“No. I’m the one who got the investors—not Angela. All Angela’s done is back this production of my old stuff at a fly-by-night theater in San Diego. Not that I’m ungrateful, but I need to take care of myself. And if the show’s a success—which I know it will be—I could take care of you, too. While I was on the East Coast, I heard about your family’s bankruptcy, darling, and I’m so sorry, but—it made me feel I could come here and ask you—will you, by the way? Marry me?”
Camilla studied the whorls in a piece of radicchio, trying to make sense of her conflicting feelings.
“I don’t know. I don’t seem to know anything anymore. Like why you never got in touch with me.”
“I thought it was for the best for me to leave you alone. I didn’t know about your money problems, and I honestly thought you were better off without me. That’s when I sent the Groundhog’s Day card.”
She sipped wine, not wanting to meet his eyes.
He took her hand again. “But I had to rethink everything, darling, when you suddenly appeared at Angela’s. I’d just had a big failure with that Samoa thing. I didn’t know what to do. I was ecstatic to see you, but my life was falling apart, so I didn’t know what to say...”
She took her hand back and went back to her salad. The duck was gorgeous, but she found it hard to swallow.
Plant picked up his fork, but kept talking. “I actually did try to call you a couple of days later, when Angela was out, but some Neanderthal answered the phone and wouldn’t let me speak to you. After that, your phone was disconnected. Later, I called the Sentinel to get your new address—that’s how I knew where to send the roses—but I was on my way to New York by then. It wasn’t until I got there that I heard about your bankruptcy. Why didn’t you tell me, darling? I thought this newspaper job was just a ploy to get out from under your mother’s thumb.”
“I was taught it’s not polite to beg.”
She knew he was probably being honest, but how could she trust a man who said he’d always been a liar?
“You once told me you loved me because I was the only person you could be yourself with,” he said.
“That was when I thought I knew you. And besides—” She hesitated before she let the words come out. “You were gay then, Plantagenet.” She had no idea if she should bring it up, or tell him what Edmund had said about gay cancer. It was all so confusing.
His eyes looked away from hers for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was soft.
“No matter who, or what, I seem to be, please believe that I will always be your friend. I wish you’d told me about the bankruptcy.”
“Why?” she refilled her wine glass.
“Because it makes all the difference. That’s why I came down here as soon as I could. I don’t have to be afraid I’m using you any more. Don’t you see?”
She didn’t. However, just beyond the wall of roses at her elbow, she did see something else. Something quite else. She let out a squeak.
“What is it, darling?”
All she could do was point. At a table across the room, a handsome couple was being seated. The woman had an hourglass figure and spectacular long hair. Her tall, dark companion leaned on her shoulder as he propped a pair of crutches against the wall.
Plantagenet gave a hearty laugh.
“What did I tell you, darling? Angela doesn’t need me at all. But your boss seems to need her. He seems to need her in a big way.”
Camilla peered past the roses again, just in time to see Jonathan Kahn and Angela Harper locked in a passionate embrace.
Chapter 21—Clark Gable’s Ears
Plant seated himself gingerly on the turquoise Naugahyde couch in Camilla’s apartment.
“We didn’t have to rush off like that, darling. Angela and I have a comfortable understanding. We don’t have an exclusive relationship.”
Camilla handed him her one Melmac cup filled with instant coffee. Somehow she managed to keep her hand from shaking, but her whole body was tense with rage at Jonathan, and Angela, and the whole stupid scenario she’d just witnessed.
Jonathan was slime. So was Angela. And Plantagenet—she still wasn’t sure.
“Did you tell Angela that you were going to ask me to marry you?”
Maybe Angela had run to Jonathan when she heard Plant was dumping her. That might justify her actions a little. But not Jonathan’s.
“No. We haven’t had a chance to talk since I got back from New York.”
“But you’re still living with her—in her house?”
“In a manner of speaking. She does have other houses, but yes. It is convenient.”
“Convenient for whom?”
Camilla couldn’t think of many things less convenient than a boyfriend who lived with an ex-girlfriend.
“Please stop worrying about Angela. Didn’t you see the adoring looks she was giving Kahn tonight? She’s got real estate in San Diego, too.” He pulled Camilla gently to the couch. “Camel, darling—”
She froze. “Please don’t call me that.”
“Camel? I’m sorry. You’ve outgrown nicknames, have you?”
“Something like that.” She wondered if she should tell him about the whole mess with Jon-Don Parker. But even thinking about it filled her with fatigue.
“Darling, what is it? Don’t be sad. I’m here. We love each other. Everything’s all right now, don’t you see?”
“I guess,” she said. “I’m so tired. And confused. But some things do make more sense now, like why Edmund said you’d run away with me last winter.”
“Edmund said that? When?”
“Last spring, when everything started going wrong, and I couldn’t find you, and Lester Stokes was at my house, and then it wasn’t my house, and I needed you so much, Plant, and you weren’t there. You weren’t anywhere…”
Her eyes stung as he rocked her gently, and she felt a comfort she hadn’t known in months. In spite of his strange confessions, and the unresolved things with Angela, he was her old friend Plantagenet, and his arms were strong and warm.
“I love you, Camilla,” he said, stroking her hair.
She looked up at his familiar face and thought how much she’d missed him. Slowly, his lips moved toward hers and she felt his kiss. It was a sweet kiss, not quite so soul-shaking as Jonathan’s—but lovely just the same. She slid her arms around his neck.
There was a knock on the door.
“Damn,” Plantagenet said. He rose to open it.
“Get out the Raid! The pest is here!” Violet announced with a triumphant giggle. She wore a shiny new jogging suit of a color somewhere between plum and puce, and carried a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream.
“There you are, Camellia, all got up like Little Bo-Peep again,” she said. “Philodendron, doesn’t Camellia look just like Little Bo-Peep?”
Plantagenet collapsed in laughter.
“Got more sense of humor than the last one,” Violet said. “Dresses better, too. Did he tell you he’s the one who sent the roses? It wasn’t that Jamey after all.”
“Yes, Violet,” Camilla said, accepting the bottle.
“But Jamey’s the one who brought the TV,” Violet said. “Did you notice it?”
Camilla glanced at the huge television console, painted a peeling iridescent orange, which occupied most of the living room. “I did,” she said. “Won’t you sit down?”
Violet shook her silver curls. “I just stopped by to bring the sherry. You only have two glasses, anyhow. I thought you should have something nice to serve Philodendron here, since he bought you the roses and all.”
“Plantagenet,” he said, laughing harder. “The name is Plantagenet. P-l-a-n-t-a-g-e-n-e-t.”
Violet looked at him as if he’d told a bad joke. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll call you Planty. I don’t know why your parents would give you a name like that.”
“Call me anything you like,” he said, giving Camilla a sly smile. “As long as it’s not John. I spent too many years as John Smith. Yo
u have no idea what it was like—never being able to register at a motel without inciting smirks, and all the Pocahontas jokes…”
“Your name used to be John, and then you changed it to—that other thing?” Violet’s gaze sharpened. “When were you born?”
“1958, I’m told. Don’t remember it myself. I was very young at the time.”
Camilla laughed, but Violet didn’t. “Where did you say you were from?”
“I didn’t. One doesn’t if one is from New Jersey, generally.”
“New Jersey. Born there?”
“Probably. New Jersey actually has some lovely countryside. The Garden State.”
Violet took a step toward him and peered up at his face.
“You have a small nose. My daughter had a nose like a button, but that man she ran off with—boy, did he have a schnozz on him!” She stepped back, still studying Plantagenet’s face. “Camellia, are you going to stand there holding that bottle all night? Pour Planty some sherry, and use the good glasses, for heaven’s sake.”
Camilla opened the sherry and filled the two Lalique glasses. From the kitchen, she could hear Plantagenet’s voice sounding more and more strained as he tried to respond politely to Violet’s interrogation.
“When I was a struggling actor, I wished I had a larger nose,” he said as she brought in the sherry. “Sometimes one prominent feature is exactly what makes the difference between merely pleasant looks and a memorable, star-quality face. Where would Barbra be without her nose—or Clark Gable without his ears? I’ve written a play about that, as a matter of fact. It’s being revived down at the ‘F’ Street theater.”
“You wrote a play?” Violet said. “What’s it called?”
“I’ve written several. This one’s called Clark Gable’s Ears. It’s not about Mr. Gable’s actual hearing organs. It’s a metaphor for the flaws that make us who we are—”
Violet waved a hand at his words as if she were brushing away bugs.
“Are you sure you won’t have some sherry, Violet?” Camilla smiled at Plant. He really was being sweet.
“No thanks.” Violet shuffled toward the door. “I’ve got to make a phone call to New Jersey.”
~
“Your Violet doesn’t always make sense, does she?” Plantagenet showed visible relief when she was gone. “What do you suppose all that was about?”
“She’s looking for a long-lost grandson. His name was John or Jonny or something. It’s kind of sad.” Camilla resumed her position on the couch and patted the cushion next to her. “It’s OK to sit down now.”
She wanted his arms around her again. She didn’t care about what he’d done. He was her best friend and she needed him. She would tell him about Jon-Don and forget the odious, fickle Jonathan Kahn. Plantagenet would make everything all right.
Bu—suddenly all business—Plant set down his glass. “I have to be off, I’m afraid. The “F” Street Theater. They’re updating the plays, and I’m afraid they’ll make an awful mess, so Angela and I are going to have a word—”
“You’re going to meet Angela? Tonight?”
Losing two men to Angela Harper in the same night would be too much to bear.
“You said you hadn’t talked to her since you got back from New York.”
“Not about serious things, darling. Just about business. And this is business. Angela’s the producer, and she’s got to keep this idiot director from tampering with my script.”
He gave Camilla a quick kiss.
“I can be back here by eleven.”
“No.” She couldn’t play the Angela game any more. “Please don’t.”
“Darling, I know you’re tired, but—”
“Yes. I’m tired. Tired of everything.”
“Camel, darling—”
“Don’t call me that!”
“Sorry. I forgot.” He reached for her hand but she pulled away. She didn’t want him to touch her now.
“I’m sorry. I should have told you earlier that I need to go to the theater. I’d so much rather be with you.”
She drained her glass and said nothing.
“Darling,” he said. “You had half a bottle of wine at the restaurant. You know you can’t drink that much.”
“Sure I can,” she said, without looking up. “I’m hard-drinking and tough as nails.” She refilled her glass, wondering if Jonathan knew that Angela was meeting Plantagenet after their romantic dinner a deux tonight.
“Oh, darling, I’m so glad you’ve got your sense of humor back. I was afraid you were really angry. Now, please, all joking aside, don’t drink any more. You’ll hate yourself in the morning.” He took the glass. “Why don’t you go to bed, and I’ll come by in the morning and take you to breakfast.”
“I don’t want to see you in the morning.”
“In the afternoon, then. After drinking all that sweet stuff you’ll have a hell of a hangover.”
“No. Not in the afternoon. Not for…a while.”
“But by next week I’m going to be up to my posterior in preparations for Alexander! We have to find an apartment in L.A.—”
“I don’t want an apartment in L.A. I have an apartment right here. And a job.”
“An apartment? You mean this charming Skid Row pied a terre? You must give me the name of your decorator, dear. Where did you find him, the department of sanitation?” He laughed as he gestured at the television. “And as for your job—how important can it be for you to earn minimum wage writing leftist drivel for a sociopath? I didn’t know Kahn was involved when Angela offered you the job. I never would have let her do it if I’d had any idea you’d be working for that bastard.”
“I think you’d better go.”
Plant hovered. “Please, darling.” He took her chin in his hand. “Look at me.”
She forced herself to look at the pain in his eyes.
“Are you saying you won’t marry me?”
“I’m saying I won’t marry you. Not right now.”
He looked at her for a moment, let go of her chin, and walked out the door.
She stared at the door for a long time, wondering if she was drunk. She felt nothing at all.
~
Rapid knocking shocked her from her trance. Furious, she rose to let Violet in. She was in no mood to deal with a crazy old lady at the moment.
But it was not Violet who stood in the hallway, but two strange men in bad suits.
“Camilla Randall?” said the taller of the two. His voice sounded as if it was coming over a loudspeaker. “We have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Jonston Donald Parker.”
The other man reached in his pocket. She could see a glint of metal. She felt as if she were watching herself from the end of a dark, far-away tunnel.
“You have the right to remain silent....”
Chapter 22—La Traviata
Camilla remained silent. That was her right. It seemed to be her only right, and she clung to it. She had no idea how long it had been since she’d spoken. There was no way to tell time. It was never dark, and there were no windows. They’d taken her watch. They’d taken everything. Then they’d put her in room full of awful women—sick, throwing-up women—and later they gave her a quarter and told her to make her phone call.
She would have spoken then, if she’d been able to think of anybody to call, but she didn’t know anybody in Los Angeles. That was where they’d brought her—Los Angeles. The trip in the police car took so long that she half-expected to find herself in San Francisco. Not that it would have made any difference. She didn’t know anybody there, either. A quarter would only reach a local number.
She did try to call Plantagenet’s number in Laguna Beach, but only got the awful wailing sound that meant it was a toll call. While she tried to decide whether to reverse the charges and risk the humiliation of having Angela refuse the call, a woman guard kept telling her to hurry. Finally, she relinquished the phone and gave her quarters back.
Everything after that was a blur.
She’d been pushed and pulled through a series of little rooms where people did things to her—terrible things, some of them—and sometimes she cried, and sometimes she stood very still, trying to pretend she wasn’t really there—and that the body that was being poked and humiliated and had no privacy, even to go to the bathroom, was not hers at all. She tried to imagine she was somewhere else—riding Lord Peter over the green Connecticut hills or lying by the pool at the house in Barbados, or curled up in Mrs. Ritchie’s lap while Mrs. Ritchie watched The Guiding Light on the nursery television.
At least now she was alone. A little while ago, after the seventh or eighth time she was given some stale white bread with gray bologna to stave off her hunger, a guard brought her to a cell by herself. It was tiny and cold and had nothing in it but a toilet with no seat and a metal shelf to lie on, but at least it didn’t smell quite as terrible as the others. And there were no scornful or angry faces to look at her. She stared at the gray concrete block wall and thought of all the books she had started and never finished because they were too boring and knew she would give anything to have the most boring of those books at the moment.
She heard the rattle of metal and the sound of footsteps that meant one of the guards was coming. She steeled herself for another bologna sandwich.
The door was opened by a guard with enormous breasts. She carried a pair of handcuffs, which she snapped around Camilla’s wrists. This meant she was being moved again. Every time they moved her anywhere, they made her wear handcuffs. The cuffs were heavy and felt like ice.
“OK, Randall,” the guard said. “Let’s go. Your lawyer’s here.”
“Not my lawyer,” Camilla wanted to say. “I don’t have a lawyer. I don’t have anybody.” But she didn’t say it. She remained silent. That was her right.
The guard put her in another small, cold room and locked the door. This room had a wood-grain metal table, some plastic chairs, and a fluorescent light that hummed. A few minutes later, she heard the sound of a key in the lock.
A man entered. He was small and sandy-haired, with a sprinkling of freckles on an upturned nose. His hair needed combing, and he was obviously fighting a losing battle with a cowlick. Except for a small ginger-colored moustache, he looked like Dennis the Menace in a three-piece suit.
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