on her better body parts as she lay on her back and pretended to sunbathe. A bird flew overhead, then a man slowly arose from the breaking surf. He was carrying a bright blue nylon noose. The audience began to hoot and scream as he approached Philippa, raising the rope over her lily throat. The music swelled, then the scenery suddenly shifted to a bedroom. Philippa was in a lovely white negligee, clutching her neck. “What’s the matter, doll,” murmured a man on the other side of the mattress. Philippa gulped eloquently and tried to look scared. “Guess I had a bad dream,” she whispered.
The audience went crazy.
After half an hour, Emily could still not decide whether her sister was the greatest comdic actress, or the worst dramatic actress, of all time. Whatever she was, her fans adored her. Several times, Emily saw the wisp of a self-deprecating gleam in Philippa’s eye; it was a tiny gesture that only a twin would notice. Perhaps Philippa knew that Choke Hold was a terrible, trite movie, a phenomenal waste of miles of celluloid. Emily looked over the auditorium: two thousand people out there. The movie was two hours long. That meant a conglomerate dissipation of four thousand hours, and that was just tonight; by the time Choke Hold had finished its run, it would have consumed several lifetimes of otherwise productive human effort. Thereby Philippa had become a legend and a millionaire? Incredible.
Emily slowly became aware of extraneous noise in the seats beneath her loge. Peering down, she saw two ushers hauling a limp form toward the aisle. Another beach shot flashed onscreen, illuminating the auditorium: That was Byron! She leaned toward Simon. “I’ll be right back.”
Emily arrived at the side exit as two ushers were lugging Byron to a musty old divan in the hallway. Jimmy followed distressedly two paces behind. “He passed out!” he cried. “I knew we shouldn’t have skipped dinner.”
Byron groaned as the ushers hustled him into the men’s room. Emily waited near the door, smiling at the constant in/out traffic. Finally, after five minutes, one of the ushers emerged. “I’d better call an ambulance. We’ve got to get him out of here before the raffle starts.” He hurried to the lobby.
The ambulance did not arrive before Simon came huffing down the stairs. “What are you doing down here, babe? You’re supposed to be watching a movie!”
“Byron’s sick. Go in there and tell me how he’s doing, will you? I’m not leaving until you do.”
“Jesus, Phil, this isn’t the senior prom! Don’t tell me that poofter’s your new boyfriend!”
Emily almost threw Simon into the men’s room. He emerged a minute later, straightening his bow tie, trying to keep his withered neck as stretched as possible. “No problem. He’s going to be all right. Just a little messy, that’s all. They’re waiting for a new suit.” Simon firmly took Emily’s arm. “You have got to get back upstairs, Philippa. Now.”
A harsh edge in his voice commanded obedience. Emily returned to the loge and sat through the rest of Choke Hold, which ended with Philippa sailing out to sea on a yacht that looked remarkably like Dana’s. The aud
ience cheered, Emily bowed. Then there was a raffle while a band assembled in the foyer. Byron and Jimmy never reappeared. After a few conspicuous turns around the dance floor, Emily told Simon she was going home. She said good-bye to Millicent, who gave her kisses and her business card.
Simon walked Emily to the limousine parked on Broadway. “Good show, doll,” he said. “I think we’ll get some mileage out of this. I did a little horse-trading with some critics. Good reviews in exchange for exclusive interviews.”
“Great! With me?”
“Ah—we’re working on the details. I’ll call you in the morning.”
Just to irritate Simon, Emily entered the limousine headfirst. She blew a kiss at him as it pulled away. The moment he turned, Emily yanked off her three-hundred-degree-Fahrenheit wig. Then she rapped on the chauffeur’s partition. “Take me to Kennedy Airport as fast as you can.” While the limousine was running lights and bombing through potholes, Emily changed back into her green silk outfit. After she had stuffed Philippa’s gown into the shopping bag, she picked up the car phone. “Hi, Phil. I’m on my way to the airport.”
“How was it? Tell me! Did you fool Simon?”
“Easily. Observation is not his strong suit.”
“Not without his glasses. So were there lots of people? How was the movie?”
“Your fans ate it up. Listen, have you been in touch with Byron, my sous-chef at Diavolina?”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. He wanted to meet Simon.”
“Then he wasted his time.”
“What can I tell you? Si’s an A-one schmuck. Did you meet anyone else interesting? Men?”
“No. Sorry. What should I do with your clothes?”
“Tell the chauffeur to drop them off at the hotel.”
“What about the diamonds?”
Philippa thought a moment. “Maybe I should come to Boston and pick them up.”
“Again? Do you realize youVe made more trips to Boston in the last two weeks than you’ve made in the last five years?”
Philippa laughed lightly. “Strange, isn’t it?”
