by Joe Keenan
“Prancing in there just to gloat!”
“I’ve never seen this side of you, Claire. I can’t say I like it.”
“Success,” I declared loftily, “is its own reward.”
“ Excuse me?” said Claire, no doubt recalling the many parties we’d attended of late wearing our “Ask-me-what-I-do” buttons.
“Anyway,” I said, switching tactics, “it’s not as if she’ll give you any satisfaction. You’ll say, ‘Nyah, nyah, we have a cool job’ and she’ll say, ‘Nyah, nyah, I have a cool spa.’ ”
“A total wash!”
“And you’re out the cost of a facial.”
“If you even trust her to give you one.”
“Good point!”
“Probably use napalm.”
“Yeesh!” said Claire. “All right! It was just a thought.”
It was not often Claire found herself peering up at the high ground to see us waving down at her, and the experience was clearly disorienting to her. She asserted primly that if we could rise above the impulse to taunt an old foe with new fame she could certainly do so as well. Gilbert and I exchanged a furtive glance of relief and the workday commenced.
We’d just begun the screenplay’s third act and hoped to be finished by the time Stephen returned home for the Globes in two weeks. Our hopes of managing this were given a boost by Lily, who announced she’d be taking the second week off to embark on a press tour for Guess What, I’m Not Dead. This struck me as odd since the film didn’t open till February and, given Lily’s less than scorching celebrity, it was hard to imagine Miramax shelling out for premiere tickets, let alone a junket. I suspected that Monty, in his infinite benevolence, had engaged a publicist and was discreetly footing the bill.
Claire was delighted when I suggested we start working mornings as well, sans Gilbert. This greatly enhanced our productivity and we finished a day ahead of schedule at around noon. Gilbert stirred himself an hour later and feigned pique at finding there was nothing left for him to do. But when he read the final pages he offered his customary benediction:
“Perfect. Just what I was going to suggest.”
It may seem odd to you, given our scorn for the source material, but we were actually quite proud of our adaptation. We considered the structure solid and the pacing brisk, and were especially pleased with the dialogue, not a line of which was borrowed from Ms. Gamache. True, the plot retained a certain core gooeyness we could not have expunged without exceeding our mandate. But we knew the key roles would be played by Stephen and Diana, and if anyone could spin goo into gold they could.
Stephen returned the next day. We knew he wouldn’t read it that weekend as the Globes would be monopolizing his attention. We held a little viewing party and invited a few friends, including Billy, who screamed the place down when Stephen won. We were pretty delighted ourselves. It not only cemented his shoo-in status for an Oscar nod nine days hence but also ensured that he’d be sitting down to read our script in that sunny, all’s-right-with-the-world mood an actor only feels when he’s just basked in the spotlight while crushing four fellow thespians’ dreams. This expectation was borne out on Tuesday when he called to offer his verdict.
“ Incredible job, guys,” he said warmly. “Really, really great.”
For the next five minutes he showered us in superlatives, citing favorite lines and scenes he couldn’t wait to play. While Gilbert and I writhed joyfully on the couch like dogs having their tummies rubbed, Claire wore the more tentative smile of a girl waiting for the other shoe to drop. When it did, it landed with the softness of a slipper.
“There are a few places where things could be a little sharper. I see some trims too. But we’re talking minor stuff. By and large it’s fantastic and I want to give you guys a reward for doing such a great job.”
“A reward?” said Gilbert, with unseemly eagerness.
“Here’s the deal. Gina and I are going nuts with all this craziness lately—”
“You mean with the Globes and Oscars and all?” I asked.
“Right. Fucking relentless. So we decided to get the hell away. Just Friday through Monday. And we’d like you guys to come too. We can relax, have some laughs, and find a few hours to talk about the next draft. Sound good?”
“Sounds great!” I said, my mind percolating with images of Stephen and me lying side by side on a tropical beach, his eyes boring into mine with a look that says “Ever do it under a waterfall?”
Gilbert boisterously echoed my enthusiasm and even Claire seemed giddy at the prospect of flying off to some jet-setter’s paradise with movie stars for hosts.
“So,” asked Gilbert, “where are we going? Cabos? Your place in Hawaii?”
“No. We’re not actually leaving town. We’re just checking into Les Étoiles for a few days. Friday at four, okay?”
Fourteen
CALM DOWN!” SAIDMOIRA, with a maddeningly carefree laugh. “What a pair of sissies!”
“It’s important!” barked Gilbert into the phone.
“Claire would kill us!” I chimed in from the kitchen extension.
“Gawd! I have never understood why you two let that sanctimonious cow intimidate you. But, if you don’t want her to know you’ve been here, fine, I won’t mention it.”
“Or any of it!”
“Especially Casablanca!! ”
Moira’s laugh was even more abrasively merry.
“So she doesn’t know I tumbled to that?”
“No, and if she found out she’d quit on us!” I said.
“So promise you won’t say anything!”
“Okaaay! Gawd! I won’t squeal on you to Mommy.”
As we hung up it struck me that Stephen or Gina might just as easily mention our prior visit. How could we ask them not to without confessing our reason for doing so? Gilbert, displaying once more his flair for impromptu deceit, suggested we say that we felt guilty for not having invited Claire to join us and feared she’d be hurt if she found out. This seemed a serviceable ruse and I left a message on Stephen’s voice mail begging his and Gina’s discretion.
THREE DAYS LATER AS we barreled down Sunset toward Bel-Air, I struggled to maintain a calm, chatty demeanor even as my emotions teetered wildly between girlish exhilaration and icy dread.
The exhilaration stemmed from the prospect of spending three nights under the same luxurious roof as Stephen. How I wished Lily hadn’t left for her damned press junket! Had she stayed I might have found some means to sway her so that I could now declare my victory to Stephen and claim my rapturous reward. But though I’d not yet earned the full tumescent measure of his gratitude, I had hopes nonetheless of wangling some small down payment.
These thrilling thoughts of stolen kisses kept getting elbowed roughly aside by more worrisome ones concerning Claire and her old nemesis. What possible good could come of their meeting, especially when Claire had no idea what awful power Moira wielded over us? We’d done what we could to ensure her continued ignorance, but three days was a long time and I was much troubled by the smile Claire wore as she gazed dreamily out her window. It was a cool smile and more than a touch smug and I knew that Moira, on beholding it, would feel a powerful impulse to erase it. I resolved to seek Moira out as soon as we arrived to remind her of her promise and beseech her not to be goaded.
As we pulled up to the spa’s imposing facade, a broad-shouldered bellman wearing a Les Étoiles–logo polo shirt hastened to greet us. While another linebacker took charge of our bags, he escorted us into the majesty of the lobby.
I hoped at first that Moira’s sudden and daunting prosperity might quell Claire’s impulse to swank her. Why attempt one-upmanship against so extravagantly armed a foe? Claire, alas, did not see things this way.
“Wow!” said Gilbert, gaping at a vast floral arrangement crammed with blooms so exotic as to still be awaiting classification. “Nice little place she’s got here.”
“Yes,” I agreed heartily. “Sure puts our digs to shame.”
&
nbsp; “She married it,” sniffed Claire, “and the husband kicked off eight months later. I’m guessing strychnine.”
“Well,” I said, “however she got it, you have to admit she’s done well for herself.”
“If you ask me,” replied Claire, and there was that damn smile again, “doing well for herself would have meant snagging a place like this, then being able to keep it up without asking the public in for back rubs.”
We signed in and followed our smiling escort to the adjoining second-floor rooms Moira had arranged for us. I barely set foot in my own before wheeling round and peering down the hall to make sure Claire had entered hers. The hall was empty so I sprinted back down to the front desk and, finding it momentarily deserted, nipped behind it and through a door marked PRIVATE.
I found myself in a small office with three desks, its cramped untidiness strikingly at odds with the splendor of the lobby. At one of the desks a frowsy woman with a nimbus of blond hair and two raccoons’ worth of mascara was on the phone, reciting room rates in an improbably posh accent. I saw that a door behind her was marked M. FINCH and informed her of my need to speak to Moira immediately. She said that Moira had stepped out. Doubting her veracity, I said, “I’ll wait,” and hustled past her before she could stop me.
It appeared she had not misled me. The cluttered office was unoccupied. There was, however, a door in the rear corner. Conjecturing that this might be a bathroom and that Moira might even now be in there, I approached it and knocked gently. I was much surprised when the door immediately flew open without apparent human assistance. But then, gazing down, I beheld a short curly haired woman. Her physique called to mind a dorm room refrigerator, as did her correspondingly chilly demeanor.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Sorry! Friend of Moira’s.”
Her diminutive stature afforded me a clear view of the room, which appeared to house an impressively high-tech security system, a mandatory feature, I supposed, in a spa with such an elite clientele. It was dark and narrow, with banks of video monitors such as one glimpses behind guards’ desks in office towers. The irate and armed munchkin scowling up at me was, I presumed, Moira’s security chief, and there was no mistaking her views on unescorted guests who dared invade her sanctum.
“Moira’s not here.”
“So sorry, Kim!” came a voice behind me. Turning, I saw that Raccoon Girl had entered and was eyeing me even less warmly than the wee sheriff was.
“I told you she wasn’t in!”
“Sorry,” I said, smiling inanely. “Do you know where I might find her?”
“She’s showing a guest the grounds,” said Blondie. “It’s a VIP so please don’t interrupt them.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I replied and bolted straight for the grounds. For the next ten minutes I searched the lawn, pool, garden, tennis court, hiking path, gazebo, and duck pond but saw no trace of Moira or her VIP guest. I’d wended my way round to the side of the house when I heard Gilbert cheerfully call out to me.
“Philip! There you are. Come join us!”
He’d called from the bar, which, like the salon, opened onto a terrace with tables. Entering, I saw that he was having a drink with Claire, Stephen, and Gina, who were seated by a crackling fire in a cozy grouping of two sofas and a wing chair. Stephen looked dashing in faded jeans and a navy silk shirt. Gina, by contrast, looked downright sluttish in a pink leather mini and a low-cut peasant blouse. She could not have flaunted her breasts more showily had she encased them in a well-lit vitrine.
“Hey, Phil!” she twanged. “We were just talking about your swell script.”
I gave her a big extravagant hug. I did so, of course, not from any real affection but so she wouldn’t find it odd when I embraced Stephen with equal ardor. Alas, the delicious tingle I felt as his manly arms encircled me was swiftly replaced by a shiver of dread at the sight I glimpsed over his shoulder. Moira, her eyes wide with counterfeit surprise, stood in the entrance to the bar. Next to her, warily scanning the place for hoi polloi, was her VIP guest, Diana Malenfant.
This was unwelcome on several grounds. First, when you’re hoping to seduce an image-conscious megastar at a luxury resort it is impediment enough that both his wife and sundry members of the glamorati will be lurking in inconvenient proximity. Toss Mother in and the odds of furtive nooky decline further still. Even more dismaying was the thought that Claire would now be confronting Moira before I’d had a chance to pull the latter aside and broker a nonaggression pact. Factor in Claire’s eagerness to brandish her new success and unawareness that Moira knew about what Robert Ludlum might have dubbed The Casablanca Deception, and you had a situation that seethed with the promise of disaster.
“Gilbert!” cried Moira ecstatically. “And Philip too! God, it’s been ages! When the reservation said ‘Donato plus guests’ I had no idea it was you! Massimo!” she called to the barman. “Champagne!”
“Wow, Moy!” said Gilbert, planting a loud smacker on each cheek. “Is this a small world or what?”
“Shame on you, Stephen!” said Moira, wagging a finger at our host. “You never told me these guys were working with you!”
“I didn’t know you knew them,” said Stephen, flashing me a conspiratorial smile.
“Hello, Moira,” cooed Claire, rising from the sofa.
“Claaaairrre!” sang Moira. “It is so good to see you!”
“The pleasure’s entirely mine,” replied Claire with dangerous warmth.
“And look at you! So svelte! You must have lost a ton. Not,” she added to Gina, “that Claire was ever really fat but—”
“Diana!” I yelped, heading this off. “Where are my manners? This is our partner, Claire Simmons. You remember she was ill when we first met.”
“Of course,” said Diana. She was in her Lady Highborn mode and the hand she extended to Claire was so limp and regal as to beg a curtsy. “How lovely to meet you at lahst.”
“Well, it’s an honor to meet you,” said Claire. “I’m a huge admirer of your work.”
“Thenk you,” said Diana, adding that Claire could consider the admiration mutual, as she’d read our script.
“Well, I’m not surprised the script’s so good,” said Moira, passing round the champagne. “These guys are so talented. Is it a musical then?”
“Not exactly,” laughed Stephen.
Moira said she’d only asked because Claire was best known to her as a composer. “So you’ve given up on the music then?” She asked this with just the faintest hint of relief, adroitly suggesting that Claire, given the limitations of her gift, had been wise to do so.
“No, just branching out,” replied Claire, who proceeded to lavish compliments on the spa. I wondered where she was going but not for long.
“How on earth did you find it, dear?”
“It was my husband’s.”
“You’ve remarried?” exclaimed Claire, all innocence. “Congratulations! When do we meet him?”
“I’m afraid he’s passed away.”
“Oh,” said Claire, stricken. “I am sorry.”
“He was Albert Schimmel, wasn’t he?” queried Diana.
“Yes,” said Moira wistfully. “I miss him every day.”
“ The Albert Schimmel?” asked Claire. “Didn’t he produce all those wonderful films back in the forties and fifties?”
“Classics,” said Moira proudly. She knew though that Claire’s intent had not been to praise Albert’s oeuvre but to emphasize his advanced years. This was lost on no one, not even Gina, who, with characteristic tact, said, “Wow. He must have been like way older than you.”
“But so young at heart.”
“Now that I think of it,” said Claire, “I recall reading his obituary. It said he’d been battling lung disease for years. How long were you married?”
“Eight months.”
Moira said this with just the right note of stoic regret, but her eyes were now boring lethally into Claire’s.
“How a
wful for you,” gasped Claire, “to have lost him so soon. But at least you have this gorgeous house to remember him by.”
“Thank you, Claire. It is a comfort.”
Gilbert and I exchanged a glance. I could see from his eyes that we shared the same anxiety, an ominous sense that, though things had not yet gone irrevocably downhill, we’d clearly boarded the toboggan.
Stephen asked Moira why she’d decided to turn the house into a spa. Moira, mercifully removing her gimlet gaze from Claire, said it was partly because she’d felt it a shame not to share its beauty with others, but mainly because she’d craved some stimulating project to ease the loneliness of widowhood.
“I know just how you felt,” said Diana. “When Stephen’s father died I completely plunged myself into work!”
Diana, to my relief, soon monopolized the conversation with tales of her fantastically productive widowhood. I prayed that Claire, having exposed Moira as a gold-digging hearse-chaser, would consider the skirmish won and withdraw from the field. Alas, she did not but instead found in Diana’s stories an ideal springboard to mount a fresh, far riskier attack.
“Now correct me if I’m wrong, love,” she said to Moira, “but weren’t you also dabbling in films for a while?”
“Who told you that, dearest?”
“Your chum Vulpina. Back in New York. She said it was why you came out here.”
“Well,” allowed Moira, “I did sort of test the waters.”
Stephen said, “When we met you mentioned some projects you were developing?”
“Just a few things,” she said airily. “Very back burner just now. You know how long things can take.”
“Tell me!” sighed Gina. “When I was starting out it took, like, forever to get anything off the ground.”
Claire nodded, her face aglow with infuriating sympathy.
“Yes, terribly hard,” she clucked. “Believe me there’s not a day I don’t thank God things came together so quickly for us. But I know the average person—not that you’re remotely average, dear —can hammer away for years and get absolutely nowhere.”
“SHUT UP! SHUT UP! PLEASE, PLEASE SHUT UP!!” cried the voice in my head. But Claire, oblivious to her peril, forged implacably on.
