She wanted to turn it off, but felt unable to move as she watched a man who sold cars stand on his head on the hood of a pick-up truck. She watched herself and Plantagenet walk out of the jail again.
“No comment,” the TV Plantagenet said. He looked handsome and forceful.
“Playwright Plantagenet Smith, Miss Randall’s fiancé, has refused to talk to reporters except to say that Camilla has been through a terrible ordeal and needs rest.”
The picture changed and Angela Harper emerged from the same doorway, followed by a rumpled Jonathan Kahn.
“Earlier today,” the voice went on, “Angela Harper, the folksinger-activist, who may be responsible for raising the funds for Miss Randall’s one million dollar bail, had this to say after visiting the alleged murderess in jail this morning.”
“Camilla Randall is a political prisoner,” Angela said in a powerful voice. “She has been chosen as a scapegoat in this case because of her feminist politics, her rejection of imperialist wealth, and her compassion for the plight of the Hispanic worker.”
Behind Angela, Jonathan pushed a microphone away from his face. “Ms. Harper was accompanied by Jonathan Kahn, editor of the left-wing San Diego Sentinel, where Camilla Randall is employed. Mr. Kahn refuses to comment on the fact that it was an investigation by his own newspaper that led to Ms. Randall’s arrest.”
Jonathan pushed the microphone away again as he turned to say something to the small, purple-clad figure that clung to his arm.
“However,” the woman continued. “In a Sentinel editorial earlier this week, Kahn accused the Federal Government of involvement in Jon-Don Parker’s death, and stated that Ms. Randall is ‘guilty of nothing more that engaging in a little recreational sex with another woman’s boyfriend’.”
Camilla seized a pair of red satin lips and hurled them at the television.
“Recreational sex? You bastard!” She threw another pillow—and another—until there were no more red lips on the couch.
“Those pillows are pretty dreadful, aren’t they?”
Plantagenet had materialized in the doorway.
She threw her arms around him, wishing he could undo the horrors she’d just seen on the TV. She jumped back when she felt something cold on her back.
“Champagne,” Plant said, setting a bottle of frosty Andre Brut on the red coffee table. He also had a bag of what smelled like hot dogs. “The very best Seven-Eleven had to offer.” He put his arms around her again.
“What’s the matter, darling?” he said.
She shuddered and pointed at the television. “Recreational sex,” she hissed. “That’s what he said on the news—that I had recreational sex with Jon-Don Parker.”
Plantagenet walked to the television and slammed the “off” button.
“Jonathan Kahn should have been strangled at birth.” He led her back to the couch and smoothed her hair from her face. He kissed her on each damp eyelid and then, very gently, on the mouth.
“How do you know it was Jonathan Kahn who said that?” she said after a moment. “You weren’t watching the news.”
Plantagenet coughed. “No. But I’m afraid that editorial of his has been bouncing around the media for days. Angela is furious. He hasn’t got the slightest proof about that FBI nonsense, and—darling?” He looked at her with deep concern. “I want you to promise you won’t turn on the TV again. Listen to the stereo instead. It looks as if Franny has every Broadway musical ever recorded.” He bent over the record collection as if he were studying it, but instead, he pulled the television plug from the wall. “Just in case you forget, darling,” he said.
“I just wanted to watch Love Boat.” She felt like a scolded child. But she was glad to hear that Angela was furious with Jonathan, even if it was for the wrong reasons.
“You shouldn’t watch that stuff,” Plantagenet said. “It rots your teeth.” He emerged from the kitchen with two champagne flutes and two Mikasa plates. “At least Franny has a few necessities.” He placed a hot dog on each plate and garnished each with a container of French fries. “Madame, dinner is served.”
It might possibly have been the best hot dog and fries she had ever eaten.
“That’s quite a robe,” Plantagenet said, after they’d scarfed most of their meal. “A little number of Franny’s?”
She followed his gaze to see that the robe had fallen open nearly to her waist.
“I found it in the closet,” she said, holding the robe closed with one hand while she accepted a refill of her champagne glass with the other. “I hope Franny doesn’t mind. He’s awfully nice to let us stay here, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know what we would have done without him. Those bloodthirsty reporters have besieged my apartment in West Hollywood ever since I moved in last Wednesday.”
“You rented an apartment in West Hollywood?” She licked mustard and relish from her fingers. So Plant had moved out of Angela’s house. A good sign.
“Just a sublet little pied a terre,” Plant said. “It belongs to a cameraman who’s still working on that awful film in Samoa. I need a place here for the next few months, and he can use somebody to carry the rent for a while. It’s convenient to everything. Even your intrepid young public defender lives nearby.”
So were they engaged or what? She hesitated as she framed her question.
“There was something else on the news….”
“Darling, please don’t think about it any more.”
“Not about—the Jon-Don Parker mess.” She took a gulp of champagne and avoided his eyes. “They kept calling me your ‘fiancé’. Mr. Jones did, too.”
“Mr. Jones? Oh, yes, Glen.” Plant gave a cocktail-party laugh. “Yes. I think I did tell him you and I were engaged—just to avoid long explanations. I’m not sure how the press got hold of it, but reporters are a sneaky lot, aren’t they?” He paused for a moment and smiled at her as he munched a fry. “Present company excluded, of course. But why you want to be one of those bottom feeders I can’t imagine. I hope this little episode has cured you of that?”
“I was a journalism major,” she said, irritated now.
“You’re angry that I called you my fiancé? I’m sorry, darling. I know I shouldn’t have. Maybe I lied partly because I wanted so much for it to be true.”
She looked into his eyes and saw a sadness that made her want to cry.
“I need you so much, Plant,” she whispered as she threw her arms around him.
He hugged her tightly.
“I love you, Camilla. More than I can say.” He gave her a warm kiss.
She kissed him back with passion: first on his wonderful, smooth neck, then his cheek, then on his full, sensuous lips. She clung to him, drinking him in, knowing that he was her real, true friend and her only hope. His lips released hers and moved down her neck. Her body welled with a longing she could hardly control.
Then she murmured—
“Oh, Jonathan!”
Chapter 26—Life in Aspic
Camilla woke in red satin sheets. They felt slimy, and the color looked worse in daylight than it had last night when Plantagenet tucked her into them. But the mattress of the foldout couch was comfortable, and she couldn’t complain.
She wasn’t in jail.
And she was in love.
At least, she was fairly certain she was in love. Plantagenet had been so wonderful; it would be hard not to love him. He waited all those hours for her yesterday, and was so brave escaping the horrible reporters, and last night he didn’t even pressure her to invite him to spend the night. He saw how tired she was, and gently put her to bed. He didn’t even mind when she called him the wrong name by mistake. Or maybe he never heard it. She hoped he hadn’t. She didn’t want him to know about what went on between her and Jonathan.
After all, she herself didn’t know what went on between her and Jonathan, and whatever it might have been, it was all over now, and she was in love with Plantagenet. He was much more like his old self now, and besides, he wa
s in love with her.
She sighed as she propped herself up on a pile of red satin lips. Liza Minelli grinned from the wall. She stuck out her tongue at her.
She heard the sound of footsteps on the path outside, and the jingle of keys. The door opened and Plantagenet stood in the doorway with a grocery bag in each arm.
“What’s this, sailor, still asleep?” He plopped the groceries on the kitchen table. “It’s almost noon. The costumes are safely back at the theater, and Franny wants me to remind you about the dieffenbachia.”
He sat on the edge of the mattress and kissed her lightly.
“I’m glad you got some sleep. Your cheeks are pink again.”
She looked into his clear, gray eyes and smiled. “What about you, Plantagenet Smith?” she said in a mock-motherly tone. “Did you go straight home and get your rest?”
“Yes, Camilla Randall. I did.” He picked up her hand and kissed it. “Are we being formal this morning? I’m sorry I forgot my tux.”
She stroked the shoulder of his blue lamb’s wool sweater and said, “I just felt like saying your name. And you don’t need a tux. You look wonderful, Plantagenet.”
“Oh, good,” he said, standing again. “Do say it. Practice it. Plan-ta-ge-net. Rather memorable, some people think. Now tell me, how would you like your eggs?”
“What do you mean?” she said.
“Eggs: scrambled, fried, poached, boiled, shirred, Benedict, curried, in aspic—?”
“I meant about your name…?” She stopped herself mid-sentence, realizing she did not want to have this conversation. “Do you really know how to make eggs in aspic?”
Too late. “My name. Ah, yes—my name.” He returned to the kitchen area and started unpacking groceries. “It’s not Jonathan. It’s either Plantagenet or, if you want to annoy me, John. Last night you called me ‘Jonathan’.”
“Are you—sure?” She sank into the red sheets, feeling the heat in her cheeks.
“Quite sure. And I found it a bit disturbing. Would you like to give me a plausible reason why I shouldn’t?”
“Maybe it slipped out because I’d just seen Mr. Kahn on the TV News.” She scrambled to change the subject. “I had quail eggs in aspic once—very strange—little naked eggs suspended in a kind of nasty, sour Jell-O.”
“I said ‘plausible’,” Plant went on, seemingly determined to avoid the aspic question. “For instance, you could tell me you were in love with a boy named Jonathan when you were a child, or maybe had a pet seagull?”
“But that wouldn’t be true.”
“What is true, Camilla? That you’re sleeping with your boss?”
She slid further under the sheets. “What makes you say that?”
“Because he’s the only Jonathan I know of with that name in your immediate circle of acquaintances. I know you were attracted when you first met him. I practically had to hold you down, as I remember. So you got him?”
She wanted to throw something.
“That’s a terrible thing to say! It wasn’t like that at all. I’ve never slept with him. Well, maybe I slept in his bed, but that was just because I drank too much of his Jack Daniels and I didn’t quite know how to say no—politely.”
Plantagenet’s face went strange and dark.
“That slimeball got you drunk and forced you?” He grabbed her shoulders and nearly pulled her from the bed.
“Of course not. He’s not like that. He couldn’t have, anyway. He had a broken ankle. He was on crutches. And he’d just been mugged.”
She adjusted the sash of the satin robe, which she seemed to have slept in.
“Sounds like quite the dashing hero.” Plant let go of her shoulders.
“The broken ankle wasn’t his fault. Bob knocked him down the stairs.”
“I see. And who’s Bob? Another gentleman you were too polite to say ‘no’ to?”
She sat on the edge of the bed, hoping she looked decent.
“You’re a fine one to talk! I suppose Angela Harper forced you?”
“Of course not, darling.” He gave a thin smile. “We just indulged in some ‘recreational sex’. As you obviously did with Mr. Kahn. Nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all. You’ve had your flings and I’ve had mine. It was naïve of me to think that you hadn’t. It’s just that—damn it—how can you be so self-righteous about my relationship with Angela when you’ve been screwing that—cockroach?”
“Jonathan is not a cockroach.”
A fickle bastard, maybe, but not an insect.
“How can you defend him? Don’t you know that he, more than anyone else, is responsible for this mess you’re in? He invented all those crazy stories about a mythical drug dealer named ‘Camel’—just to sell newspapers, I’m sure. That was bad enough, but when you showed up with the same nickname, he let you fall right into the trap.”
“It’s not like that.” How was she going to explain?
“Maybe he had it planned all along. Have you thought of that? He certainly had a motive for revenge. After all, you did destroy the man’s career, darling.”
She turned away and hid her face in the satin lips, trying to shut out Plant’s words.
“You don’t know what a ruthless man he is, Camilla. He never does anything without a motive. I’m sure he seduced you because you once moved in circles where you might have met Jon-Don Parker, and he figured you might be good for a juicy tidbit or two. When you didn’t give him any, he made up that story about a witness who saw you and Jon-Don sneak off to your bedroom during a party. It was a minor detail—not enough to go to court over—just enough to sell a lot of papers—and get back at the woman who tried to ruin him.”
“No, Plant.” She stood up and faced him. “That’s not true. None of it is. Jonathan didn’t seduce me. And he didn’t make up that story. Jon-Don did go to my bedroom. It was the only place in the house to sit down.”
Plantagenet’s face went white. “You screwed Jon-Don Parker?”
“Don’t talk like that. I just snorted a little cocaine with him.”
Plantagenet stood up so fast the bed bounced.
“You took drugs with Jon-Don Parker? On the night he died of an overdose?”
“It’s not as if I knew he was going to die! I only took the cocaine so I could avoid having sex with him. I never told him I wanted to have sex, but he just assumed—”
“Assumed? Of course he assumed, you little idiot! When you accept a man’s drugs, he generally assumes.”
She was angry now.
“It wasn’t his cocaine. I gave it to him, OK?”
Plantagenet stared hard into her face. “Good God! It’s all true?”
“What?” she turned away. His eyes were too scary.
“That you’ve been selling drugs? You gave Jon-Don the drugs that killed him?”
“Of course not. I don’t like you when act this way. I’m going to make some coffee.”
She started toward the kitchen.
“Oh, no you’re not.” Plant’s hand clamped on her arm. “Not until you tell me how you got the coke, and how much there was, and—everything, Camilla. I want to know everything. I’ve been operating on a pure, blind faith in your innocence. How much of a fool have I been?”
“You’re not a fool, but you are a bully.” She tried to free her arm. “There’s nothing to tell. I got the cocaine from Wave, who got it from Jennifer, who got it from one of her boyfriends—Mike. Who maybe got it from Tooter. And there was just a little.”
“Less than a gram?”
“I don’t know. How much is a gram?”
“A gram is about—Camilla, how often do you use coke?”
“I don’t! I only had it that one time. I didn’t want Wave and Jennifer to keep calling me a wimp.”
She wanted him to go away. She also wished she had some clothes to put on.
Plantagenet let go of her arm and gave a nasty laugh. “Darling, people all over the world are calling you names at the moment, but wimp is not one of them. Who are M
ike and Tooter anyway? Why haven’t I heard about them? Have you told Glen?”
“Glen?”
“D. Glendower Jones. Your lawyer.”
“Yes, but I’m not sure he believes me.”
Plantagenet walked toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To call Angela. She needs to know all this.”
“No. I can’t stand it if Angela knows—”
“I’m afraid she has to. After all, she has risked her reputation for you.”
“Oh, good, let’s all worry about Angela’s reputation!” Camilla escaped to the bathroom and slammed the door. She turned on the shower full force and stepped in, wishing she could wash away the last few minutes. She couldn’t bear it if Plantagenet didn’t believe her. As she lathered her hair with Franny’s Aramis shampoo, she wondered if what Plantagenet said was true—that Jonathan let her keep her job out of some need for revenge. Wasn’t there anybody she could trust?
She thought of the package of letters to Dr. Lavinia that still sat, unopened, next to the magazines and make-up from her mother. She hoped Plant hadn’t seen them. She didn’t know if she wanted to keep working for Jonathan, but if she decided to, she’d have to keep the work a secret. Plant would misinterpret everything.
~
She was drying her hair with Franny’s blow dryer when Plant knocked on the door of the bathroom. She opened it and tried to smile.
He handed her a steaming cup of coffee that smelled of roasted hazelnuts.
“So. Did you talk to Angela?” she said.
“Yes. Glen, too. I have an appointment to see him this afternoon. And you might like to know that Angela’s finally had it with your friend Jonathan.”
“So what’s he done now?”
“Among other things—” Plant cleared his throat and gave a smile that was just short of a gloat. “Your pal Kahn has just been picked up by the FBI.”
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