“She’s not packing a gun, is she?” Jessica said, smirking over the rim of her glass. This was rich. After he asked her out for dinner, now Langley expected her to charm his wife?
“She’s on the board, did you know that?” Cassy said. “Which doesn’t mean anything, really, one way or the other—but it could be that she’s here to make some kind of report to the rest of the board. And so…”
“Langley doesn’t know why his wife’s here?” Jessica asked her.
“I think he thinks she really is a fan of yours—she says she watches you in Aspen every year.”
Jessica shrugged, signaling that this sounded plausible to her.
“You don’t have to do it, Jessica,” Cassy said, “not if you don’t want to. It’s just that it might be a good thing for all of us if…”
Jessica smiled, moving across the hall toward makeup. “Just tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”
“Could you make her feel like DBS is the most wonderful investment in all the world?” Cassy asked her.
“Sure,” Jessica said, hand on the door to makeup. “Bring her in.”
“Oh, no,” Cassy said, “not now. After the show.”
“No, bring her in now,” Jessica insisted, pulling the door open. “I don’t want to think about the show until the warm-up, else I’ll be bored with it. Besides, it’ll make the show a lot more exciting for her if she talks to me first.”
“Are you sure?” Cassy asked.
“Sure.”
“Okay,” Cassy said.
“Hi, Cleo,” Jessica said, putting her Coke down on the counter and climbing into one of the chairs.
“Hi, sugar,” Cleo said, turning around. Her mouth pressed into a line as she looked Jessica’s face over.
“No editorials today, please,” Jessica said.
“I won’t say a word,” Cleo promised, plugging the hot rollers in and then putting a bib on Jessica. “But other people might say they should be paid time and a half for working on circles like these.”
“We’re having company in here in a minute,” Jessica said.
“I told you, I won’t say a word.” Then Cleo clucked her tongue, eyes on Jessica’s neck. “People in television should know better,” she sighed then, reaching for the jar of cosmetic she used to neutralize a number of sins before applying foundation.
Jessica quickly turned her head to the side, craning her neck to see in the mirror …But where…? Oh, God—not Curt the Vampire. I couldn’t have.
Denny came in twice to tell her something, and Alicia and Bozzy Gould both came in once before Cassy brought Belinda Darenbrook Peterson in. Jessica saw the resemblance to Jackson immediately, particularly in the eyes, though her eyes didn’t twinkle like his did, nor did she appear to have his energy, his sense of humor. On the other hand, she was much younger than Jackson. And she was pretty, but there was something holding her looks back that Jessica couldn’t put her finger on, and then she realized that what was holding back her looks was the fact that she looked as though she was being held back. “Batten down the hatches,” was the expression that came to mind, because there was definitely a strapped-down feeling about her, of something tight, not clenched, just tight, holding things together.
Jessica smiled at her in the mirror. “Hello, Mrs. Peterson. I’m deeply flattered that you’ve come to see my show.” Watch out, gang, here comes the snowball express.
“Oh, please—call me Belinda,” she said, looking a little shy.
After Cassy finished the introductions, Jessica asked Belinda some questions to get her talking and found that Belinda got better-looking and more likable as she did. (Animation, that’s what had been missing in her face.) And even if her husband was a jerk for putting her in this position, Jessica actually found Belinda rather sweet, charming even particularly when she told Jessica how much she loved watching her show every winter in Aspen, and how thrilled she was that she could watch her all the time now.
At this point Cassy left them and Jessica had Belinda draw up a chair. So while Cleo worked away on transforming her, Jessica and Belinda—in between Denny’s various updates (how much time Jessica had, how long the warm-up would be, the state of the guests, what the audience was like)—chatted about Jessica’s show, about clothes, cowgirl boots, riding, skiing, Colorado, DBS and how wonderful her brother, Jackie, was.
When Cleo was finished Jessica took Belinda with her across the hall to her dressing room, where she heaped all of the jewelry from her bag on the dressing table, handful after handful, telling Belinda how it had taken her three years to find out that junk jewelry looked fifty times better on TV than real jewelry did. Then she sat down at the dresser, opened a drawer of earrings and asked Belinda to pick what she liked best with this dress. Belinda made her selections, opting for silver.
“I like this one too,” Jessica said, reaching for the necklace Belinda had chosen. She tried to put it on, but the clasp on it was delicate and her hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold the damn thing, much less get it open.
“Aren’t these just the worst?” Belinda said, taking the necklace from Jessica and moving behind her. She undid the clasp, parted the necklace and then draped it around Jessica’s neck. “You get nervous,” she said, not unkindly.
“Sure,” Jessica said, wishing it were true. (“No, Belinda,” she imagined herself saying, “it’s more like being shell-shocked.”) She held her hair up as Belinda attached the necklace in the back.
“There now,” Belinda said, stepping to the side.
Jessica dropped her hair and nodded, looking in the mirror. “Very good,” she said. Then she reached for the earrings Belinda had chosen, put one in, and then, while she was putting in the other, heard a clicking noise and turned to see what it was.
Belinda was looking inside something that resembled a gold cigarette case. Only there weren’t any cigarettes in it; there were pills in it. “I have something that will help you,” Belinda said.
“Oh,” Jessica said, not doubting it in the least, since she recognized some of the pills in the case—the triangular yellow one—as Valium, which not only did wonders for hangovers but which Jessica had always found heaven in general. No smell, no mess, no telltale anything—only that blissful sensation in the head, back of the neck, shoulders… a kind of extra-dry martini with a twist in space travel form. The only problem was, ever since her cocaine days, something told Jessica to be scared of it. It was too easy, too good to be true. And there was no sociability attached to Valium either, and no rules like “Not until five.”
“This is a very mild tranquilizer,” Belinda said, picking out another kind of pill.
“What is it?” Jessica said, putting on a ring because she didn’t want to take the pill from her, but knowing she wouldn’t say no to it either.
“Librium,” Belinda said. “I’ll put it here.” She placed it on the dresser, closed the pill case and returned it to her purse.
“Thank you,” Jessica said, wondering what those other pills had been and if it was too late to get some of those, even though she didn’t want any of them. “I appreciate it.”
“You’re very welcome,” Belinda said. “I’m just glad a silly housewife like me can be of some use.”
Jessica looked at her, surprised by the statement, but before she could think of what to say there was a soft knock on the door and Denny poked his head in to tell Jessica that the warm-up would start in ten minutes, and to tell Belinda that Langley was waiting for her. So Belinda went on to the studio with Denny, and Jessica quietly sang some scales while putting on her jewelry—eyeing the Librium all the while.
There was another knock on the door and Jessica sang, “Come i-ennn.”
“Hi,” Alexandra said, coming in, “I came to walk you to work. Wow, Jessica—” she said, stopping next to the dresser, “do you ever look wonderful. That dress is fabulous.”
“Thank you,” Jessica said, standing up so she could see it. “I call this my Mrs.-Z
orro-at-Home dress. Suitable for a discussion about great moments in sexual intimacy, don’t you think?”
Alexandra laughed. “But wait,” she said, reaching for something on the dresser, “I think you should wear—”
“I’ve got to wear exactly what I’ve got on, because Langley’s wife… “ Jessica let her voice trail off, aware that Alexandra was staring at the Librium. Jessica picked it up. “Throw it out, will you?” she said, handing it to her.
Alexandra looked down at it in her hand and then back up at Jessica.
“Oh, come on, Alexandra Eyes,” Jessica said, stamping her foot, “it’s not even mine. Langley’s wife gave it to me because she thought I needed to calm down.”
Alexandra was still looking at her.
“I asked you to throw it out, didn’t I?” Jessica said.
Alexandra walked to the bathroom.
“Great, just great,” Jessica muttered, throwing her hands up. She looked up at the ceiling. “Now she thinks I’m a drug addict. This is all I need.”
The john flushed in the bathroom and Alexandra came back out. She was smiling. “I do not,” she said.
“Then why didn’t you just throw it in the trash?” Jessica asked her.
“Because you’re not the only one who gets tempted,” Alexandra said.
Jessica’s mouth fell open. “You?” she finally said.
“Sure. When you’re in a line of work that demands all-nighters, pills can’t help but cross your mind,” Alexandra said. “And lately, with the problems I’ve had sleeping, anything starts looking pretty good to me around dawn.” She shrugged. “So I don’t keep anything around.”
“You’re kidding,” Jessica said.
Alexandra smiled, reaching to pick a piece of lint off of Jessica’s shoulder. “No, I’m not.”
“Did you ever…?”
Alexandra glanced at her and then walked over to the door, shaking her head. “No, thank God,” she said, taking hold of the doorknob and turning around, “because I never would have gotten here if I had.” She smiled. “It’s not in my nature to do anything in moderation, I’m afraid.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” Jessica said, looking at herself in the mirror one last time. “Okay, Alexandra Eyes,” she said a second later, walking to the door, “I’m ready.” Alexandra opened the door and held it for her. Jessica took a step and then stopped. She looked at Alexandra. “Thanks for telling me that,” she said.
“Thanks for being someone I can talk to,” Alexandra said.
Jessica smiled.
Alexandra smiled.
And then they walked down the hall to the studio.
27
The Unveiling
Part III: Gordon
“Damn it, I don’t believe this,” Gordon said, hitting the steering wheel. “And I can’t get over to the parkway for another five miles. And why the hell is everybody on the road? This is Memorial Day—why aren’t they on the beach?”
“Don’t look at me,” Betty, his assistant, said, turning on the radio. “But if you want to ask me,” she added, tuning in a station, “I say let’s put the top down.”
They were in Alexandra’s car, a 1972 navy-blue MG, sitting there, stuck, in the center lane of the Long Island Expressway. His flight had been delayed getting in Friday night, so Gordon had stayed over with Alexandra and then early the next morning, at her request, had taken her car to Amagansett to give it a sorely needed open-highway run. While the drive out had been a breeze, Gordon doubted that this “drive” (sitting at a dead stop in three lanes of traffic) was doing very much toward cleaning out the fuel line.
Betty was in a group house this summer in Quogue, and while Gordon had known that she would be out for her first weekend, he had hardly expected to see her walk into Vanessa Winslow’s house this morning for brunch. “Not everybody thinks of me as the hired help,” she had whispered to him, just as Vanessa came sweeping out of the kitchen, trailing yards of silk from the outreached arms of her robe or whatever the heck it was, saying, “My dear friend, I’m so glad to see you!”
(The endless delays in Vanessa Winslow’s contract payments from DBS had started this unlikely friendship between Betty and one of America’s biggest—and most insecure-television stars. While Vanessa’s agent and lawyers had-quite rightly—forbidden Gordon to talk to her until the monies involved were received from DBS, Betty had started calling her up to tell her how much Gordon and everybody at DBS revered her, and how crazy it was making all of them that their accounting department, was so slow. After a while Vanessa had started calling Betty to find out what was going on, to gossip, and to hear more nice things about the work she had done in the past, all of which Betty had evidently seen. When the money had finally been paid three weeks ago [at which time Gordon had given Betty a seventy-five-hundred-dollar bonus], Gordon had been allowed to talk to Vanessa again, and while he had expected Betty to remain friendly with Vanessa, he had not expected to see her as a guest this morning.)
At brunch Betty had asked him if she could hitch a ride back to the city and, rather than dissuade her, Gordon’s explanation that he wanted to stop off in Locust Valley to see his parents had only made her insist. “Oh, please, “ she begged him, pulling on his arm. “All my life I’ve wanted to play Locust Valley Lockjaw. Come on, Gordon, I swear I’ll clench my teeth the whole time. I will!” And so Betty had come with him to Locust Valley Lockjaw Land and now they were sitting, stuck in traffic.
But Betty was right—they should at least put the top down and enjoy the late afternoon sun. He reached behind their seats to unzip the back window, undid the two hooks in the front, looked around to make sure that everybody was still in this unbelievable dead stop, slipped off his shoulder harness, opened the door and climbed out to bring the top down.
For a car that was almost three hundred thousand miles old, the MG was still a beauty. This was its third black convertible top. (The first had been ruined in 1980, while Alexandra was conducting an interview at a medical research center in Portola Valley. A monkey from the lab had somehow clawed and torn it, so that when Alexandra came back outside it appeared as though the little monkey was eating her car. The second top had been lost in ‘87, at the hands of a politically inspired vandal in Washington, who had slashed I R A through it while Gordon and Alexandra were eating in a restaurant.) The engine had been rebuilt about a hundred thousand miles ago; the outside of the car had been meticulously color-matched, repainted and resealed twice; the underside had been recoated several times; and the black leather interior had been so well cared for in the sixteen years of its life that it seemed only to look better and smell more wonderful each year.
Alexandra swore she would never part with this car and Gordon didn’t blame her. Besides, he was the only other person she had ever trusted to drive it all these years.
“There,” Gordon announced, plunking back down in his seat and closing the door.
“Nice,” Betty said, holding her hair back with one hand and angling her face toward the sun.
Gordon watched Betty a moment (she had closed her eyes) and thought of Alexandra at twenty-one, sitting in almost the exact same pose. He remembered it very well, her sitting like that, because they had been sitting in the MG for two hours on Route 1 that day in 1979, waiting for bulldozers to carve a new lane out of the hillside because the southbound one had slipped into the ocean. (“Even if a house does fall out of the sky every once in a while,” Alexandra had sighed, “at least in Kansas the roads stay pretty much where we put them.”) The wait had been worth it, though. He remembered their weekend at Big Sur, what they had done there, still.
Gordon blinked a couple of times, refocusing on the license plate on the car in front of them, thinking how strange it was to be in this car with anyone but Alexandra.
“What exactly is it that your mother has?” Betty suddenly asked him, shielding her eyes from the sun with her free hand.
He sighed, gave a little shrug and looked over across the divider a
t the cars passing the other way. “The vapors, I think.”
“The what?”
“I was kidding,” he said, looking straight ahead. The car ahead of them was moving. He pushed in the clutch, revved the engine a little, shifted into first, let out the emergency brake and let up on the clutch.
ZOOM.
Errrt.
Into neutral.
Wow. Twenty whole feet.
He yanked up the emergency brake. Thump, thump; his feet came down off the pedals to the floor.
“If I’m being nosy, just tell me,” Betty said.
“No, it’s okay,” he said. He propped his elbow on the steering wheel, gently gnawing on the back of his knuckles. “She’s, um,” he said, dropping his hand into his lap, “reclusive at times. I don’t know why, exactly, or if there’s a name for it or anything—she’s always been that way. As long as I can remember, anyway.”
“So it wasn’t that she didn’t like me,” Betty said.
When they arrived, Gordon’s father had been out playing golf, and his mother kissed him hello, shook Betty’s hand and promptly fled upstairs with the excuse that she wasn’t feeling well. (God only knows what she would have done had Gordon introduced Betty as more than simply “Betty.” How could he ever explain Betty having his mother’s maiden name?)
“Oh, she liked you fine,” Gordon said, feeling embarrassed, as he had always felt embarrassed about his mother’s behavior all of his life. “She’s just not very good with strangers.” Or anyone, he thought.
“How is she with Alexandra?”
Gordon looked at her.
“You’re going to marry her, aren’t you?” Betty asked him.
The cars ahead were starting to move; he released the brake and put the car into gear to follow. “Yeah,” he finally said. “I am. But that’s not for public consumption yet.”
“Okay,” Betty said.
They passed an accident in the left lane and, immediately after, the traffic began to clear. Gordon reached over to open the glove compartment, groped around, found a pair of sunglasses, shook them open and put them on. Then he closed the compartment, shifted gears and shot ahead into the left lane.
Alexandra Waring Page 36
