She was staring at him, spellbound, when the doorbell sounded. Slowly, Jennifer got up from the sofa and walked past him to the intercom. “It’s me, Henry,” a voice said filling the room. Jennifer didn’t answer. She just pushed the button.
“Henry?” Padraig asked.
“Henry Harris,” she responded. “The lawyer handling my—our—divorce. He’s bringing over the document you wanted to sign.”
Padraig nodded. Jennifer sat, but instead of returning to his place on the sofa, Padraig walked around the coffee table and sat close to her. “You know,” he began, “I don’t want to sign this thing. That’s why I’ve been delaying. It’s not that you’re not entitled, and there’s nothing I want to contest. It’s just that this is the surrender document, and God, how I hate to surrender.”
“I don’t want your surrender,” Jennifer answered. “I just want my life back.”
Padraig sighed. “That’s exactly what I don’t want. I don’t want my old life back. It was just a game. Fakery. Seduction. Pretense. A big image on the screen and not a bit of light inside. All special effects. None of it real. With you, darlin’, it was a new life, with honest words and true feelings. I really was somebody. With you I had a chance. That’s what I want. A new life. Not the old one back again.”
There was a knock on the door. Jennifer hesitated for an instant, then braced herself and crossed the room to let Henry Harris in.
He was all spit and polish, a chalk-stripe suit magnificently tailored to fit his youthful, well-sculptured frame. Henry shook Padraig’s hand firmly, showed his best smile, and introduced himself. He looked around, spotted Jennifer’s desk in the office area of her loft, crossed to it, and spread out the papers from his briefcase. “Mr. O’Connell, this incorporates all the changes that your attorney requested. The wording is a bit different, but I’m sure you’ll find that the substance is—”
“Lend me your pen,” Padraig said, stepping up beside him.
Harris looked from Padraig to Jennifer, then back to Padraig. “I always advise my clients to read these things before signing,” he said, but he uncapped his fountain pen and handed it to Padraig.
“Do your clients have that much time to waste?” Padraig asked as he tossed through the pages to find his signature line.
“Padraig, take it with you,” Jennifer said. “Another day or two doesn’t matter. Make sure you agree with everything.”
“Why? You’ve read it, haven’t you? There isn’t anything in here that takes advantage of me, is there?”
“No,” Jennifer told him softly.
He found the line marked for his signature. He signed with a flourish and then handed the document to Jennifer. “You’re free, darlin’. Peter and Catherine get what they want. And you and I get …” He touched the edge of the divorce agreement. “We get this, which isn’t really what either of us want.” He stopped at the coffee table and tossed down his drink. Then he crossed to the door and let himself out.
They heard his footsteps fading in the hallway. “Not the worst person I’ve ever met,” Henry allowed.
“No, certainly not the worst.”
The lawyer went back to the desk, gesturing for Jennifer to join him. “All it needs now is your signature. Then I’ll take it back to the office and handle the filing.” He offered the same pen that Padraig had just used.
“Not now, Henry. I want to read it over a few times.”
He looked surprised, so she explained. “As Padraig said, neither of us are getting what we really want.”
Padraig and Catherine traveled to Hollywood for the premiere of their first movie and walked down the red carpet arm in arm with the film’s small cast. The actor playing the obsessive older man wasn’t really recognized by the crowd, and the young girl he was lusting after had yet to make a name. Padraig gathered most of the applause, and Catherine, in a plunging décolletage, was easily the most photographed. They partied at the bar of the Mondrian until the reviews came in, then partied longer when they read the critics’ raves. Padraig’s little movie was an artistic triumph, assuring that it would be picked up by nearly all the exhibitors. They were heady with success over the weekend at his beach house.
He was returning to Ireland for the final scenes of the boy-and-his-dog epic. The filming would end at the same moment as the money, which meant that he would need still more funding for editing and music. “Another ten million will absolutely lock it up,” he had told Catherine as she was dressing for her return to New York. When they parted at the airport, he suggested that $15 million was probably more realistic.
Catherine’s stopover in New York was another publicity triumph. She was on the board of a small but important East Side gallery that was hosting the American debut of an important Israeli painter. New York society was on hand for the opening, then scattered to half a dozen very private supper parties. Catherine made them all, changing her gown between each event, her attire more sensational and revealing as the hour grew later. She was on the late-night news of two networks and had two different photos on the society page of the Times.
She came into the office like Cleopatra returning to Egypt, trailed by junior executives and secretaries who wrote furiously to keep up with her dictated instructions. Behind them trailed security guards who had been pressed into carrying her luggage. She set up dinners with television producers who were delivering their shows over the satellite network, and with the chairman of a computer company that was using the satellites for data traffic. When all her arrangements were completed, she called Peter Barnes to let him know that she was in and wanted to see him. Jennifer got word thirdhand through Peter’s secretary.
“A triumph,” Catherine announced, tossing the newspaper reviews onto the conference table. “Three of the major exhibitors have agreed to take it as a downlink from our satellites. That adds up to over a thousand screens.”
Peter and Jennifer offered their congratulations and added praise for her success at the gallery opening. “Too bad we can’t carry fine art on the network,” Peter teased. “That would be another business that you could get us into.”
But Catherine quickly got to the additional funding for Padraig. The figure caused Jennifer’s jaw to drop and nearly sent Peter into shock. “Out of the question,” he said the instant he recovered. “The plan is to find a buyer who might give us fifty cents on the dollar for all we’ve invested. We don’t want to go any further into the hole.”
Catherine snapped that he was being shortsighted. The production company, she claimed, was a hot property. The new film, coming on the heels of this success, was bound to be big at the box office. “Why should we take a loss so that a studio can come in and skim off the profits?”
They argued well into the evening, Catherine moving from one justification to the next while Peter dug in his heels and fell back on their original decision. Jennifer listened, asked for clarifications, and commented. She never stated her own preference. When it came to a vote, she joined with Peter in denying any more money to the Irish film. Catherine left in a huff but promised to carry the company’s decision to Padraig.
“You were on the fence,” Peter said to Jennifer when they sat down to an early dinner at a small Italian restaurant. “For a while, I thought you wanted to pull O’Connell’s coals out of the fire.”
Jennifer dismissed the idea and restated her commitment to their plan. But then she shared the details of her last meeting with her husband. “Tell me, Peter,” she said in conclusion. “If Padraig had nothing to do with my auto accident, would you still have reason for hating him?”
He nodded. “Because he took advantage of you.”
“Is that what you believe? Why do both you and Catherine think that anyone who shows an interest in me must be after my money?”
“I don’t think anything of the kind,” he protested. “I just think that you deserve better.”
They paused while the waiter took their orders, and sat in silence while the wine was being poured. But
as soon as they were by themselves, Jennifer took up the topic again.
“Do you remember, in Cannes, when I first met Padraig?”
Peter nodded. He remembered the film festival very well.
“You and Catherine were both thrilled that I was mingling with the beautiful people. Catherine was overjoyed that someone with the dash of Padraig O’Connell was paying attention to me.”
“Of course. You were working too hard. We were happy to see you enjoying yourself.”
“Was that it? Or were you happy that someone was finally paying attention to the ugly duckling?”
He was speechless for a moment. Then he laughed out the words “ugly duckling,” making them sound preposterous. “Jennifer, you’re anything but an ugly duckling.”
“I know I’m reasonably attractive,” she said factually. “But there are two of us. Catherine is glamorous, fashionable, witty, popular … all the things I’m not. So when you look at the Pegan sisters, she’s queen of the barnyard and I’m the ugly duckling. And I must admit that it gets to me. Particularly when my closest friends decide that they have to protect me from fortune hunters. As if anyone who shows an interest in me must be out for money.”
“That’s not true,” Peter said.
“No? Then why did you both turn against Padraig the instant he got serious about me? All of a sudden you weren’t thrilled to see me out with the beautiful people, enjoying myself. My God, you even hired detectives.”
“Jennifer, you own forty percent of the stock in a major corporation. Protecting you isn’t an intrusion into your life. It’s a business necessity.”
“You weren’t protecting me, Peter. You were trying to keep me away from a man I was falling in love with. You just assumed that all a celebrity like Padraig could see in me was forty percent of the stock.”
“We checked him out, Jennifer, and what we found wasn’t encouraging. He wasn’t going to get his next movie, he was broke, in debt, and trying to get into producing. The man was desperate for money.”
Jennifer sneered. “He was still broke, in debt, and trying to get into producing when Catherine took an interest in him, but I haven’t noticed you trying to break them up. How much of our money have they made off with? Eighty million? Next to that, all he ever got from me was pocket change.”
They waited anxiously while the waiter placed their dinners before them. Neither of them even looked at the food.
Peter resumed immediately. “It’s not at all the same. Padraig was pursuing you. Catherine, on the other hand, went after him to make use of his connections.”
“Sure,” she said scornfully. “I’ve seen pictures of his connections.”
“She also wanted to show you that it was the money he was after. That he’d drop you in an instant if he could get the money somewhere else.”
Jennifer sighed and lifted her fork but kept it hovering above her plate. “Why do I think that a loving sister would try to hide that fact? Do you think she was really doing me a favor by breaking up my marriage?”
“I thought it was an outrageous idea,” he answered. “I was against it.”
“But?”
“But I can’t control Catherine, any more than I can control you. I thought it was a mistake for her to get involved with him. I thought it was a mistake to keep him on to finish his great Irish epic.”
Jennifer had to admit that there was consistency in Peter’s actions. He seemed to hate O’Connell no matter which of the sisters was involved with him. But still, Peter couldn’t see the possibility that Padraig had ever loved her. And she had to believe that her husband’s interest hadn’t been entirely in her money.
They ate in silence, but both pushed their plates away half full. While they were waiting for their coffee, Jennifer dropped her bomb.
“I think I’m going to invest in Padraig’s movie.”
Peter’s face sank. “Jesus,” he said, shaking his head.
“Not company money,” Jennifer clarified. “I’m going to make a private investment. I’ll lend him my personal money. At interest. Strictly a business venture.”
“Don’t,” Peter told her. “You’ll never get it back. There are preferred creditors. When this project bellies up—and it will—there won’t be anything left to pay you.”
“I’m betting he’ll be able to pull it off,” Jennifer answered.
He studied her for several seconds. “You’re still in love with him, aren’t you?”
“I’m not sure. Sometimes I think I am. I know I miss him.”
“Miss him how?”
Jennifer smiled. “I don’t think you can use your questions this time, Peter, because I’m not going to try to answer. The thing is, I think he’s still in love with me.”
“He needs money,” Peter warned.
“That’s what you think, isn’t it? If anyone falls in love with the ugly duckling, it must be because he needs her money.”
“You’re not an ugly duckling,” he snapped back. Then he glanced around the room and found that he was drawing attention from the nearby tables. In a softer voice he wondered, “What the hell has that guy got? How did he get such mindless devotion from you and your sister?”
“Now isn’t that a coincidence,” Jennifer said. “That’s the very question that Padraig asked about you.”
She regretted the comment as soon as it was out of her mouth. She could tell that she had hurt him, and he handled the check in pained silence. Outside, he got her a taxi, which she accepted though she generally used the subway. She mumbled an apology as he was showing her into the cab, but he closed the door before she finished. All the way down the West Side she kept berating herself. Peter hadn’t done anything except look out for her interests, which he’d been doing as long as she had known him.
Nonetheless, his loyalty didn’t exonerate him. Someone had ordered the brakes cut on Padraig’s car, and Peter had to be a prime suspect. Whether it was to protect her, or his own privileged status, he was one of the few people she knew with the clout to track an enemy to the ends of the earth and the determination to destroy him. And there was no doubt that he hated Padraig. She could see it in his eyes every time her husband’s name was mentioned.
When she reached her loft, she saw the divorce agreement on her desk, exactly where it had been placed when she had refused to sign it. She wasn’t planning to reread it. She had read it in each of its redrafts and knew she could probably recite pages of it from memory. She understood exactly what it meant. What held her back was the thought that Padraig had planted, probably unintentionally. Neither of them were getting what they wanted. Peter and Catherine were the winners. Once she signed it, she and Padraig lost what they had both cherished—each other.
Maybe she and her husband should talk before she cut the last ties that bound them. Up to now, all the conversation had been bridged through attorneys who were completely indifferent to their feelings and their futures, who were obsessed with words instead of the people speaking them.
She thumbed her Rolodex and looked at Padraig’s phone number in Ireland. Maybe she should respond to the emotions he had made so obvious during his visit. She lifted the phone, but then set it down again. The fact was that he and her sister had hurt her terribly. She wasn’t sure that she had it in her to forgive.
SIXTEEN
GIVEN HIS loyal fans, and the crowd of camp followers that had gathered around his first production effort, Padraig’s rift with Catherine would have automatically made all the tabloids. What elevated it to the front pages of serious dailies, and earned it fifteen seconds on the evening television news, were the public location of the breakup and the hilarious details of their spat. Not since James Cagney crushed a breakfast grapefruit in the face of Mae Clarke had the industry found so much to write about.
They had begun fighting the moment Catherine returned from New York with the news that there would be no more money from Pegasus Satellite Services. Padraig, according to gossip columnists, had suggested that Catherine pu
t up her own money, and she had responded that she had already invested her whole career in Padraig O’Connell and that there was nothing more to give.
The filming had wrapped up without enough money to pay shipping costs back to California, or to redeem the surety bonds from the communities they had invaded. Padraig had returned to Hollywood to arrange financing for his postfilming costs. Catherine had gone back to New York in her last effort to borrow the money. She had flown out to the coast empty-handed to meet the actor, who had just been turned down by all the legitimate financiers. His best offer had been money equal to 15 percent of the total production investment for a 50 percent interest in the film. It had been offered on a take-it-or-leave-it basis. Padraig’s only visible alternative was to sell the footage to a studio for fifty cents on the dollar. To ease his embarrassment, they had promised him an executive producer’s card in the titles.
He took Catherine to lunch at Le Dome. He still had two credit cards that would go through, and he insisted that it was important to put on a show of strength for the deal makers who used the restaurant as a personal stock exchange.
They made a grand entrance, Padraig in a clan cravat and Catherine in a bare-midriff pantsuit. They stopped at every table along the way to shake hands, laugh cordially, and demonstrate their confidence. “I hear you need money,” someone whispered to Padraig.
“You’re damn right I need money. I always need money. But I’m not selling even one second of my picture,” he said.
“What’s this about funding difficulties?” someone asked Catherine. Her response was a wry smile. “I spend more on cosmetics than you’ve ever spent on a movie,” she answered.
They took an obvious table and ordered a cocktail and an appetizer they could split. Their attitude fairly shouted that if Padraig’s picture was in trouble, he and his angel certainly weren’t worried. The suggestion was that if some lab owner or film editor wanted to offer his services against a percentage of the box office, they might be persuaded to entertain the idea.
Good Sister, The Page 20
